The Idea of Writing: Play and Complexity

The Idea of Writing

International Studies in Religion and Society Editors

Lori G. Beaman and Peter Beyer, University of Ottawa

VOLUME 9

The Idea of Writing Play and Complexity

Edited by

Alex de Voogt Irving Finkel

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2010

Cover illustration: Book pedlar from Moji-e tsukushi, 1836 reprint, courtesy Marianne Oikawa-Simon. This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The idea of writing : play and complexity / edited by Alex de Voogt, Irving Finkel. p. cm. Includes index. ISBN 978-90-04-17446-7 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Writing—History. 2. Written communication—History. 3. Authorship—History. I. Finkel, Irving L. P211.I34 2010 411.09—dc22 2009037924

ISBN 978 90 04 17446 7 Copyright 2010 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

To the memory of the Research School cnws

CONTENTS Acknowledgements ............................................................................

xi

Introducing Writing on Writing ..................................................... Alex de Voogt

1

PLAY IN WRITING Strange Byways in Cuneiform Writing .......................................... Irving Finkel

9

Scripts and Shapes: The Interplay of Chinese Characters and Japanese Syllabaries in Early Modern Japan ............................ Margarita Winkel

27

Substitution, Substitution, Substitution: The Many Faces of Maya Writing ................................................................................. Erik Boot

43

LOANWORDS From Group-Writing to Word Association: Representation and Integration of Foreign Words in Egyptian Script ............ Joachim Friedrich Quack

73

What is Being Borrowed? Language and Script Contact in Taiwan ............................................................................................. Henning Klöter

93

The Adaptation of the Cuneiform Script to Foreign Languages ....................................................................................... Wilfred H. van Soldt

117

Loanwords, “Foreign Words,” and Foreign Signs in Maya Writing ................................................................................. Erik Boot

129

viii

contents

On Loans and Additions to the Fidäl (Ethiopic) Writing System .............................................................................. Azeb Amha

179

Languages and Scripts in the Maldive Islands: Coding and Encoding ......................................................................................... Alex de Voogt

197

Foreign Terms in Sanskrit Pertaining to Writing ........................ Harry Falk

207

POLYSEMY Reducing Polyvalency in Writing Systems: From Egyptian to Meroitic ........................................................................................... Claude Rilly Difficult Hieroglyphs and Unreadable Demotic? How the Ancient Egyptians Dealt with the Complexities of their Script ...................................................................................... Joachim Friedrich Quack

221

235

Maya Writing: Synonyms and Homonyms, Polyvalency and Polysemy ......................................................................................... Erik Boot

253

In the Interstices of Representation: Ludic Writing and the Locus of Polysemy in the Chinese Sign .................................... Wolfgang Behr

281

TOWARDS ANOTHER SCRIPT Egyptian Writing for Non-Egyptian Languages and Vice Versa: A Short Overview .......................................................................... Joachim Friedrich Quack The Caroline Islands Script: A Linguistic Confrontation ........... Alex de Voogt

317

327

contents The Interaction of Syllabic and Alphabetic Cuneiform Writing in Ugarit .......................................................................................... Wilfred H. van Soldt

ix

345

Writing Dance .................................................................................... Joukje Kolff

357

Author Index ...................................................................................... Language (Group) and Script Index .............................................. Subject Index ......................................................................................

381 388 392

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The idea originated at a conference on board games, where the two editors discovered a second common interest in need of attention. At the resulting gatherings, dedicated to the study of writing systems, the audience and participants changed but the playful element remained. The first meeting lasted only half a day but the enthusiasm from the participants and the Research School cnws made a sequel unavoidable. The generous support of the International Institute for Asian Studies for the first gathering and the continuous logistic and financial support from the Research School cnws have created a solid platform on which many departments exchanged ideas while their favorite colleagues from abroad were added to the list of speakers. The fourth and fifth symposia expanded to three-day events, and were funded by the Royal Dutch Academy of Sciences along with the continuous support of Leiden University and the Research School cnws. At this time, the symposium has found its own momentum so that it is possible to announce here that the next symposia will be organized by the participants from abroad in alternating European cities. After five symposia entitled The Idea of Writing, this volume exhibits a collection of the results. It contains contributions of the first four symposia and the themes of each meeting are reflected in the headings of the individual sections. The publication of this volume occurs following the discontinuation of the Research School cnws that for more than twenty years protected the interests of the small departments that specialized in ‘non-Western’ languages and writing systems. To this institution and its people this volume is dedicated. The following individuals are acknowledged for their logistic support and include Connie Dickmeyer, Sabine Luning, Wilma Trommelen, Ilona Beumer, Guita Winkel, Sanderien de Jong, Willem Vogelsang, Rogier Busser and Wim Stokhof. Particular thanks go to Wilfred van Soldt and Olaf Kaper for their support with grant applications. Most of all, it is a pleasure to thank all those whose participation in these symposia have made this publication possible.

INTRODUCING WRITING ON WRITING Alex de Voogt The Idea of Writing: Play and Complexity is an exploration of the versatility of writing systems. From ancient Egyptian, Cuneiform and Meroitic writing to Chinese, Maya and Maldivian script, the authors examine the problems and possibilities of polysemy, representing loanwords or adapting a writing system to another language. The playful and artistic use of writing, including a contribution on writing dance, further illustrates the possible intricacies of the scripts. This collection of articles aims to highlight the complexity of writing systems rather than to provide a first introduction. Yet as complex as the description of these writing systems may appear, the readers and writers of the most complex scripts did not suffer in a way that has made these systems impractical or impossible to them. The different academic traditions in which these writing systems have been studied use linguistic, socio-historical and philological approaches that all provide insight into largely the same phenomena. The contributions were first presented in a series of symposia in which the interaction between experts of different fields and writing systems was central. As a result, the complex content of each contribution is made accessible to other specialists in the study of writing. A first point of reference in the Idea of Writing is the seminal work by Daniels & Bright (1996) who provided a systematic overview of the world’s writing systems. They concentrated on how the systems work by analyzing and classifying them. They follow earlier publications by, for instance, Diringer (1968), DeFrancis (1989) and, in particular, Gelb (1952) whose academic approach also launched the term grammatology to describe the field. Daniels & Bright specifically advance the work of Gelb. Their publications resulted in a growing interest in writing systems. However, later works are not much concerned with the working of writing systems or are limited to only a small region (e.g., Goody 2000, Borchers, Kammerzell & Weninger 2001, Houston 2004, Sanders 2006). The idea of writing has associations that go beyond and away from the system itself and arrive at cultures, languages, communication and interpretation.

2

alex de voogt

A broad perspective on the study of writing systems increases its possible relevance to other disciplines, a development that is only in its beginning stages. As this volume illustrates, culture, language and different disciplines are also part of the study of writing systems in the narrow sense. The analysis and intricacies of the system need an understanding of scripts that is not integral to any single discipline, but requires linguistics, philology and history as a starting point. The interpretation of writing always necessitates an understanding of language and its context. An analysis of how the elements of the script are employed presumes that the effort to read and interpret the text has already been made. Writing is still of interest even when the reading is completed. The systematic study by Daniels & Bright introduces nearly all writing systems and occasionally speaks to the details to which this volume is dedicated. These elements become apparent when the script shows its versatility. How does the system work when words from other languages need to be represented? Does a scribe have options when writing the same (string of) words and how are these choices governed? What possibilities are created when a scribe is playing with the versatility of the writing system? The exploration of play in writing, polysemy, loanwords and the application of scripts to other languages combine to demonstrate the versatility of writing systems. Versatilities Play in writing, also known as jeu d’écriture, is the individual’s exploration of a script’s versatility. It is the realm of poets and designers, but includes the ancient scribes who showed off their abilities in texts they produced in the service of others. A play on writing adds to a play on words. In the Cuneiform examples more than one language can be played at once. In Japanese two scripts take part in play, while in Maya seemingly endless possibilities of substituting one sign for another display the scribe’s knowledge of language and writing system. While the above examples are curiosities created by individuals, the representation of loanwords in writing systems requires a more universally found versatility. Most, if not all, writing systems have been used to write words from languages for which the writing system was not developed. More precisely, scribes of any era are forced to develop

introducing writing on writing

3

ways to write sounds or sound sequences not immediately found in the writing system. This development is both part of and outside of the writing system. It might make the system less efficient by adding signs, or less systematic by allowing exceptions to a rule. The contributions in this volume reveal the different perspectives that can be used to explore this topic. From borrowing signs, to loanwords for writingrelated instruments, the topic of loanwords and writing systems has much future scholarship to anticipate. Polysemy in writing systems complicates the reading and writing of a script even if loanwords are absent. The word polysemy itself is as ambiguous as the writing that results from it and the contributions on this aspect of writing systems investigate the different meanings of the word and possible alternative or additional terms such as polyvalency. One sign may have different readings and one reading may be found in different signs. The non-alphabetic scripts that are featured here are in a continuous competition for the most complex possibilities that polysemous elements of writing systems can bring. Although no winner is proclaimed, it is a game to play with writing. It is possible to conclude that no convincing direction in the development of writing systems is found that disambiguates that which is written. The application of a script to another language is the study of the writing of loanwords in extremis. It is shown that complex scripts, in terms of polysemy, have been applied to other languages as well as the modern Roman script. In some examples, more than one script have been applied to one language so that a competition of systems can develop. As in the work of Daniels & Bright the book concludes in a domain in which many writing systems have been developed, but in which movement rather than words play the leading role. The writing of dance refers back to jeu d’écriture in which individual and playful writing takes the stage, whereas scripts for dance attempt to write that which is playful. Scripts Only a selection of the participants and writing systems presented at the Idea of Writing symposium series is represented here. Some contributions are still in progress and may be published elsewhere, but the present collection has not been made haphazardly. They include

4

alex de voogt

four main writing systems for which a tradition of research on writing exists: Cuneiform, Egyptian hieroglyphic writing and its related scripts, Chinese and Japanese scripts as well as Maya hieroglyphs. Contributions on scripts for which much fewer studies are available add examples and exceptions. The Americas (Maya), Asia (Chinese, Japanese, Sanskrit) and Africa (Meroitic, Fidäl) are well-represented next to the ancient Cuneiform and Egyptian systems on the border of Africa and Asia. Examples also come from Indian Ocean (Maldive Islands) and Pacific Ocean (Caroline Islands) countries. European scripts are mentioned as an influence rather than a topic of their own with the exception of the European and American writing of dance. The examples date from a wide range of time periods illustrating the broad relevance of an otherwise narrow perspective on writing systems that has been applied. This spread of geography and time is also represented in the background of the individual authors: French, British, German and Dutch. More significantly, each author is part of a separate university tradition. This fueled the contrasts in approach and perspective. In order to do justice to the topic presented here, this diversity has been encouraged and has led to an exchange of views in a still unfolding field. For each contribution the author was required to go beyond what was already described in the volume by Daniels & Bright. Explanations of the writing systems are only presented as far as it is necessary to comprehend the general argument or the examples in the text. Instead, the contributions correct, expand or bypass what is found in general introductions to writing systems. Styles The study of writing systems, also known as grammatology, is not a field in which any of the contributors hold a degree, although some may have met and most are acquainted with the pioneering work of Gelb. There is no unifying perspective or language that brings studies on writing together as part of one discussion. Sinologists exchange views with Sinologists and Egyptologists participate in Egyptology conferences. At the most, regional connections are made, such as East Asia or Middle East studies, where writing meets other writing. In the study of writing systems this segregation needs to be overcome in order to gain from a diversity of styles.

introducing writing on writing

5

Writing systems do not belong exclusively to grammatologists. Linguists have a view and method of analysis that is frequently applied to scripts. Philologists developed their own view, less abstract and more connected with the interpretation of texts, that lies at their basis. A range of other disciplines reads scripts for their own disciplinary purposes and historians may have a view on the development of the script itself. These views come with their own jargon, traditions and viewpoints; in short, they all have their own style of presenting their material, introducing their topic and addressing the reader. This diversity reveals more than it obscures. From the contributions found here, not only aspects of other writing systems can be gathered, but also the different possible perspectives from which data may be analyzed can be observed. With the study of writing systems as its own discipline, this amalgam of backgrounds and approaches is most likely blurred, while in its present shape it leaves all freedom to explore. To appreciate the versatility of writing systems, this book should be read from beginning to end, a rare necessity with edited volumes. Meanwhile the reader is entertained with playful examples for which serious study is the basis. References Borchers, D. F. Kammerzell & S. Weninger 2001. Hieroglyphen Alphabete, Schriftreformen. Lingua Aegyptia Studia Monographia 3. Göttingen: Seminar für Ägyptologie und Koptologie. Daniels, P. T. & W. Bright 1996. The World’s Writing Systems. New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press. DeFrancis, John 1989. Visible speech: the diverse oneness of writing systems. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Diringer, David 1968 (first edition 1948). The Alphabet: A key to the history of Mankind. Volume I and II. London: Hutchinson. Gelb, I. J. 1952. A Study of Writing. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Goody, J. 2000. The power of the written tradition. Washington D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press. Houston, S. (ed.) 2004. The first writing: script invention as history and process. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sanders, Seth L. (ed.) 2006. Margins of writing, origins of cultures. The University of Chicago Oriental Institute Seminars 2. Chicago: The University of Chicago.

PLAY IN WRITING

STRANGE BYWAYS IN CUNEIFORM WRITING Irving Finkel One might be forgiven for thinking that cuneiform writing was already sufficiently difficult in itself that puns, secret writing or even downright cryptography were altogether unnecessary. Cuneiform is certainly complex, and we can be sure that over the three thousand years of its usage no-one possessed of administrative status ever significantly tried to simplify it, let alone make it accessible to all. ‘Literacy’ as a social desideratum was on nobody’s agenda in antiquity. In a world where hardly anyone could read, including the kings, reading ability conferred an undoubted power, and those who held it, with their access to ageold wisdom and other literary traditions, would have seen no merit whatsoever in the idea of ‘reading for the masses’. The cuneiform script is syllabic, and chronologically and technically wholly pre-alphabetic. The closest that the Mesopotamian mind got to the concept of alphabetic writing is in the vowel signs. No consonant could ever be written free of a vowel, be it before (CV, such as BA) or after (VC, such as UB), but they did devise free and clear-standing signs for four individual vowels, A, E, I, and U; for O they had no use. The script can only be classed as inconvenient, at least from the perspective of the modern student, and surely likewise for those in antiquity who were constrained to master it with a career in mind. Once learned, however, the script is surprisingly workable, free of ambiguity and adaptable to other tongues. It ran and ran for more than three thousand years, also serving other languages and cultures beyond Sumerian and Akkadian. As is well known, cuneiform writing proper derived at some point about 3200 bc, if not before, from an initial stage of purely pictographic signs. The shortcomings of pictographic writing fast became apparent in day-to-day contexts where the recording of words and ideas was crucial. The repertoire of original signs, more or less realistic and depending on curves, was reduced to straight-edge stylised forms that could be produced by the linear strokes of a stylus in clay. Before long the graphic symbols had left their antecedents far behind, and developed to a point where they were practically unrecognisable.

10

irving finkel

Meanwhile, parallel developments in usage meant the creation of numerous CV or VC syllables to provide the background of the mature script. In addition to such primary signs, the script for various historical reasons grew littered with more complex phonetic elements, as exemplified by CVC (such as NAM) signs, on the one hand, or CVCVC (such as BULUG) on the other. Other crucial features of the developed script were logograms, in which one sign served for a whole word, ideograms where a sign served to convey a range of meanings, some abstract, determinatives (such as “stone”, “wood”, or “city”) and phonetic complements, to gloss ambiguities. Mastery of the cuneiform script by apprentices was impeded by two essential characteristics: 1. Any given phonetic sign, such as BA or LU, also had a range of other unrelated phonetic values, in some cases many, and 2. Any given value, such as ba, could be expressed by more than one sign, some times many, which today are given a numerical identity, i.e., ba1, ba2, ba3 or ba4 etc. A further point was that throughout its long history Mesopotamian cuneiform was locally used to write both Sumerian and Akkadian, languages which were linguistically wholly unrelated to one another. Connections and interdependence between the two languages within the culture meant that it was always possible for a Babylonian or Assyrian scribe to write a word or words in Sumerian, leaving it to the reader to supply the translation where needed. The phenomenon occurs spasmodically in our own writing, with such usages as “$” for “dollar”, but in cuneiform it is a regular feature that can produce problems of its own. The working cuneiform syllabary that a middle-grade professional would need to command varied in number, but was usually probably less than 100. The full range was well in excess of 600 signs (plus their values); the recent sign list of Borger (2003) in fact itemizes 907 discrete signs. The sum was probably not familiar to many scribes, although there were always explanatory reference lists to hand, and there are contexts in which learned teachers or writers took the opportunity to use clever writings and show off, as discussed below. From the very onset of their training scribes were immersed in the two unrelated languages, both of which could be recorded traditionally, and sometimes in varying and far from obvious ways. Their education centered on the polyvalence of the signs, and the ‘correct’ ways in which

strange byways in cuneiform writing

11

words were spelled. These assorted phenomena, magnified by perpetually interwoven strands of Sumerian and Akkadian words, grammar and literature meant that all but the least adept scribes were programmed to treat writing with flexibility, ingenuity and complexity. Such potentially ‘creative’ intellectual strands were, however, ruthlessly suppressed in the schools. Education, dominated by endless curricular lists of words, exercises on them and the free application of the stick, served to produce regimented word-crafters, qualified to produce reliable and readable writing on a variety of levels. All were anonymous workers in a long line of scribes whose duties were backward-looking, and whose primary job was to pass on accurately the given texts entrusted to them for transmission. Individual thinking, and written proof of it, is accordingly rare in cuneiform. Nevertheless, throughout the long history of cuneiform records, certain unusual or singular scribal practices do emerge, and it is highlights from these that are briefly looked at in the present article. Some (Group 1) exist on a formal or ‘state’ level, others (Group 2) represent the idiosyncratic work of a particular scribe at a particular time. These latter phenomena are perhaps correctly seen as a momentary rebellious break-out against the straight-jacket of the ‘great tradition’. State Level Sign substitution: UD.GAL.NUN

later

The unappetizing term UD.GAL.NUN is applied by Assyriologists to a remarkable group of early Sumerian tablets, mostly from the site of Abū Ṣalābīkh in southern Iraq, that were first published and identified by the Chicago Assyriologist R. D. Biggs in 1974. They date from the late Early Dynastic period, in or around 2600 bc, and caused a buzz on publication since some contained Semitic personal names, and others were evidently true literary texts, in which stray words and themes could soon be identified. The texts were as much interesting for what they did not contain as what they did, in that the first editor observed that certain of the most common cuneiform signs simply did not occur. Chief among these was the sign AN, used – as well as syllabically

12

irving finkel

for an – to write the word “god”, the word “heaven”, and as an unpronounced determinative before the name of any deity. These related uses between them make the AN sign a staple in any kind of literary or religious composition in cuneiform, and its absence, once pointed out, was extraordinary. The explanation was forthcoming only after serious coruscations, which demonstrated by use of parallel texts that certain Ṣalābīkh scribes could indulge in a devilish form of sign substitution, writing one conventional cuneiform sign in place of another. Once suspected, the phenomenon was brilliantly confirmed by Joachim Krecher, who realized that a small cuneiform tablet in Jena dating to the Old Akkadian period (a good 300 years later) contained a parallel list of Semitic personal names written in UD.GAL.NUN (left) orthography and ‘normal’ orthography (right), as in the following three cases: UB.SU.UD UB.NUN.NUN UB.udNÁM.NUN.gal

me-ni-an me-é-gal me-den-líl-gal

It became established that the sign UD, for example, which has many values and uses of its own, is substituted for AN (which disappears entirely), and (a) adopts all its usages, and (b) abandons its own: Sign AN (Labat: 13; Borger: 10) later Basic conventional uses: an (“above”, “heaven”, “sky”, An), dingir (“god”) Determinative use: GOD is replaced by Sign UD (Labat: 381; Borger: 596) later

Basic conventional uses: ud (“sun”, “day”), bar6, babbar, dág, hád and zalag (“white”, “shining”, “bright” etc.) Determinative use: DAY

As it turns out, gradually, there is a whole other system that need to be painstakingly uncovered from fragmentary source material, and much

strange byways in cuneiform writing

13

work is yet to be done. Some forty-five UD.GAL.NUN signs have been identified, and their values established, even if they are not explained. In some cases an UD.GAL.NUN sign can be shown to have more values than the substituted sign. For example: Sign NUN (Labat 87; Borger: 143) later

Normal values: UD.GAL.NUN values:

nun, zil/síl/ṣil é, líl, gal, mu, nu

This is especially remarkable in that all five of the UD.GAL.NUN values for NUN are common in the writing of Sumerian, and have nothing in common between them, whereas NUN is not really a common sign in conventional usage. The traditional Mesopotamian weakness for polyvalence holds true. How is this phenomenon to be interpreted? Significantly, in these early tablets UD.GAL.NUN is only used to write literary texts in Sumerian. Whether or not this style of orthography originated in a single city, its use is now attested at three southern Mesopotamian sites, Ṣalābīkh, Fara and Nippur. This means that the system cannot be interpreted, as was initially proposed, as a secret code to protect the jealous creations of one scribal center. A code as such has no place in early third millennium bc writing when writing itself was in its early days. Readers and writers of any kind were an extreme minority in the population, then as later. Can it be that the inception of cuneiform script was harmonious and free from rivalry? Probably not. The developed complex of signs and to some extent its literature, once established, was everywhere maintained and transmitted in the Mesopotamian heartland. Local variants and free inventions do not pop up all over the place. The process is thus likely at some early stage to have been controlled by an acknowledged authority, who saw beyond the immediate, and strove to forestall chaos. Perhaps UD.GAL.NUN represents a true variation of what became the central agreed system, that held out precariously before falling out of use by dint of scribal pressure? Be that as it may, knowledge of its usage was preserved, and far beyond the Old Akkadian list mentioned above. Scribes writing colophons to literary texts right at the end of the first millennium bc can

14

irving finkel

show scribal deviousness at its worst. One or two of the truly cryptographic writings found in Seleucid-period colophons seem likely to preserve knowledge of UD.GAL. NUN matters. “DIRI” Writing “Diri” writing is something particularly Mesopotamian named after the first line of a large lexical composition “DIRI = watru”. Perhaps a similar phenomenon can be documented elsewhere, but it seems in very essence a cuneiform matter. The essential point is that two or more individual signs can be written in sequence to produce a whole new giant sign, where the phonetic value is unconnected with those of the individual components, i.e., A + B (+ C . . .) = D. Note the following points: The component signs often have nothing to do phonetically with the end product: the signs MAŠ + GÚ + GÀR

written in sequence, spell the word idigna, the Sumerian name of the River Tigris (Bab. idiglat, Heb. hiddekel). MAŠ, GÚ and GÀR have their own individual range of sounds and meanings, but none is a part of idigna. One part of the component signs can be itself phonetic: the signs UD + KIB + NUN

spell the word buranun, the Sumerian name of the River Euphrates (Bab. purattu, Heb. peros). The sign NUN here probably originates as a phonetic complement to the preceding cluster. Part, or indeed all of the components can be semantic: the signs Ú + KI + SÌ + GA

in combination write the word gùd, “bird’s nest” (Bab. qinnu), and can be plausibly understood as “grass-put-in-a-place”. Certain city names can be seen to be formed of “Diri” compounds with semantic or phonetic elements built round variants of a sign that depicts a central “shrine” or “temple”, SHRINE (AB)

later

strange byways in cuneiform writing

or UNUG (complex AB)

15

later

and such principles probably underpin many “Diri” compounds. Examples:

UNUG.KI = Uruk complex AB; the unadorned sign for what was probably the most important cult centre + place determinative.

UD.AB.KI = Larsa semantic UD, used because the same sign means “Utu”, the sun god who lived at Larsa, + plain AB (later complex AB) + place determinative, used to convey “Utu’s shrine” + place determinative.

ŠEŠ.AB or UNUG.KI = Urim, Ur the sign URI5 which stood for the moon god “Nanna” + plain AB (or sometimes complex AB) + place determinative, used to convey “Nanna’s shrine”+ place determinative.

Certain “Diri” writings probably preserve very ancient traditions, such as bird totems, that might underlie the writing of city names. Here follows a serious pair of “Diri” entries from the series section Tablet IV: 67–68:

en-ku-um EN.PAP.SIG7.NUN.ME.EZENxKASKAL né-en-ku-um NIN.PAP.SIG7.NUN.ME.EZENxKASKAL

enkummu ninkummu

16

irving finkel

The structure of the long compound signs are explained within the list, as for example, with enkum: en pa-ap -gi-gu-nu-u nun me šá i-zi-na-ku kás-kal-la i-gub, “en (plus) pap (plus) gunified [extra wedges added] igi (i.e., SIG7) (plus) nun (plus) me which has ezen with kaskal standing inside it”

There are hundreds of “Diri” compounds, which the scribes laboriously collected together for us on lexical tablets, bequeathing us at the same time the ‘correct’ readings. Most compounds are complex and elaborate, many are rare, and perhaps the majority at present of obscure origin. As a student one is told that “Diri” writings ‘exist’, and that ‘you just have to learn them’; it is evident, however, that none of the writings can be accidental, and eventually they should yield to analysis a much broader understanding of how they came to be in the first place. Number Substitution During the first millennium bc more than one system of number-forsign substitution arose, for which we still have only patchy evidence. Each individual cuneiform sign could be equated with a number or numbers. We know of this from an important sign list, Syllabary A, in which the backbone signs of the cuneiform syllabary were ordered for easy learning, the same sign being repeated as often as was necessary to represent possible varied pronunciations. Rare manuscripts that exemplify this list exist where each sign is matched with a number in cuneiform. Important points are: – Each repeating sign has only one number; signs that occur several times in the parent list are usually reduced to one attestation. – The order of the numbers has absolutely nothing to do with the well-attested order of the signs in the parent list. – A particularly choice manuscript from Babylon includes, in addition to the Syllbary A sign in contemporary script together with its number-equivalent, a reconstruction of the original pictographic form of the sign from the outset of Mesopotamian writing (i.e., 2500 years earlier!). – Use of such number-substitution is attested in omen literature, as in the protases (If . . . .) of certain late astrological omens (Hunger 1969). A learned Seleucid learned commentary from Babylon exists in which, in contrast, the apodoses (then . . . .) were written with different types of number substitutions (Pearce 1982: 69–80).

strange byways in cuneiform writing

17

200 LUGAL : 27 : MAR : 10 : mu-tu : SI-šú ŠUB : šá-ru-ur-šú GI6.GI6-ma “200 : KING : 27 : MAR : 10 : death: its SI will ŠUB: its radiance will darken”

There are other related phenomena. The names of important gods, for example, could be written with a personal number (e.g., 20 for the sun god, 30 for the moon god). The motive behind number substitution, if single motive there was, was evidently not true cryptography. Or was it? True cryptographic writings occur in the colophons to scholarly texts, where scribes were at liberty to show off their ingenuity under the excuse that secrecy was involved. Rare values abound, and sometimes names and patronymics can be written with a single sign in repetition. Individual Level The natural employment of rebus writings that underlay cuneiform from the first experiments by the earliest scribes probably evolved into a kind of intellectual wedge ‘gene’. Puns resurface at various periods ever after, sometimes in the most unexpected contexts. Sample the following: A Restless Book-Keeper Thousands out of what must have been hundreds of thousands of tablets survive from the temple administration of the so-called Ur III period, around 2000 bc. They represent arduous book-keeping of a charmless kind, persistently embodying the very reason why writing had been invented more than a thousand years earlier. They are almost always neatly dated, using official year formulae that commemorated a significant activity or achievement. One formula in particular, which itself must have been written out uncountable times, looks like this: mu si-mu-ru-umki ù lu-lu-buki a-rá 9-kam-ma-aš ba-hul “Year in which Simurum and Lullubum were destroyed for the ninth time.”

The year in question is the forty-second year of Shulgi, King of Ur (2094–2047 bc). There is one broken envelope known with this date formula (once brought into the British Museum by a visitor) in which the normal name lu-lu-bu(-um) is written HI-HI-bu-um instead:

18

irving finkel

strange byways in cuneiform writing

19

The remaining signs in the date are just as usual. There is no other evidence to suggest that the sign HI can be pronounced lu, so the mysterious HI.HI has to go – Assyriologically-speaking – into capital letters. , HE, is matched The explanation is groan-inducing. The sign by another, that can have the same pronunciation:

. While

the primary value of this second sign is kam or kan, the value he2 is quite commonplace. In Sumerian, he2- is part of the verbal system which, placed before a verbal root, means “may it be that . . ., let it . . .” In Akkadian, the corresponding grammatical particle with the same meaning is lu-. Therefore, the scribe has punningly written he-he- instead of he2- he2-, drawing on the underlying Akkadian ‘equivalent’ lu-lu-, even though he is writing in Sumerian! “He-he” indeed. He must have rubbed his hands in glee, wriggling temporarily out of his conventional straitjacket and producing a conundrum for his fellow clerks and for us at the same time. The writing testifies to more than boredom in a record-keeper, however. His cleverness reveals something about his own education. It proves that he must have studied comparative Sumerian and Akkadian grammar, where the equation he2 = lū was a primary fact that had to be learned by heart by every pupil tackling the two languages. A Wicked Schoolboy An interesting article by Cavigneaux (1979), makes available a collection of Late Babylonian school and other tablets found at the site of Uruk. They include, as usual, many curricular exercises. One (no. 127, 5) has the following unappetising entry:

That on the left, the Sumerian, can be made out as giš-gigir, “chariot” (GIŠ, determinative for wood, followed by a “box” sign + small inset marker). The signs on the right which should express the Akkadian equivalent are clearly identifiable, but obscure in meaning. So we have the equation: giš-gigir = ÍD.IDIM

20

irving finkel

The Akkadian word for “chariot” is narkabtu, a feminine noun from the root rakābu, “to ride”. Can ÍD.IDIM spell this word? The Sumerian sign ÍD means “river”, which in Akkadian is nāru. The second sign, IDIM, has many Sumerian readings and Akkadian equivalents, but one is kabtu, “heavy, respected”. So, ÍD.IDIM turns out to be a pair of punning logograms to spell nar-kabtu. Such a “chariot” rides roughshod over normal scribal sensibilities. The word narmaku, “lotion”, has now been found written nar(ÍD)-ma-ka in a roughly contemporary medical text from Babylon, echoing this crafty idea of the school-boy. All sorts of things were happening at that period. Secretive Doctors Doctors have always favoured professional secrecy. Some medical spellings in Akkadian are likewise non-transparent, although perhaps for different reasons. was shrouded in fog. The Not long ago the pair of signs two signs are clear, and obviously Sumerian, kù-gur, but they do not make a recognisable logogram. It represented an item used in fumigations by doctors, but again had to be left in capitals, KÙ.GUR. In Akkadian texts KÙ is normally never read as ku, but only as one of the Akkadian equivalents of Sumerian KÙ. The Sumerian word GUR is well known to equate the Akkadian verb târu, “to return”. Eventually it was realised that the correct reading was kù-târu, in which one part is phonetic Sumerian, the other logographic Akkadian, together spelling the word qutāru, “incense”. When the smoke had cleared another medical puzzle was solved, the troublesome sequence

TAR.PA.

came under reconsideration. TAR has the common Akkadian phonetic value qut, while the Sumerian PA can equate Akkadian āru, “frond”. The result is a similar hybrid, to be read qut-āru, for the same word qutāru, “incense”. In a recent article noted below Stefan Maul has collected certain unorthodox or crafty writings. A few more can be mentioned here:

strange byways in cuneiform writing

21

– In a magical text (Köcher 1964), the word sissiktu, “fringe”, in the stock phrase ina sissikti-ka, “in your fringe”, is uniquely written si-KU-ka, because the sign KU (among many other values) can (sometimes) stand for sīktu, “powder”, leading neatly to si-sikti-ka. – In a Late Assyrian omen text the name of the second millennium King Warad-Sin (who ruled at Larsa, 1834–1823 bc), is cryptographically concealed in a way which fooled Assyriologists for a century, so that they read it *Karašemmebbe, until a new study by Ann Guinan. The signs are: m

İR[not KA]-a-še-em-me-éb-be indicates personal name is following (conventional).

m

– İR [the sign which is on the tablet] is the Sumerian ideogram for “slave”, read wardu, or warad (“slave of . . .”) in Akkadian (conventional). – a-še-em-me-éb-be is a multi-level highly unconventional spelling, representing the orthodox spelling aš-ím-babbar, a by-name of Sin the Moon God, in which the phonetic rendering a-še-em-me of the Sumerian divine name is followed by éb-be, which, using a value rare in Akkadian, éb (TUM), reflects the Akkadian ebbu, “pure”, for which BABBAR is a plausible Sumerian equivalent. For the final part of the name, therefore, the reader has to supply the Sumerian from the Akkadian! A final medical example, for the connoisseur, is truly outrageous. There is an Akkadian plant name called supirānu, or asupirānu. It is probably the same word as English “saffron”, and is one of a small class of Akkadian words that occurs with and without the initial a-. There was a Babylonian doctor-scribe once who spelled this plant name as with two signs:

su-GEŠTIN,

that is part phonetic Akkadian sign, part Sumerian logogram. GEŠTIN is a well-known old Sumerian word meaning “wine”. The Akkadian equivalent with the same meaning is karānu. So someone suggested that the word might be understood as *sukarānu, which would be a totally new plant name, of a shape similar to supirānu.

22

irving finkel

This proves to be a deadly double-pun, and perhaps the only one so far identified. Taking the Akkadian word karānu, it is possible to divide it up into the elements ka and ranu (ranu exists neither as a real phonetic sign or a real word). When one recalls that the Akkadian equivalents to the Sumerian sign KA, “head”, include the word pû and also pî, “mouth”, it becomes possible to disentangle this spelling as a double pun: su- GEŠTIN ¤ su-karānu ¤ su- “pi” (KA)- “ranu”

Fun with NAB and MUN As mentioned above, the sign AN when read dingir, Akkadian ilu, means “a god”, it was also used to write the chief god An, “heaven”, and, as a determinative, signalled that a following word was the name of a god. The pantheon was ample, so this is probably the most common use of the AN sign. In the construction of early cuneiform, signs could be doubled, or even trebled, to produce a new sign. Three AN signs together make a real ‘star’; Sumerian mul, Akkadian kakkabu. At first they were more strung out, but were tidied up later:

AN

AN + AN + AN

It is interesting that two AN signs were tried out together quite early on in the third millennium bc:

NAB

This AN + AN produced a syllabic sound, nab, but, remarkably, there was no Sumerian word “nab” to go with it. It is surely impossible that a sign should be invented for a sound for which there was no meaning? NAB occurs in early Uruk, however, and was no late invention. It is thus interesting that in Elamite, spoken over the border in Iran, nap or napir was the word for “god”. There were certainly very early connections between Sumer and Elam, and Elamites were early

strange byways in cuneiform writing

23

experimenting with a complex script of their own, usually called protoElamite. It looks as if there was Iranian input at the Iraqi summits in 3000 bc where new signs were being proposed, accepted or rejected. Later we can see that there was actually an Elamite loanword, nabu, meaning “god”, borrowed into Akkadian. A second pronunciation ilan for the sign NAB found in the lists is derived from Akkadian dual form ilān, “a pair of gods”, a literal interpretation of the original sign. Perhaps this has further implications. As yet, Proto-Elamite is not understood, and the underlying language is unidentified, although this new evidence suggests that it is a form of later Elamite. Early Sumerian and proto-Elamite numerical systems are, however, directly related. This makes it intrinsically probable that there is a direct relationship between the early Mesopotamian and Iranian sign systems, even though they look as if they are completely unrelated. Perhaps they just took the Mesopotamian signs and made up a completely fresh set of drawings to stand for them. This sign NAB has another twist. In Sumerian, grammar is expressed by verbal chains in which the root VERB is preceded by preformatives, prefixes and infixes. One sequence that analyses as *mu-na-b-VERB, “he did VERB for him”, is very commonly found. In usual orthography it is spelled as: mu-na-ab-VERB.

Very rarely indeed, once or twice in about 2300 bc, the spelling is: mu-nab-VERB

Similarly, and equally seldom at the same period, the Sumerian structure *mu.n.VERB, “he did VERB”, can be found written with the similar CVC sign MUN, as: mun-VERB (instead of the inevitable mu-un-VERB)

This process also must reflect the deliberate tendency on the part of certain influential scribes to control and rationalise the script. It means that NAB and MUN were at that point being used to write abstract grammar. What is interesting is that the infixed elements “b” or “n” are there in the Sumerian language and have been identified by modern grammarians, but they were always un-writeable by Sumerians without an alphabet. Normally the elements have to blend into fuller spellings, but the rare ‘outbreak’ writings nab and mun show that there was an understanding of the individual particles that later evolved into true grammatical thinking.

24

irving finkel References and Further Reading

Biggs, R. D. 1974. Inscriptions from Tell Abū Salābīkh. Oriental Institute Publications 99. University of Chicago Press. Black, J. A. 1984. Sumerian Grammar in Babylonian Theory [Second Edition]. Studia Pohl. Vol. 12. Pontifical Institute, Rome. Borger, R. 2003. Mesopotamisches Zeichenlexikon. Alter Orient und Altes Testament vol. 305. Ugarit-Verlag, Münster. Civil, M. 2004. The series DIRI = (w)atru, Materials for the Sumerian Lexicon Vol. 15. Pontifical Institute, Rome. Damerow P. & R. K. Englund 1989. The Proto-Elamite texts from Tepe-Yahya. American School of Prehistoric Research Bulletin. Vol. 39. Cambridge, MA. Daniels P. T. & W. Bright (eds.) 1996. The World’s Writing Systems. Oxford University Press. Edzard, D. O. 1980. Keilschrift. Reallexikon der Assyriologie, Vol. 5, 7/8: 544–568. Englund, R. K. 1998. Texts from the Late Uruk Period. In P. Attinger and M. Wäfler (eds.), Mesopotamien. Späturuk-Zeit und Frühdynasticshe Zeit, Orbis Biblibcus et Orientalis 160/1. Glassner, J.-J. 2003. The Invention of Cuneiform. Writing in Sumer. [Translated from the French by Z. Bahrani and M. van de Mieroop] The Johns Hopkins University Press. Gong, Y. 1993. Studien zur Bildung und Entwicklung der Keilschrift. Antiquitates vol. 7. Verlag Dr. Kovac. Green M. W. & H. J. Nissen, with P. Damerow and R. K. Englund 1987. Zeichenliste der Archaischen Texte aus Uruk. Archaische Texte aus Uruk. Vol. 2. Gebr. Mann, Berlin. Guinan, A. K. 2002. A Severed Head Laughed: Stories of Divinatory Interpretation. In T. Abusch and A. K. Guinan (eds.), Magic and Divination in the Ancient World, pp. 7–40. Ancient Magic and Divination II. Brill: Leiden. Hunger, H. 1968. Babylonische und assyrische Kolophone. Alter Orient und Altes Testament. Vol. 2. Butzon & Bercker, Kevelaer ——. 1969. Kryptographische Astrologische Omina, lišān mithurti. Alter Orient und Altes Testament. Vol. 1. Neukirchen. Krebernik, M. 1998. Die Text aus Fāra und Tell Abu Ṣalābīh. In P. Attinger and M. Wäfler (eds.), Mesopotamien. Späturuk-Zeit und Frühdynasticshe Zeit, Orbis Biblibcus et Orientalis 160/1. Part 2:237–427. Krecher, J. 1978. Sumerische Literatur der Fara-Zeit; Die UD.GAL.NUN Texte (1). Bibliotheca Orientalis 35:155–160. Labat, R. 1976. Manuel d’Épigraphie Akkadienne. Nouvelle Edition. Paul Geuthner, Paris. Lambert, W. G. 1976. Review of R. D. Biggs, Inscriptions from Tell Abū Salābīkh. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 39:428–432. ——. 1981. Studies in UD.GAL.NUN. Oriens Antiquus 20:81–97, with ‘Studies in UD.GAL.NUN: ADDENDUM,’ Oriens Antiquus 20:305. Lieberman, S. J. 1987. A Mesopotamian Background for the So-Called Aggadic ‘Measures’ of Biblical Hermeneutics? Hebrew Union College Annual 58:157–225. Matthews, R. J. 1993. Cities, Seals and Writing: Archaic Seal Impressions from Jemdet Nasr and Ur. Materialen zu den Frühen Schriftzeugnissen der Vorderen Orients. Vol. 2. Berlin. Maul, S. M. 1999. Das Wort im Worte, Orthographie und Etymologie als hermeneutische Verfahren babylonischer Gelehrter. In G. W. Most, Commentaries – Kommentare, Aporemata. Kritische Studien zur Philogiegeschichte. Vol. 4. Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Göttingen.

strange byways in cuneiform writing

25

Nissen, H. J. & P. Damerow & R. K. Englund 1993. Archaic Bookkeeping. Early Writing and Techniques of Economic Administration in the Ancient Near East. University of Chicago. Oelsner, J. 1995. Number Syllabaries, das Keilschriftsyllabar A mit Zahlwerten. In M. Weippert & S. Timm (eds.), Festgabe Donner, pp. 154–163. Wiesbaden. Pearce, L. E. 1982. Cuneiform Cryptography: Numerical Substitutions for Syllabic and Logographic Signs. PhD Thesis: Yale University. ——. 1983. Cuneiform Number-Syllabaries. Iraq 45:136–137. Walker, C. B. F. 1987. Reading the Past. Cuneiform. British Museum Publications.

SCRIPTS AND SHAPES: THE INTERPLAY OF CHINESE CHARACTERS AND JAPANESE SYLLABARIES IN EARLY MODERN JAPAN1 Margarita Winkel Adoption and Adaptation of Chinese Writing in Japan The Japanese writing system is based on Chinese characters. The semantic and phonetic qualities of Chinese characters resulted in two methods of adopting the Chinese system of writing. Chinese characters (called kanji in Japanese) were used either for their meaning or for their phonetic value. The Japanese, besides using kanji, also developed syllabic scripts, called kana. Kana are abbreviated forms of Chinese characters that represent specific sounds. There are two forms of kana; hiragana and katakana. The hiragana syllabary is a cursive form of the original character, while katakana is a part of the character. The borrowing of Chinese characters for writing Japanese is thought to have started as early as the third century ce. The development of kana was probably some centuries later.2 Modern Japanese writing uses a combination of kanji and kana, resulting in a style called kanjikana-majiribun (mixed kana/kanji). Chinese characters are now used almost exclusively for their meaning – and may have alternative ways of pronunciation. Hiragana are mainly used to indicate verbal endings and grammatical markers. Katakana is generally used to write non-Chinese loan words, onomatopoeic words or words from dialects, foreign names, and for emphasis. There were originally 48 signs representing Japanese syllables. These were derived from various Chinese characters. At the beginning of the twentieth century the government standardized the kana. The following list (ill. 1) shows 46 kana (two are now obsolete) in their modern, standard form, together with the characters from which they originated. From this list 1

I am very grateful to Jeroen Wiedenhof, who has ‘dissected’ the illustrations used in this article in a way I could not have done by myself. I also like to thank the editor and anonymous readers for their helpful comments. 2 For general information on Japanese scripts and writing, see O’Neill, P. G. & S. Yanada (1987) An Introduction to Written Japanese, Seeley (1991) A History of Writing in Japan.

28

margarita winkel

Illustration 1: Hiragana, katakana and their original characters.

it is clear that the majority of modern hiragana and katakana have been derived from the same characters. Since hiragana is a cursive form of the original character and katakana employs a part of the original, the results are obviously different. The following table (ill. 2) shows how the hiragana and katakana forms of the first ten sounds of the syllable system relate to the character they were derived from.3 3 For a full overview of the 48 kana, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Hiragana_ origin.svg and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Katakana_origine.svg. The examples in illustration 2 are adopted from those charts.

scripts and shapes

Illustration 2: Examples of the origins of hiragana and katakana signs.

29

30

margarita winkel Scripts and Writing in Early Modern Japan

Before the official standardization of katakana and hiragana at the beginning of the twentieth century, a specific syllable in Japanese could be represented by various Chinese ideographs or their cursive kana forms. The cursive forms of non-standard characters that were formerly used to represent syllabic sounds are now called hentaigana, kana derived from unusual (‘not standard’) characters. The emergence of kana is usually associated with the Man’yōshū, an eighth-century poetry anthology which used Chinese characters for their phonetic value, that is, to represent Japanese syllables. As a way to write texts, Man’yōgana was too cumbersome, but the use of Man’yōgana remained popular, as a form of calligraphic decoration, for example, as puns, or as playful elements in a picture. Premodern Japan knew many more forms of writing, each used in a specific context. The writing styles varied from a Japanese way of writing classical Chinese (kanbun), used in relation to Confucian or Buddhist for official texts, to special polite ways of writing letters (sōrōbun) that combined kana, characters and typical epistolary constructions derived from Chinese, to popular writing styles. Kanbun (Chinese used in a Japanese context) became the standard language for scholarly, governmental, and religious writing. Early modern popular fiction on the other hand was based on a predominant use of kana and a reproduction of vernacular language. The degree of ‘Chineseness’ to ‘Japaneseness’ of these texts, however, could vary considerably. Kanbun texts have Chinese characters organized according to Chinese syntax – that is very different from Japanese syntax – for which sometimes reading aids (kundoku) were employed to help readers read the text as if it were Japanese.4 Especially in Early Modern Japan, with its highly developed urban popular culture, sophisticated woodblock printing techniques facilitated mass communication. Here I will focus specifically on the interplay between mass-produced books and prints and the writing system. The following examples illustrate some of the ways in which the new urban population, dominated by merchants and artisans who were economically important but politically marginal, appropriated writing and script

4 As Christopher Seeley points out, it is not always possible to know whether a kanbun text was meant to be read as Chinese or as Japanese. Seeley (1991: 25).

scripts and shapes

31

in the development of a new urban life-style in which wit and humour played an important role. Kanji and Kana in Woodblock Printing Japan’s Early Modern Period (1600–1868), is also known as the Edo or Tokugawa period, after the name of the capital Edo (now Tokyo) or the name of the family that then ruled the country as military leaders (shōgun), the Tokugawa family. It was a period of prolonged peace and a bustling urban culture developed. Improvements in woodblock techniques facilitated mass-printing. An important characteristic of the specific form of woodblock printing that developed in Japan in this period was that writing signs were not type-set, but woodblocks of entire pages directly reproduced manuscript form. Books, leaflets, games, etc. were now produced for a large audience. Writers and artists explored the wide range of shapes of the various scripts and made good use of the possibilities of the interplay between Chinese characters and Japanese syllables. Kanji and kana were not only vehicles for transmitting information through text, but were also used for decoration, for games, amusement, satire, and (word)play. The world of commercial woodblock printing that developed reflected a highly sophisticated literary and pictorial culture. Printed matter varied from simple pamphlets containing promotional announcements, guide-books, manuals and fiction written in kana to scholarly books in Chinese, as well as elaborately designed full-color woodblock prints. Many of those combined script and pictures, sometimes playfully blurring the boundaries between the two. An early example are moji-e, literally ‘script-pictures’. Moji-e are illustrations made on the basis of the forms of kana or characters that represent a word or a sentence, referring to the object or individual depicted. This was a popular form of ‘word-play.’ The following examples are from a booklet called Moji-e zukushi (1685), ‘a series of script-pictures.’5 They illustrate the variety of script forms that could be used to represent a sound or a meaning in Japanese. The 5 Little is known about this publication or about its author Enkatei Yoshikuri. See Inagaki (1988: 98–99). Also Inagaki (2006: 241). The booklet is rare and Inagaki’s illustrations are from an 1836 reprint (courtesy M. Oikawa-Simon). An original edition of Moji-e zukushi is in the possession of the Tokyo Municipal Library. For more information on moji-e and other forms of playful writing in Early Modern Japan, see Simon (1998) and Inagaki (2006).

32

margarita winkel

Illustration 3: Manjūya, script-picture (moji-e) of a manjū roadside stall.

kanji and kana used to construct the picture appear again in the upper part of the illustration. Besides the manjū (bean-jam bun) seller and the itinerant bookseller lending and selling books, depicted below (ill. 5), the book contains similar images of various artisans, roadside shops or pedlars, and entertainers. It is an early example of a publication that is firmly rooted in a new urban setting dominated by merchants and artisans. Above is a depiction of a Manjūya, a seller of manjū, a traditional Japanese sweet that consists of a steamed flour-dough bun filled with bean-jam. The word manjūya appears on top as well as as part of the design and is a combination of kana and kanji. Ma+n+chi+u+ya. The kana used here is ‘chi’ with nigori, reading aids in the form of two commas, indicating the voicing of the original sound; hence ‘chi’ in a voiced form becomes ‘ji’. Ji+u is read here as the combined sound jū. These sounds are all represented by kana. The final ‘ya’, however, is the character ৢ, a suffix used for both a shop/business or its owner. Below the picture, the signs in the illustration are represented by themselves, together with their readings: (a) represents the individual signs as they appear in the picture, (b) shows these signs as they normally appear in text; the way they appear both on the picture and in the upper part of

scripts and shapes

33

Illustration 4: Left, text on the narrow side of the table lantern depicted in illustration 3.

the print, (c) is a modern printed form of the kanji or kana sign, and column (d) the alphabetic transcription of the sound. The ‘ma’ on top and worked into the illustration differs from the ‘ma’ on the side of the lantern that stands on top of the table (ill. 4, left). Two different characters are used in this picture to represent the same syllable, a legacy from man’yōgana. The ‘ma’ on the lantern (a) is 㻫 (b). The modern Sino-Japanese reading is man. The ‘ma’ (c) that is part of the composition of the figure, and in the upper part of the illustration, is derived from (d) ‫ أ‬matsu in modern Sino-Japanese. The kana derived from matsu ‫أ‬, is the current standard form. Hence, the kana that is a cursive form of man 㻫, represented in (a), is now considered a hentaigana, a form that is no longer in use. In Edo Japan, however, this was an alternative, and commonly used, way to indicate ‘ma’. In the next moji-e (ill. 5), the text that is part of the design of the figure of the book pedlar is also represented in the upper part of the picture. Column (a) represents the individual signs as they appear in the picture. Column (b) shows these signs as they normally appear in text; the way they appear on top of the text as well. Column (c) is a modern printed form of the kanji or kana sign and column (d) the alphabetic transcription. Here ‘shi’ is voiced. The voicing is indicated by the two small commas (nigori) at the upper right of the character – and is pronounced ‘ji’. The text here reads fu+ji+no+maru+ya, or fujinomaruya. This is not a profession, but a business-name: Fujinomaru. The alternative ways of writing that the Japanese writing system offers are used here to include the character Մ for maru. Using the complete character was an option that obviously better suited the designer of the print than to use kana for ‘ma’ and ‘ru’. On the other hand, the sound ‘ya’ here is not represented by the character for ৢ, which is the usual ending of the name of a business as in the previous example, but by a kana 坎 ‘ya’ that also happens to be the modern standard form, and originates from the character Ո.

34

margarita winkel

Illustration 5: Fujinomaruya, moji-e of a book pedlar.

Calendar Prints Calendar prints, egoyomi, were privately issued and distributed as New Year gifts, for example, by poetry clubs, or by shops. These privately commissioned egoyomi concealed basic calendric information, such as long and short months and the corresponding zodiacal signs, as part of their design. The Japanese lunar-solar calendar was based on a sixty year cycle that corresponded with the Chinese system of twelve animal signs of the zodiac and ten ‘celestial stems’, and was adopted in Japan in 604 ce. It remained in use until 1783 when Japan switched to the Gregorian calendar. Based on a system normally of twelve lunar months in a year and sometimes an intercalary thirteenth month, the year in a lunar-solar calendar was divided into long (thirty days) and short (twenty-nine days) months. The order of long and short months for the next year, and the occurrence of an eventual intercalary month, was officially established for each year by a government office. Only publishers with

scripts and shapes

35

Illustration 6: Calendar print with the short months of Tenmei 6 (1786). Collection Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

an official licence were allowed to produce and distribute calendars. The calendar print above was made for the year that corresponds with 1786 ce. The names of the short months for that year, the 1st, 3rd, 5th, 6th, 8th and 11th month (‫إ‬ΕԿΕնΕքΕԶΕԼԫ) are worked into the design of the upper garment. Hobby-horse riding was a typical New Year pastime. Its appearance here also indicates the zodiacal sign for that year: the Year of the Horse.6

6 The original print is part of the collection Goslings, now in possession of the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam. See: http://www.collection-goslings.nl/afbeeldingen/ sur151–200/sur151–175/s164.html. For more information on surimono and ukiyo-e see The Hotei Encyclopedia of Japanese Woodblock Prints (2005) esp. pp. 47–74 and 221–224. Also, for example, Carpenter Reading Surimono (2008) and Forrer Egoyomi and Surimono (1979).

36

margarita winkel Popular Fiction

Brothels and theatres were important aspects of the demi-monde of early modern Japan. A popular type of book especially in vogue in the last decades of the eighteenth century was the so-called kibyōshi (‘yellow-cover booklets’). The relationship between image and text was critical. The one could not be read and understood without the other. Kibyōshi would satirize aspects of modern life. A particularly popular theme was the lure of the brothel district, and how this could ruin the wealth and reputation of rich, long-standing and important merchant families. One of the most famous authors of popular books was Santō Kyōden (1761–1816), who was also a print-designer. Kyōden was very well-known for his creative way of using illustrations, script and writing. His Shingaku hayasomegusa, ֨䝤‫ڰ‬਩᫫ (the title means something like ‘Learning of the Mind (or Heart) in Fast Dyes’) was published in 1790. The two pages illustrated here show on the left (ill. 7) a good soul (zendama) identified by the character ‘zen’ ࿳ (goodness, virtue) in the circle of his face, tied to the character wazawai ߀ (trouble, problems) hanging in the air. The other picture (ill. 8) shows three bad souls (akudama) identified by the character 㵙 (badness, vice) in the rounds of their faces, who are tugging and pulling the protagonist of the story, the merchant Ritarō, towards the licensed brothel quarter Yoshiwara in Edo. Ritarō is identified by the character ‘ri’ ෻, the first character of his name, on his kimono. The reference to good and bad souls in this story and the title of the book refers in a satirical way to the then popular school of Mind (or Heart) Learning (shingaku), a moral teaching that was aimed at the urban merchant and other commoners, which stresses moral practices and virtues like frugality and diligence to ward off evil tendencies in human nature. The text surrounding the images contains both a general description of events and direct rendering of text spoken by the protagonists. Popular books in Edo Japan, in particular this form of yellow-cover booklets, were written almost exclusively in kana.7 Yet the simplicity is deceiving. For a good understanding of the various levels of play and satire in texts and illustrations, an up-to-date awareness of cur-

7 An English translation of Shingaku hayasomegusa as ‘Fast-Dyeing Mind Study’, appears in Early Modern Japanese Literature (2002), Shirane (ed.): 711–729.

Illustrations 7 and 8: The pages from Shingaku hayasomegusa (1790).

scripts and shapes 37

38

margarita winkel

Illustration 9: Tsūki suigoden (1789) – a ‘Chinese’ introduction with Japanese reading marks.

rent events as well as knowledge of Chinese and Japanese classics in literature and history was necessary. Sometimes Chinese characters and Chinese writing are used very consciously as a parody, as is the case in Tsūki suigoden (1789), again by Santō Kyōden. In Tsūki suigoden the author likens the exploits of famous Japanese playboys who were regular Yoshiwara brothel patrons to the heroes of the famous Chinese novel Shuihu zhuan (Japanese Suikoden, English Water Margin). Written in the fourteenth century and set in the Northern Song Dynasty (960–1125 ce), the story of the 108 legendary outlaws of Mount Liang was retold in various forms in Japan, and, as Suikoden, became particularly popular in the late Tokugawa period.8 Above (ill. 9) is Kyōden’s mock ‘Chinese’, kanbun introduction. Kyōden uses various kanbun reading aids that change the Chinese syntax to a Japanese one. The kaeriten (resembling the katakana ‘re’ 垭) is a sign indicating that the preceding and succeeding characters should

8

The first English translation of Shuihu zhuan appeared in 1933 as All men are brothers (Peral S. Buck). In 1963, J. H. Jackson made a new translation called Water Margin. Kyōden’s Suigoden is available online as part of the database of the Waseda library: http://archive.wul.waseda.ac.jp/kosho/he13/he13_02132/he13_02132_0057/ he13_02132_0057.html. On the Suikoden in Japan, see Klompmakers (1998) Of Brigands and Bravery.

scripts and shapes

39

be reversed in reading. Numerals used as reading signs (ԫ (1), Բ (2), etc.) indicate the order in which parts of the sentence should be read. Thin vertical lines between characters indicate that the characters above and below the line should be read together in direct succession. Contrasting the feel of an elegant, learned Chinese text, however, is the reading gloss ( furigana or rubi), to the right. This indicates the Japanese pronunciation and adds other information like particles that are not represented by Chinese characters. Kyōden repeats sentences with slight variations, an element of elegance in the composition of kanbun texts. He juxtaposes, for example, many quasi-homonyms, like gūgen (allegory, fable) vs. mōgen (reckless remarks, thoughtless words), and suikoden (Water Margin) vs. suigoden (Words of Taste). According to the furigana, the text, in Japanese, reads: mukashi Sō no Ryōsanpaku ni amata no gishi ari. ima hori no Ōsanbashi ni amata no yūshi ari. kare wa ten ni kawatte michi o okonai. kore wa gu ni kaette iki o okonau. sono gōketsu wa hyakuhachinin. Kono daitsū wa jūhachinin. sore mo gūgen kore mo mōgen. koko ni oite, kano suikoden ni hishite, suigoden to daisu to iu.

Ryōsanpaku, Mount Liang, mentioned in the first sentence, is the famous stronghold of the 108 heroes of the Chinese vernacular novel Shuihu zhuan. Ōsanbashi was the name of the pier along a moat called San’yabori, from where boats departed to the Yoshiwara brothel district. Also, the rest of the text is a juxtaposition of “them and there in past times”: the 108 heroes of the Suikoden in Song China, and “us and here in our modern times”: the 18 Grand Connoisseurs of Edo’s pleasures, rich merchant-playboys who could afford to display and enjoy good taste and large expenses in the cities’ brothels and theatres. Their life and exploits are likened to the life and exploits of the Chinese Mount Liang gang: Long ago, at the time of the Song, on Mount Liang, there were many chivalrous men, Nowadays, at the big pier along the moat, there are many playboys, There, they change rules pursuing the right way, Here, they lose their good sense striving for the right spirit and wit, Those were 108 grand heroes; these are 18 grand connoisseurs, There, a parable; here, reckless remarks; set off against their “Water Margin”, this (book) is entitled “Words of Taste”.

40

margarita winkel

Illustration 10: An ukiyo-e print of a teahouse.

The humor lies in the discrepancy between a kanbun text that was associated with scholarship and officials, and the context of a booklet about brothel visitors. On the one hand, using “Chinese” is in line with the Chinese origin of the original story of the heroes, while on the other hand the Japanese readings suggested by the author in the gloss point to a very different Japanese appropriation of the story.9 Ukiyo-e: Print of a Teahouse The calendar prints discussed earlier were often privately published prints of various sizes and subjects. These were different from the commercially produced prints depicting famous courtesans, actors, or landscapes that were for sale in shops and were standardized in subjects and print sizes. The last example (ill. 10) is an ukiyo-e print that, like many popular novels, takes the ‘floating world’, that is, the transient pleasures of urban life, as its subject. This print is an example of how 9 A perceptive and extensive treatment of the Japanese writing system and the use of furigana or rubi in literature is Ariga (1989).

scripts and shapes

41

script could be used for its meaning as well as its beauty in the context of daily life. Above is a woodblock print by Ippitsusai Bunchō (fl. c.1755–1790) depicting two women at a tea house (chaya). The script on the curtain and lantern is shown in detail below. From right to left: (a) the two characters on the curtain read yama+moto, (b) shows these characters in a printed form of ‘yama’ and ‘moto’. These same characters ‘yama’ and ‘moto’ reappear in a more cursive form on the right side of the lantern (c). The four characters on the other visible side of the lantern (d) also read ‘yamamoto’ in the form of ya+ma+mo+to. Here the complete characters are used to represent syllables in man’yōgana style. The meaning of the characters is irrelevant. Their use here has an aesthetic and a practical purpose – to decorate the lantern as much as to indicate the name of the teahouse: Yamamoto. The characters they represent are given in printed form to the left of the lantern (e). The title in the cartouche reads: Azuma hakkei niken chaya no bosetsu (‘Eight Views of the Eastern Capital: Evening Snow at a two-ken teahouse’). Azuma (‘East’) refers to the shogunal capital Edo, ‘Eastern’ is used here in contradistinction to the (Western) Imperial capital Kyoto. The ‘eight views’ suggests that this print was originally designed as one print in a series of eight. This is also implied by the use of bosetsu, ‘Evening Snow.’ Again, this is a direct reference to a Chinese example: the traditional Chinese Eight Views on the Hsiao and Hsiang Rivers. The text in the cartouche consists of characters with furigana as a reading aid. The upper right part of the picture here contains an enlarged version followed by the printed forms of both the characters and the furigana that indicate how the title should be pronounced. The furigana does not represent all character readings; apparently the print makers did not considered some too obvious to add this type of reading aid. On the other hand the furigana does give the grammatical article ‘no’ that is not included in the characters. Furigana use is not always consistent and may also be dictated by available space in the cartouche, readability or aesthetic requirements. Conclusion The wide range of possibilities in writing Japanese, combined with a lively popular culture and a blooming printing business that catered to a large public, has produced a creative interplay between prints and forms of writing in early modern Japan. At that time a writing system

42

margarita winkel

like man’yōgana was long obsolete; the use of man’yōgana did not end with the dissemination of kana as the standard common form of writing. However, while Man’yōgana became obsolete not long after its first use in the Man’yōshū, the influence of this writing system remained important in the popular world of the big cities, as a sign of beauty, culture, and education. It lived on as part of the design of various objects; as an aesthetic device as well as to indicate sound. Thus, although the role and status of various script forms in Japan has changed over time, older or more formal ways of writing proved resilient as they were employed in new contexts. Merchants and artisans, placed in the lower levels of the feudal classification system, appropriated earlier forms of writing and script in the development of a new urban life-style in which they played a dominant role. Their use of older, high-status, ‘elegant’ categories and of Chinese examples was at the same time a reference to tradition and sophistication, a form of play, and a way to display wit, distinction, and education. Although kana became the dominant mode of writing in the popular world of Tokugawa Japan, and appears deceivingly simple, understanding the layers of satire in this new ludic and aesthetic context requires a good insight into current events and sensibilities. How script, traditionally a very status-sensitive device, played a role in uprooting traditional elite values and in establishing a new cosmopolitan life-style that centered on new urban classes, is a topic that deserves still more attention in the future. References Ariga, Chieko. 1989. The Playful Gloss: Rubi in Japanese Literature. In: Monumenta Nipponica 44: 309–335. Carpenter, John T. (ed.) 2008. Reading Surimono: the interplay of text and image in Japanese prints, Leiden. Forrer, Matthi. 1979. Egoyomi and Surimono. Amsterdam. Inagaki, Shinichi. 2006. Les jeux d’écriture à l’époque d’Edo. In: Du pinceau à la typographie: regards japonais sur l’écriture et le livre. Paris: 231–259. ——. 1988. Moji-e. In: Edo no asobi-e. Tokyo: 96–115. Klompmakers, Inge. 1998. Of Brigands and Bravery: Kuniyoshi’s Heroes of the Suikoden. Amsterdam. Newland, Amy Reigle (gen. ed.) 2005. The Hotei Encyclopedia of Japanese Woodblock Prints. Leiden. O’Neill, P. G., & S. Yanada. 1987. An Introduction to Written Japanese. rev. ed. London. Seeley, Christopher. 1991. A History of Writing in Japan. Leiden. Shirane, Haruo (ed.). 2002. Early Modern Japanese Literature. An Anthology 1600–1900. New York. Simon, Marianne. 1998. Un cas particulier d’estampes ludiques: les images en écriture de l’époque d’Edo. In: Extrême-Orient Extrême-Occident n° 20 (Du divertissement dans la Chine et le Japon anciens): 111–133.

SUBSTITUTION, SUBSTITUTION, SUBSTITUTION: THE MANY FACES OF MAYA WRITING Erik Boot Introduction The Maya writing system originated and evolved in an area currently covered by south-eastern Mexico (states of Tabasco, Chiapas, Campeche, Yucatan, and Quintana Roo), Belize, Guatemala, and the western parts of Honduras and El Salvador. At present, the origins of the writing system can be traced back to circa the second century bce (Late Preclassic period). The sign inventory of the writing system as a whole evolved progressively in time.1 During the Classic period (ca. 250–900 ce), some 650 to 700 different signs can be identified. Some signs were used frequently, while others are rare or even unique. The Maya writing system was in use up to and after the conquest by the Spaniards in the sixteenth century. The latest texts drawn up in the Maya writing system may date from the seventeenth century and probably were produced in the years just prior to the final conquest of the island capital Nohpeten (now the town of Flores) of the Itza Maya kingdom in 1697 ce. In Mayan languages of the recent past and today, the verb with the meaning “to write” is tz’ib, a verb which also means “to paint” (Kaufman 2003: 56–57; compare to Dienhart 1989: 737–738). Painted texts on Classic Maya ceramics from the central Maya area frequently included a reference to tz’ib “write, paint.” Individual artists even signed their work (Stuart 1987: 1–8). Incised and carved texts from northern Yucatan contain references to writing through the word wojol “character, letter; sign” (Stuart 1990: 220, Figure 7d–f ).2 According to a Spanish colonial

1 For an in-depth study on the development of Maya writing, see Grube (1990). One of the earliest Maya texts may be incised on a small stela now in the collection of the Museum of Ethnology in Antwerp (Boot 1999a, 2006). This small stela, made of greyish sandstone, is actually very close in both style and contents to the visual narrative of La Sufricaya Stela 1 (Estrada-Belli 2002: Figure 39). For a study on the earliest Maya texts, specifically on portable objects, see Mora-Marín (2001). 2 See Barrera Vásquez et al. (1980: 925), entry woh. In Yucatec Maya, woh is also the root of a verb with the meaning “to paint.”

44

erik boot

source from the seventeenth century the letters or characters were invented by the god named Itzamnah (Cogolludo 1971 [1688]: Vol. 1, 254 [Book 4, Chapter 8]).3 A reference to a god named Itzamnah at the site of Xcalumkin (Campeche, Mexico) provides him with the titles aj k’in “priest” and aj tz’ib “painter/scribe” (Boot 1996: 144). The decipherment of Maya writing started more or less with the discovery, description, and publication of important texts in the nineteenth century. Maya texts, for instance, were found in the city of Palenque, but also in an indigenous screenfold book that was guarded in the Royal Library, Dresden. Using only (sometimes very poor) drawings of a small number of then known inscriptions and a small section of a single screenfold book, it was Constantine Samuel Rafinesque-Smaltz who in 1832 was able to determine that the inscriptions at Palenque and the writing in the screenfold book represented the same writing system. Rafinesque also identified the correct values of Maya bar-anddot numerals (dots for units of “one,” bars for units of “five”), and he was the first to suggest that the language represented in the script was the one still spoken by the living Maya (Coe 1992: 91, G. Stuart 1989: 16). At present there are some five to six million speakers of Mayan languages, of which there are thirty-one or thirty-two variants. Some languages have several hundreds of thousand of speakers (e.g., Yucatec Maya), others only a handful (e.g., Itza Maya). Foremost among the later studies was the 1880 publication by Ernest Förstemann, an accurate chromophotographic facsimile of the above mentioned Maya screenfold book, which is now known as the Codex Dresden. In later studies Förstemann identified the mechanism of the Maya base twenty or vigesimal numerical place notational system as well as the Maya calendar (Coe 1992: 108).4 For decades scholars concentrated their efforts on the calendrical portion of the surviving inscriptions. The attempts by scholars like Abbé Charles Étienne Brasseur de Bourbourg, Cyrus Thomas, and Benjamin

3 In this passage Itzamnah, who invented the letters or characters, is identified as the son of the most important god among the Yucatec Maya (and who had the same name). In the Classic period, Itzamnah was the most important god and he is found as supervisor of a mythical enthronization in Palenque (Temple XIX). 4 Of special interest are Förstemann 1880, 1886, 1887–1889, and 1904. The Maya calendar is correlated with the Christian calendar through a correlation constant of 584,285 (Lounsbury 1982). Although many other correlations have been proposed (Edmonson 1988), this particular constant is generally accepted and applied among Mayanists.

the many faces of maya writing

45

Whorf at the decipherment of the remaining portion of the inscriptions (and the screenfold books) were met with great scepticism and were not generally accepted (Coe 1992: 106, 116–122, 135–139). It was in the 1950s that a young Russian scholar named Yuriy Knorozov found an entry into the actual decipherment of the Maya writing system (Coe 1992: 145–152). Basic to his decipherment was an illustration from an important colonial Spanish manuscript written by Fray Diego de Landa.5 This manuscript was discovered in the nineteenth century and published for the first time in 1864 by Brasseur de Bourbourg. In this colonial manuscript, Landa illustrated an “alphabet” of Maya signs (Figure 1). Based on this “alphabet” and three explanatory examples from the same manuscript (Figure 2) and his intimate knowledge of other writing systems, Knorozov concluded that the “alphabet” actually represented a series of (mostly) syllabic signs, signs that did not represent a single “letter” and “sound” (as suggested by for instance Brasseur and Thomas), but a combination of “sounds.” The “alphabet” was thus a partial syllabic sign inventory. In his research he ultimately identified Maya writing as a logosyllabic system, a system which employs discrete graphs as either logographic signs (representing morphemes, sometimes complete words) and/or syllabic signs (part of morphemes). As Mayan languages possess a specific patterning of sounds to shape words (CVC and CVCVC), logographic signs can have the shape CVC (Consonant-Vowel-Consonant) or CVCVC, while syllabic signs are of the shape CV (Consonant-Vowel).6 Working mainly with examples from three screenfold books,7 Knorozov further determined that the basic word order of a Maya text was verb-object-subject (as also was suggested by Whorf ).

5 The title page of the Landa manuscript carries the date 1566, but it is actually a summarized copy made by various hands in the late seventeenth century (Brasseur de Bourbourg 1864), a part possibly even copied in the early eighteenth century (Restall & Chuchiak IV 2002). 6 At present I consider all syllabic signs to be of the shape CV, thus including those signs that other epigraphers identify as V or representing a single vowel (a, e, i, o, u). Thus: ’a, ’e, ’i, ’o, ’u. This I base on the frequent use of these “vowel signs” to stress or spell the final /’/ or glottal stop of a word (e.g., ’u-K’ABA’-’a > uk’aba’, TE’-’e > te’, TZ’I’-’i > tz’i’, mo-’o-’o > mo’o’, tu-’u > tu’). Compare Bricker (2004: 1047–1049). Also see note 13. 7 At the time Knorozov did his research there were three Maya screenfold books available, the Codex Dresden, the Codex Madrid, and the Codex Paris. The fourth screenfold book is the Codex Grolier (Coe 1973); this book does not contain hieroglyphic texts.

46

erik boot

Figure 1. The Landa “alphabet” (Landa 1566: fol. 45r).

Knorozov’s decipherment and research method were tested in subsequent research by both American and European scholars. Although, at first, there was some strong opposition, presented by the British scholar J. Eric S. Thompson (Coe 1992: 123–166), in the years after his initial publication, Knorozov’s method has been proven to be correct. Decipherment of Maya writing has since progressed, with basic and still referenced contributions written in the 1960s and 1970s, and a large number of contributions on discrete decipherments of individual signs written in the 1980s and 1990s (Coe 1992: 167–274).8 At present, students of Maya writing identify it as a logosyllabic writing system. Its inventory of discrete writing symbols or units are referred to as hieroglyphs, hieroglyphic signs, or simply glyphs.9 A single sign can function as the main sign of a composite sign group (also referred to as glyph block, glygher [sic], compound, or collocation); a sign can be affixed (and sometimes infixed) by other discrete signs. The affixed signs can be either logographic or syllabic, depending on what the Maya scribes intended to write. Signs can be partially hidden by other signs; this phenomenon can be referred to as overlap or superposition. Certain signs can have three appearances: a basic (sometimes called abstract)

8 Many of the important contributions from these periods recently were published in a compilation edited by Houston, Chinchilla Mazariegos & Stuart (2001). An overview of epigraphic studies of the 1970s and 1980s can be found in an introductory study by Houston (1989), while a review of the epigraphic contributions of the 1990s can be found in a more recent contribution by Houston (2000). 9 Two of the very first researchers to systematically use these labels in relation to Maya writing were McCulloh in 1828 and Rafinesque in 1832 (compare to cited passages in Coe 1992 [pp. 89–91] and Stuart 1989 [especially text contained in his Figure 4]).

the many faces of maya writing

47

Figure 2. Three “examples” in Landa’s explanation of the script (Landa 1566: fol. 45r): a) e-le-e-le (’e-le-’e-le), to write le’ “noose,” b) a-ha (actually ’a-che-ja), to write ha’ “water” c) ma i n ka ti (ma ’i-ne k’a ti), to write ma’ in k’ati “I do not want to.”

variant, a cephalomorphic or head-shaped variant (either anthropomorphic or zoomorphic), and a full-body or animated variant (either anthropomorphic or zoomorphic).10 In many studies on Maya writing, individual signs are referred to with so-called T-numbers (e.g., T501). These numbers refer to a sign inventory or catalog developed and published by Thompson in 1962.11 A more recent sign inventory or catalog

10 These last variants are also referred to as full-figure variants. For these particular variants, I employ the term somatomorphic “body-shaped.” 11 Thompson based his catalog on an inventory of signs from both the monumental inscriptions as well as the three Maya screenfold books. Another important catalog was published by Zimmermann (1956), but his inventory of signs was based only on those occuring in the Maya screenfold books. Recently a new catalog appeared, edited by Macri & Looper (2003). This new catalog arranges the hieroglyphic signs in different catagories (Animals, Birds, Body Parts, etc.), and that is an advantage. However, this catalog is only concerned with monumental inscriptions of the Classic period, not the Maya screenfold books, and that is a disadvantage. But the greatest disadvantage, according to me, lies in the way hieroglyphic signs need to be referred to: Thompson’s T671, the hand sign for the value chi, becomes MR7, Thompson’s T218, the hand sign for TZUTZ, becomes MRB. Thus letter and letter-and-number codes to refer to CV, CVC, and CVCVC based Maya signs. This can only lead to confusion in glyph analysis.

48

erik boot

by Macri and Looper, the first volume of which was published in 2003, may replace this older catalog in years to come. In epigraphic studies, Maya writing signs or units are transcribed12 into their respective values as logogram or syllabic sign (or syllabogram)13 employing alphabetic letters representing the sounds common to lowland Mayan languages:’ (“glottal stop”), a, b, ch, ch’ (glottalized variant of previous consonant), e, h (glottal aspirate or glottal voiced fricative; /h/ as in English “house”), i, j (velar aspirate or velar voiced fricative; as in Spanish, e.g., “joya”), k, k’, l, m, n, o, p, p’, s, t, t’, u (as in English “oo,” e.g., mood), w, x (pronounced as English /sh/), and y. The general modus operandi is to employ bold face uppercase letters for logographic signs and bold face lower case letters for syllabic signs.14 Examples of transcriptions are BALAM-ma, ba-la-ma, YAX. In transcriptions, hyphens present the break between individual signs within a composite sign group or collocation; a blank space may be used between separate sign groups or collocations. Transliterations, in which individual values as identified through transcription are combined into meaningful words and phrases (sentences), are generally written in italics. Examples of transliterations are balam, yax. Translations, which are based on comparative and detailed linguistic research and analysis, are in regular type letters and generally are placed between quotes.15

12 This is in contrast to the study of other writing systems (cf. Daniels & Bright 1996; Woodard 2004), in which transliteration denotes the one-on-one transposition of a written text into the signs of another writing system (in our case, in alphabetic letters), while transcription is the interpretation of a written text that supplies information not explicit in the text. I am familiar with only two recent studies in Maya epigraphy in which transliteration and transcription are used according to these last specific terms (cf. Vargas de la Peña, Castillo, Borges & Lacadena García-Gallo 1999; Lacadena García-Gallo 2003). 13 In the transcription of Maya signs, most epigraphers would make a clear and sharp distinction between logograms and syllabic signs (or syllabograms). However, this distinction seems somewhat artificial and the line between the two main categories of signs probably was not that clear. As such, I agree with Coe (Coe & Van Stone 2000: 161). Specifically note the examples to be discussed below in the section “Signs for ’i, ’u, ti, and ya.” 14 Early studies, like Lounsbury (1989: 74, note 4) (but written at an earlier stage), already hint at this epigraphic notational system, which was described in greatest detail by G. Stuart (1988) to standardize the transcription and transliteration of Maya texts. Unfortunately, a recent study by Bricker (2004) employs a different system, as do Macri & Looper (2003) in their catalog. 15 At present, there are various introductions to Maya writing available. Good and well-illustrated introductions can be found in Coe & Van Stone (2001), Montgomery (2000), and Kettunen & Helmke (2004). A recent work edited by Wichmann (2004)

the many faces of maya writing

49

In general, the individual signs within a composite sign group are to be read from left to right and top to bottom (of course, there are exceptions to this rule). A sign group can contain two signs, but also more than eight signs. The actual order, as identified by an epigrapher based on comparative research, is made apparent in transcription. A Maya inscription is read in paired columns from left to right and top to bottom. Columns are generally designated by a capital Roman letter, lines are designated by an Arabic numeral. If an inscription has four columns, each with two vertical lines, the reading order would be A1-B1A2-B2 after which follows C1-D1-C2-D2. There are also (among others) inscriptions with single columns, L-shaped texts, T-shaped texts, and single horizontal lines (especially along the rim of painted, incised, or carved ceramics). In rare cases an inscription (and associated iconography) is intentionally mirrored and has to be read from right to left (e.g., Yaxchilan, Lintel 25). Maya texts can be found on various portable and monumental, perishable and non-perishable materials, such as sculpted in stone (stelae, altars, lintels, cornices, stairway steps, statuettes, etc.) and wood (lintels, jambs, statuettes), carved and incised (jade, bone, ceramics), molded (stucco, ceramics), and painted (ceramics, murals, cave walls, screenfold books). The shortest text contains a single sign or composite sign group (providing an individual name or title, or identifying the proper name of an object); the longest text contains some 1,250 composite sign groups (Copan, Temple 26, Hieroglyphic Stairway) (providing the city’s dynastic history). Patterns of Substitution In this essay I present several examples of Maya writing in which Maya scribes provided both simple and complex sign combinations to record specific name phrases of local kings.16 The same name could be recorded

brings together the latest research results on the linguistics on Maya writing. The first fully illustrated dictionary of Maya glyphs was published by Montgomery (2002). 16 The high lord and ruler among the Classic Maya was known as ajaw; this word is translated as “rey,” king, in Spanish colonial documents and vocabularies. It should however be noted that such a translation does not imply that the Maya king functioned as its European counterparts in either the past or the present. I define king as a male paramount lord who rules a specific sovereign territory (kingdom), whose supreme position has become institutionalized and hereditary, generally through primogeniture in the male line, and whose position is measured from and legitimized through a historical or mythological founder. The title ajaw may be analyzed as aj + aw, the

50

erik boot

in various ways, sometimes with only subtle differences, at other times employing a different set of common signs or rare and sometimes even unique cephalomorphic or somatomorphic signs. Substitution, the conditioned interchange of graphically different signs with the same value, is common to Maya writing. These patterns of substitution, as identified by epigraphers, have proven to be a pivotal entry into the decipherment of Classic Maya writing. Signs for “Jaguar”17 The written renditions of the names of several kings during the Classic Maya period included the sign for jaguar,18 the most powerful land predator in the area. In Mayan languages, there is more than one word for “jaguar.” Most common is the word balam, while alternatively, hix can be found (Dienhart 1989: 357–359; Kaufman 2003: 594). Also, the item bolay may refer to a jaguar or a feline in general (Barrera Vásquez et al. 1980: 62). In Maya writing, signs can be found which contain the full body or just the head of a jaguar (Figure 3). Without any other clues to its pronunciation it would be difficult to determine which word for jaguar would be correct. The somatomorphic animal sign (Figure 3a) represents a jaguar, indicative of which are the feline characteristics and, specifically, the spotted skin. The same applies to the jaguar head (Figure 3b). These animal signs could be read either balam, hix, or bolay, all words that refer to “jaguar.” To rule out ambiguity, Maya scribes came to employ so-called phonetic complements, affixed syllabic signs of the shape CV, which spelled part of the logographic main sign. In some cases a sign was prefixed (CV-CVC[CV]), in other cases a sign was postfixed (CVC[VC]-CV).19 In the present case the scribes attached a small sign general agentive prefix aj and aw, the root of the verb aw “to speak, to shout”; ajaw would thus literally mean “he who speaks, shouts.” 17 The examples in this Figure 3 were compiled by Peter Mathews and have served him for many years to explain the principles of phonetic complementation and syllabic substitution (cf. Mathews & Zender 1998: 23). 18 Among the kings that contained the Maya equivalent of “jaguar” in their name are Yopat Balam (two kings at Yaxchilan, one being the founder), Yaxun Balam (four kings at Yaxchilan), Itzamnah Balam (three kings at Yaxchilan; king at Dos Pilas), K’inich Tzik(?) Balam (king at Copan), K’uk’ Balam, Kan Balam, K’inich Kan Balam, and K’inich K’uk’ Balam (kings at Palenque). 19 Most common was a postfix, less common a prefix. In rare cases a logographic sign is both prefixed and postfixed, e.g., tu-TUN-ni, yo-YOTZ-tzi (cf. Boot 1999b). This phenomenon can be defined as full phonetic complementation.

the many faces of maya writing

51

Figure 3. Examples of “Jaguar” in Classic Maya name phrases a) “Jaguar Body” (somatomorphic variant), b) “Jaguar Head” (cephalomorphic variant), c) BALAM-ma (phonetic complementation), d) BALAM-ma, e) ba-la-ma (full syllabic substitution), f) ba-la-ma (drawings by various artists, after Mathews and Zender 1998: 23; with adjustments by the present author).

to the bottom of the jaguar head, a postfix (Figures 3c&d). Both signs represent the value ma and can be compared to the syllabic sign ma that Landa employed in the phrase ma’ ink’ati (spelled ma ’i ne k’a ti) (Figure 2c). The only Maya word for jaguar that would end in -m is balam and thus both examples can be transcribed BALAM-ma. The final vowel of such a phonetic complement would be left unpronounced.20

20 Based on the original principles as proposed by Knorozov, this is correct. A phonetic complement was there to stress the final consonant of a logographic sign, the vowel was in general vowel harmonic to the root vowel and was not pronounced. However, for instance Justeson (1989: 35) noted exceptions to this principle, namely certain phonetic complements that were not vowel harmonic or pairs of syllabic signs which had a “contrasting vowel selection.” Justeson suggested that the principles or “norms need(ed) refinement and elaboration” and added that “[s]pecial phonological and grammatical conditions appear to have affected vowel selection in regular ways”

52

erik boot

Maya scribes not only used the full-body variant of a jaguar or a jaguar head (either with or without ma as a suffixed phonetic complement), but they also employed fully transparent syllabic spellings (Figures 3e&f ). Here the scribes employed a composite sign group that can be transcribed ba-la-ma.21 Also in this sequence of signs, the final vowel would be left unpronounced, thus ba-la-ma leads to balam “jaguar.” Signs for ’i, ’u, ti, and ya There are two common expressions in calendrical context that contain a high level of substitutions. These expressions are now transcribed as ’i-’u-ti and ’u-ti-ya (Stuart 1990) (Figure 4).22 The first column presents examples of the spelling ’i-’u-ti or i-ut “and then happened,” while the second column provides examples of the spelling ’u-ti-ya or ut-iy “happened (long ago).”23 Most common are the signs for ’u in examples a-e and w-z; other signs that substitute for ’u may actually be signs which are close homonyms. In examples g-k and a’-e’ the head of an animal is used; the animal is either a reptile or a fish, it may even be a composite creature.24 There is a particular reptilian creature which is known as

(Justeson 1989: 35). In recent research it has been suggested that the so-called disharmonic spellings provide regular principles through which Maya scribes provided information on the quality of the root vowel of nouns, adjectives, and derivitative suffixes (cf. Houston, Stuart & Robertson 1998). Another study suggests that these spellings indicate the vowel of the most common -Vl suffix (cf. Kaufman 2003). It has to be noted that there are several other alternative proposals. The present author has tested the various proposals and even has developed his own alternative. Unfortunately, the matter is too complicated to discuss in sufficient detail in this note. 21 The spelling ba-la-ma in Figure 3e can be found in the inscription on a late Classic monument (probably a wall panel), dated to 864 ce. An individual named Chilkay Balam is named twice; once the part balam is written with a logograph (a jaguar head, without a phonetic complement), once the part balam is written ba-la-ma. This monument was looted in the early 1960s and is now part of a private collection (allegedly in Switzerland). It is generally referred to as the Randell Stela, after the New York gallery which once displayed the monument. 22 In this article David Stuart provided the epigraphic evidence for the substitution patterns as discussed in this section of the present essay. The specific interpretations and value assingments in relation to the “animal head,” “male lunar deity,” and “spider monkey head” are mine. 23 Yet another problem arrises in the translation of these expressions. Some epigraphers would make a distinction between incompletive (i-ut) and completive (ut-iy), others consider both to be in the completive. Based on my own research, at present, I tentatively identify both expressions as completive. The full argument for this identification has to await a future occasion. 24 The inscription of the bench inside the House of the Bacabs at Copan employs both abstract and full-body or somatomorphic hieroglyphic signs. In this inscription

the many faces of maya writing

53

“serpiente voladora” or “flying serpent”; in the Eastern Mayan languages (spoken in the Guatemalan Highlands) of Awakateko and Sakapulteco this creature is referred to as juuj (Kaufman 2003: 640).25 None of the colonial or present-day lowland Mayan languages seems to contain a comparable word, but if correct, this sign representing a (composite) fish-like animal was chosen as a close homonym to represent the sound u- in i-ut and ut-iy. The examples o-q and h’ contain the portrait head of an anthropomorphic entity. It may portray the head of a male lunar deity.26 The word for “moon” for the greater lowland Mayan languages can be reconstructed as *uuh.27 Again, for its closeness in sound this sign is employed to represent the sound u- in i-ut and ut-iy. The examples r and i’ are most interesting; these examples depict the head or the full body of a spider monkey. There is no word for spider monkey in Mayan languages that contains the sound u.28 In this case, the Maya scribes did not want the word for spider monkey itself, but the short howling sound a spider monkey produces, u (pronounced as “oo,” as in English ‘mood’). These are rare examples in which Maya scribes targeted an onomatopoetic term or word formed after or imitating a natural sound.29

the somatomorphic variant replaces the animal head (Webster 1989: Fig. 15, Glyph F); the creature depicted has some clear fish characteristics (for instance scales and a tail). However, a rattle (like the rattle of a rattle snake) also seems to be a characteristic of this creature. 25 Close in sound to this word juuj for “flying serpent” is the word for “iguana” in several lowland Mayan languages, which has been reconstructed as *huuj (cf. Kaufman 2003: 642 [with present-day reflexes]; compare to Dienhart 1989: 350–351). Are the two words in some way related (or did the word enter these Eastern Mayan languages through a process of diffusion)? 26 In Maya cosmology and mythology the deity associated with the moon is female; however, there are various examples of male lunar entities or deities (cf. Milbrath 1999: 135–156; Taube 1992: 64–69). The female lunar deity is considered to be the companion of the creator god Itzamnah (note the visual narrative on a Classic Maya vessel cataloged as Kerr No. 0504). Stuart (1990: 219) describes the human head as a “sacrificial head.” 27 This reconstruction can be found in Kaufman (2003: 500), with present-day reflexes; compare to Dienhart (1989: 424–428). 28 The word for spider monkey in many Mayan languages is max (Dienhart 1989: 424; Kaufman 2003: 561). 29 The text on a small bowl also contains a sign for u- based on an onomatopoetic word or term (Boot 1999b: note 4 [p. 42]). The scribe employs the head of a howling dog; the common word for dog is tz’i’ (Dienhart 1989: 189–192; Kaufman 2003: 573–574). Also this scribe targeted a natural sound, namely the sound a howling dog produced, (h)u.

54

erik boot

Figure 4. The signs for ’i, ’u, ti, and ya (a-l’, drawings by David Stuart [1990: Figure 4]; examples to the left of l, drawings by Mark Van Stone [Coe & Van Stone 2000: 157]).

the many faces of maya writing

55

The various examples also present common and rare variants for the signs for ’i, ti, and ya. Next to example l one can find two additional examples for the syllabic sign ’i. These signs represent a hawk plucking the eye of either a feline or canine. The word for a certain kind of hawk is i or aj i (Barrera Vásquez et al. 1980: 261, as ah i).30 In total, in Figure 4 there are eight different signs for ’u, two for ’i, two for ti (head variant and full body variant represent a vulture), and two for ya (not counting small graphic differences due to different scribal hands or styles). Within Mayan languages the sound u- is of great importance; as a word, u- is the third person pronoun (in verbal context as well as possessive context). The majority of Maya inscriptions is in the third person. With that particular sound u- frequently being employed, Maya scribes developed a large number of different signs to represent the sound u-. Many of these signs, as far as our present knowledge goes, can be transcribed straightforward as the syllabic sign for ’u, but others that are employed in this context may actually be transcribed in a different manner, perhaps as logographs.31 The Name Phrase Yaxpasaj Chan Yopat The sixteenth king of the city of Copan, in the southeastern Maya area (now western Honduras), was named Yaxpasaj Chan Yopat and he reigned between circa 763–(post)810 ce (Martin & Grube 2000: 206, 209–212). The decipherment of his name, which occurs frequently in the Copan inscriptions, has taken more than twenty years.32 Here I have chosen to compare four examples of his complete name phrase (Figure 5a–d). His name phrase opens with the sign YAX, which, in three examples, is written with an abstract sign, but which in the fourth example is written

30

The name of this kind of hawk (or more neutrally, a bird of prey) seems to be an onomatopoetic word formed after the high pitch sounds this bird produces, that is iii. 31 The process of phonological reduction or acrophony, the process through which both logographic and syllabic signs came into existence, is in many cases difficult to reconstruct. Many signs seem to have developed through this process of acrophony, in which, for instance, the final consonant was dropped to arrive at a CV syllabic sign. It is, as such, not possible to identify all signs here used to represent the sound u- as simply a CV syllabic sign with the value ’u. 32 The first in-depth study on this name phrase was written by Floyd Lounsbury (1989). In this study he provided thirteen examples and most of his readings of individual signs are more or less correct, except for the value of the syllabic sign now known to be sa (which was established in later epigraphic research by David Stuart).

56

erik boot

Figure 5. The name phrase Yaxpasaj Chan Yopat at Copan, a) Stela 8 (Lounsbury 1989: Figure 6–1), b) Temple 26, Southwest Corner (Lounsbury 1989: Figure 6–6), c) Temple 11, South Side, Step 5 (Lounsbury 1989: Figure 6–9), d) House of the Bacabs, Las Sepulturas, Carved Bench (Martin & Grube 2000: 210).

with a full-bodied or fully animated anthropomorphic variant (note the human head, the arms, and lower body). The next sign in the first example is a logographic sign that depicts the sun positioned between the sky and the earth.33 While each separate sign has a fixed value (K’IN 33 This composite sign is generally referred to as “sun-at-horizon.” Lounsbury (1989: 84) suggested PACAH, while in recent studies PAS is preferred (specifically based on the decipherment of the sa syllabic sign).

the many faces of maya writing

57

“sun,” CHAB/KAB “earth,” CHAN/KAN “sky”), the combination of the three signs is a distinct sign itself and is now deciphered as PAS. In the second example, one can find three syllabic signs following the YAX sign, namely pa, sa, and ja. In the third example, another logogram is employed to spell PAS, followed by an anthropomorphic head variant of sa (a human head with an earth sign on the mouth), and ja. In the fourth example, the sign for pa is held in the arms by the full-body variant of YAX,34 followed by the full-body variant of sa (note the human head with the earth sign on the mouth, now with a complete animated human body). In the first and second example, the next signs represent the sky or CHAN/KAN with an abstract sign na as a phonetic complement. There is no sign for sky in the third example, but one can find the sign for a serpent head, also CHAN/KAN. As a phonetic complement, it also has a sign na, but in this case it is a female head (the word for “mother” in many lowland Mayan languages is na’).35 The fourth example illustrates a full bodied serpent, with its mouth wide open. Its tail is covering a small part of the abstract sign for na. In lowland Mayan languages, the words for “sky” and “serpent,” as well as “four” (in other examples employed to substitute for either “sky” or “serpent”) are homonyms or close homonyms. The reconstructed items in proto-Mayan are *ka’nh “sky,” *kaan “serpent,” and *kaanh-ib “four”;36 in present-day Ch’orti’, an eastern lowland Mayan language, the reflex of all three items is chan.37 The sequence of signs in the first example terminates with a composite sign group that can be identified as YOP?-’AT-ti. The first sign is read YOP, after a suggestion by David Stuart that it represents a leaf, yop

34 In a recent contribution I identified the cephalomorphic or head-shaped variant of YAX (Boot 2004). As such, the sign YAX can be found employed in a full range of variants: as a regular (or abstract) sign, a cephalomorphic variant, and body-shaped or somatomorphic variant. 35 See reconstruction in Kaufman (2003: 91), with present-day reflexes; compare to Dienhart (1989: 431–433). 36 See reconstructions in Kaufman (2003: 468, 636, 1470), with present-day reflexes; compare to Dienhart (1989: 576–578, 588–590, 776–779). 37 It was Stephen Houston (1984) who first discussed in detail the substitution pattern between “sky,” “serpent,” and “four” and described them as close homophones. It is of interest to note that present-day Ch’orti’ refers to all three as chan. The related Ch’orti’ and (extinct) Ch’olti’ languages are now considered to be instrumental in the understanding of the evolution of the language(s) of the Classic period and the writing system that represented it (Houston, Robertson, and Stuart 2000). Compare to Lacadena and Wichmann (2002).

58

erik boot

in, for instance, Ch’ol, a western lowland Mayan language.38 The added query (in regular type) indicates that a certain degree of doubt still remains on its identification. The sign transcribed here as ’AT depicts the phallus, at in many lowland Mayan languages.39 The second example provides the spelling YOP?-’AT-ta. There is a difference in the final sign, ta instead of ti. The third example can be transcribed YOPAT-ta; in this case a cephalomorphic sign has been employed. Ultimately, the fourth example employs the full-body variant of YOPAT and the sign for ti (as in the first example). The final full-body sign illustrates the portrait of a god related to lightning. The four examples can thus be summarized in transcription as follows: Example 1: Example 2: Example 3: Example 4:

YAX PAS YAX pa-sa-ja YAX PAS-sa-ja YAX [pa]-sa

CHAN-na CHAN-na CHAN-na CHAN-na

YOP?-’AT-ti YOP?-’AT-ta YOPAT-ta YOPAT-ti

In these transcriptions the signs for sky and serpent are transcribed as CHAN only. This name phrase can be found at an archaeological site the larger area of which at present is associated with an eastern lowland Mayan language (Ch’orti’). An ancestor of this language was probably associated with this area during the Classic period;40 as such, chan is more probable than kan (although without a prefixed phonetic complement one can never be certain). The four examples of this name phrase can be transliterated yaxpasaj chan yopat, which can be paraphrased “Yopat (yopat) Who First (yax) Opened (pasaj) the Sky (chan).”41

38 It is Martin (2001: 4, note 5) who refers to this decipherment. According to Martin, Stuart made this suggestion in 1999. Compare to Ch’ol entres in Aulie and Aulie (1978: 143, yopmal, yopol). More regularly this sign (cataloged by Thompson as T115) simply operates as the syllabic sign yo. If indeed the syllabic sign yo is derived from yop “leaf,” this would be a good example of the process of acrophony in which the final consonant was dropped to arrive at a CV syllabic sign. If the sign also operates as YOP, it shows the fluidity of some sign values still present in Maya writing. 39 For reflexes and cognates in most Maya languages, see Kaufman (2003: 385); compare to Dienhart (1989: 485–486). 40 See note 37 for the derivation and evolution of the reflexes. 41 The word yax has various meanings in Mayan languages. Commonly it refers to the color “green(-blue)” (Kaufman 2003: 225–228), it also means “first” in, for instance, Yucatec Maya (e.g., Barrera Vásquez et al. 1980: 971). By extension, yax may also metaphorically refer to “unripe,” as it is often contrasted to or paired with k’an “yellow; ripe; precious.” The verb pas- means “to open; to dawn” in various Mayan languages. A more literal translation would be “First-Opened Sky Yopat [Lightning God].”

the many faces of maya writing

59

The Name Phrase K’ak’ Tiliw Chan Yopat Located close to Copan one can find the city of Quirigua. The cities of Copan and Quirigua, based on a few inscriptions, seem to share a common ancestry, while one of the later kings of Quirigua captured the king of Copan named Waxaklajun Ubah K’awil “Eighteen are the Heads of K’awil” (formerly known as “18 Rabbit”). The name of the Quirigua king was K’ak’ Tiliw Chan Yopat (Figure 6), who reigned circa 724– 785 ce (Martin & Grube 2000: 218–222). Here I present two examples of his name phrase. The first example opens with a sign that depicts a smoke scroll, which stands for K’AK’ fire.42 The same smoke scroll can be found in the second example of his name phrase. The first example continues with a sequence of syllabic signs, ti-li-wi for tiliw. The second example provides the simple sign for ti, just below the cephalomorphic variant for li. The spelling ti-li is an abbreviation43 and also leads to tiliw. The root of the verbal expression tiliw is til-, which means “to burn” (Kaufman 2003: 524; compare to Dienhart 1989: 94–95). The ending -iw (or -Vw) possibly indicates an antipassive construction,44 probably with object-incorporation (k’ak’ fire). In the first example, it is followed by a composite sign group spelled CHAN-na, which can be found in the second example spelled just CHAN. In this case, the head and body of an anthropomorphic fullbody variant of CHAN can be found; the head of this variant, however, seems to combine both avian and reptilian facial characteristics. Note that in this example there is no sign na. The first example terminates with a composite sign group spelled YOP?-’AT-ti, which, in the second example, is substituted by the fullbody variant of YOPAT, illustrating thus the full-body portrait of a god.45 However, in this example, the YOPAT full-body variant does not 42 The smoke scroll sign (T122) can be found prefixed and postfixed with the syllabic sign k’a as well as fully substituted with the syllabic pair k’a-k’a. This phonetic complementation and syllabic substitution indicate that the smoke scroll sign is logographic K’AK’ “fire.” On fire as k’ak’, see Kaufman (2003: 512–514); compare to Dienhart (1989: 243–246). 43 Most common abbreviations occur in relation to final -l and -n, but also other consonants can be abbreviated, as research by Marc Zender and Alfonso Lacadena has shown (e.g., -’, -h, -j, -w). Only through a significant and sufficient number of examples abbreviations can be recognized. 44 It was Alfonso Lacadena who first identified antipassive constructions in Classic Maya inscriptions. 45 To my knowledge it was Matthew Looper who first identified this god in visual narratives on Classic Maya ceramic vessels (Looper 2003: 4–5, Figure I.4).

60

erik boot

Figure 6. The name phrase K’ak’ Tiliw Chan Yopat at Quirigua, a) Quirigua, Stela I (Looper 2003: Figure I.3a), b) Quirigua, Zoomorph B (Looper 2003: Figure I.3b).

take a syllabic sign ti (or ta). These two examples can be summarized in transcription as follows: Example 1: Example 2:

K’AK’ K’AK’

ti-li-wi ti-li

CHAN-na CHAN

YOP?-’AT-ti YOPAT

In these examples, different signs have been employed for CHAN, the simple or abstract sign for sky and a full-body variant. The god YOPAT, again a full-body variant, could also be written with the collocation that spelled YOP?-’AT-ti. The possible antipassive expression could be spelled in full ti-li-wi, but could also be abbreviated as ti-li. The two examples of this name phrase can be transliterated as k’ak’ tiliw chan yopat, which can be paraphrased as “Yopat (yopat) Who Fire-Burns (k’ak’ tiliw) the Sky (chan).”46 46

A more literal translation would be “Fire-Burns Sky Yopat [Lightning God].”

the many faces of maya writing

61

Writing and Iconography: The Name Phrase K’ak’ Tiliw Chan Chak Maya scribes provided a reasonable large corpus of variant spellings of the name of kings. This is not strange as the majority of hieroglyphic texts from the Classic period from all over the lowland Maya area record the exploits of individual Maya kings. The longer a king lived and ruled a city the more frequent his name phrase would be recorded. Through substitution, including full-body variants, the amount of internal variation of sign use in his name phrase could become greater. The name phrases of Maya kings not only appeared in glyphic texts (either sculpted, carved, molded, incised, or painted), to identify a king, his glyphic name phrase occasionally would be integrated into a visual narrative. Within the Maya area, there are several examples of kings and other dignitaries, whose glyphic name phrases can be found integrated into their headdresses. One of the best known examples is found at the site of Naranjo (Figure 7).47 Naranjo Stela 22 illustrates the king of the city, seated upon a large cushion covered with symbols of his high rank (note the jaguar skin pattern and the small signs for po placed upon the visual representation of a woven fiber mat). The inscription opens with a date in the year 702 ce. The king’s name is recorded in the inscription at A4-A5. Although slightly damaged, his name can be transcribed as K’AK’-TIL-wi CHAN-na-CHAK for k’ak’ tiliw chan chak, which can be paraphrased as “Chak (chak) Who Fire-Burns (k’ak’ tiliw) the Sky (chan).” The elaborate headdress contains all pertinent sign elements of his name phrase so no doubt (of course, as long one can read the signs) can remain on the identity of the powerful king. In front of his headdress one can find the enlarged sign K’AK’ fire. Within the headdress itself one finds the conflated signs ti-li, to be combined with wi, below which one finds the sign CHAN sky. Directly below the sign for sky, one finds the elaborate portrait head of the rain god CHAK. The sign sequence in his headdress reads K’AK’ ti-li CHAN CHAK, a variant of the sequence of signs in the accompanying inscription.48

47

This example is also described and illustrated in Martin & Grube (2000: 77). For comparative reasons I have added a line in the drawing in Figure 7 between the large iconographic head of the rain god Chak and the glyphic representation of his portrait head in the single column text. 48

62

erik boot

Also this sequence can be transliterated k’ak’ tiliw chan chak for “Chak Who Fire-Burns the Sky.”49 The above four sections illustrated and discussed a small number of examples of name phrases in which Maya scribes employed a variety of signs to arrive at the same name phrase. Within this variety of signs, the scribes explored different kinds of variation. There could be variation in a standard sign, ever so minute and subtle, depending on the skill of individual scribes (or sculptors). Abstract signs were most commonly used. An abstract sign could be substituted by its cephalomorphic variant, a similar or sometimes even rather dissimilar sign, in the shape of a head. This head-shaped variant could have either anthropomorphic or zoomorphic characteristics. On rare occasions, the Maya scribes explored the possible variation of signs even further and employed fully animated anthropomorphic and zoomorphic bodies to generate a specific sign.50 Versatility: Classic Maya Hand Signs The Maya sign inventory contains a certain category of signs the complexity and diversity of which is unique to this writing system. This category contains the signs that depict the human hand. In a recent study I discussed 45 different hand signs. At present, more than fifty

49 A more literal translation would be “Fire-Burns Sky Chak [Rain God].” The three name phrases of kings discussed in this essay all are descriptive names of particular manifestations of gods, in these case the lightning god Yopat and the raingod Chak. In, for instance, ancient Egypt and Assyria, kings associated themselves with particular gods through references in (part[s] of) their name or full nominal phrase. As recently discussed by Pierre Robert Colas (2004: 304), nearly 23% of the now known Classic Maya male names are god names. Most common are names referring to aspects of the gods Yopat, Chak, and K’awil. All three are related to lightning, thunder, and rain. 50 The employment of fully animated anthropomorphic and zoomorphic bodies to generate specific signs was the hallmark of the most accomplished scribes and sculptors. Classic Maya texts executed in part or completely in fully animated signs are quite rare; examples can, for instance, be found in the inscriptional corpus at Copan, Quirigua, Yaxchilan, and Palenque. A recent study shows that the Oval Palace Tablet at Palenque was carved by nine or more distinctive artists; only one artist worked on the full-body signs (in six large composite sign groups) in this text (of, in total, 262 sign groups) that represented the introductory calendrical statement (Van Stone 2000). Was this artist the most accomplished and well-versed? Relative to these fully animated texts, in some cases even the most accomplished and well-educated epigrapher has difficulties in identifying each and every sign employed, due to either the uniqueness of the animated sign, the interaction of individual signs, or the presence of damage through erosion to pertinent detail.

the many faces of maya writing

63

Figure 7. The name phrase K’ak’ Tiliw Chan Chak at Naranjo: Naranjo Stela 22 (drawing by Ian Graham [Graham & Von Euw 1975: 55]).

64

erik boot

hand signs can be identified, each with a distinctive value. There is no other writing system that contains so many different signs that depict the human hand (Boot 2003a). Some of the hand signs occur frequently; depending on their skill, individual scribes and sculptors provided personal variation. Other hand signs are rare or even unique.51 Here I only illustrate a small sample of more easily recognizable hand shapes and gestures (Figure 8). The human hand is a versatile instrument and the Classic Maya seem to have explored many of the possible postures and gestures. Most common are hands as “fists,” “flat hands,” and “raised hands,” each with different values (although there are some cross-overs). Many of the values attached to these signs are derived from Maya words that describe the actual action performed by the hand. For instance, the sign for cha may be derived from chach, which means “handful” in Yucatec Maya. The sign for k’a may be derived from k’ab, which means “fist; closed hand” in Yucatec Maya, which exists next to the word k’ab, “hand,” common to nearly all Mayan languages.52 Other hand signs are C-shaped; the C-shaped hand can be turned up or down. Additionally there is a variety of human hands holding different objects, most of these signs are rare or even unique. A most intriguing sign is the hand holding a brush pen, or more neutral, a writing implement. This hand sign may be identified as TZ’IB, as suggested by various researchers (e.g., Stuart 1987: 2–3, Figure 3b). Sometimes Maya scribes became confused, employing the incorrect hand sign. In the Codex Dresden (Page 21, Section B3), the scribe wanted to write the word ibach “armadillo” and targeted a spelling ’i-ba-cha. The syllabic sign cha is a hand sign; he employed a visually very close sign, but which represented the value k’a (see Figure 8).

51

Of the set of 45 signs cataloged, 22.2% of the signs depict the left hand, 26.7% of the signs depict the right hand, 37.8% of the signs employ both hands, while in 13.3% the hand used could not be identified properly (Boot 2003a). In another essay I discussed left- and right-handedness in Classic Maya writing-painting contexts; in a survey of Maya scribes and painters as depicted in visual narratives on Classic Maya ceramic vessels, 19% are left-handed and 81% are right-handed. These percentages fall within the average percentages for left- and right-handedness all over the world (Boot 2003b). In recent research, the work of left-handed writer-painters has been identified in the painted murals within Structure 1 at Bonampak. 52 If correctly identified, these syllabic signs also evolved through a process of acrophony.

the many faces of maya writing

65

Figure 8. Classic Maya hand signs (after Boot 2003: Table [with correction]) (drawings in the table by various artists).

Final Remarks In this essay I presented various examples in which the substitution of different signs with the same value could be identified. Sometimes the sign was substituted by another comparable simple or abstract sign (note the signs for ma, Figure 3c–f), but, specifically in the context of name phrases Maya scribes sometimes employed distinctive cephalomorphic and full-body anthropomorphic and zoomorphic variants. For instance, the sign for YAX could be an abstract sign. It could be replaced by an

66

erik boot

anthropomorphic full-body variant, which can be identified as such, only based on a structural analysis of the name phrases themselves. Maya scribes not only provided variation in the sign inventory as employed in the name phrases of kings in hieroglyphic texts, hieroglyphic signs were also integrated into the iconographic portraits of a king to identify him without any ambiguity. Stela 22 at Naranjo provided a well-known example among Mayanists. The name of the king could be found twice, once (in one variant) in the hieroglyphic text and once in the headdress. Substitution was thus an important part of Maya writing, through which individual scribes and sculptors could display their masterful and versatile knowledge of both the language (e.g., through homonyms and other kinds of word play) and the writing system (e.g., graphic variation as well as full elaboration). In the case of the full-body or fully animated anthropomorphic and zoomorphic variants within the name phrases of kings, the Maya scribes and sculptors may even surpass their Egyptian counterparts. While individual Egyptian hieroglyphic signs could be playfully carried or taken in the hand by either a human or animal entity (e.g., examples at Deir el-Bahari, Abu Simbel, and Dendera; cf. Kaper 2005), none of these examples obtains the fully animated inmotion and lively character of their energetic and interactive Maya counterparts. Versatility in Maya writing could also be found in a specific category of signs, the signs that depict the human hand. No other writing system possessed or possesses such a large amount of signs depicting the human hand in such a range of different natural postures, gestures, and intricately related distinctive logographic or syllabic values. Maya writing may have been recorded in stone, murals, ceramics, and screenfold books for some 1900 years. Specifically during the late Classic period (circa 700–900 ce) Maya scribes and sculptors developed alternative ways to record the names of their kings and associated events. Writing thus became an act in which experienced, educated, and individually brilliant scribes and sculptors could boast of their knowledge of both language and writing. Through intricate graphic variation as well as skillful homophonic- and onomatopoetic-based sign substitution, these scribes and sculptors presented the many faces of Maya writing now known to us.

the many faces of maya writing

67

Acknowledgments I thank Alex de Voogt for his kind invitation to participate in the first seminar named “The Idea of Writing: Play in Writing.” Also I thank two anonymous reviewers for their comments on earlier versions of this essay. Any remaining mistakes or fallacies are the sole responsibility of the author. As always, unless otherwise noted, the opinions expressed in this essay are mine. References Aulie, W. & E. Aulie 1978. Diccionario ch’ol-español, español-ch’ol. Serie de vocabularios y diccionarios indígenas “Mariano Silva y Aceves,” Núm. 21. Instituto Lingüístico de Verano: México, D.F. Barrera Vásquez, A., et al. 1980. Diccionario Maya Cordemex. Ediciones Cordemex: Mérida, Yucatán, México. Boot, E. 1996. Notes on the Inscriptions of Xcalumkin, Campeche, Mexico. Yumtzilob, 8(2): 124–148. —— 1999a. Early Maya Hieroglyphic Writing: An Analysis of Text and Image of a Small Stela in the Ethnographic Museum in Antwerp, Belgium. Yumtzilob, 11(1): 105–116. —— 1999b. A New Naranjo Area Toponym: yo: tz. Mexicon, 21(2): 40–42. —— 2003a. The Human Hand in Classic Maya Hieroglyphic Writing. Mesoweb. URL: . —— 2003b. Left- and Right-Handedness in Classic Maya Writing-Painting Contexts. Mesoweb. URL: . —— 2004. The Nominal Yaxha(’al) Chaak on Classic Maya Ceramics and a Possible Cephalomorphic Variant for YAX. Mayavase.com Essays. URL: . —— 2006. Early Maya Writing on an Unprevenanced Monument: The Antwerp Stela. Mesoweb. URL: . Brasseur de Bourbourg, Abbé Ch. E. 1864. Relation des choses de Yucatán de Diego de Landa. Texte espagnol et traduction française en regard. Collection de documents dans les langues indigènes, tome 3. Arthus Bertrand, Éditeur: Paris. Bricker, V. R. 2004. Mayan. In R. D. Woodard (ed.), The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages, pp. 1041–1070. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Coe, M. D. 1992. Breaking the Maya Code. Thames & Hudson: New York. Coe, M. D. & M. Van Stone 2001. Reading the Maya Glyphs. Thames & Hudson: London. Cogolludo, Fr. D. López de 1971. [1688] Los tres siglos de la dominación española en Yucatan o sea historia de esta provincia. ADEVA: Graz, Austria. Facsimile of 1842–43 edition. Colas, P. R. 2004. Sinn und Bedeuting Klassischer Maya-Personennamen. Acta Mesoamericana 15. Verlag Anton Sauerwein: MarktSchwaben, Germany. Daniels, P. T. & W. Bright 1996. The World’s Writing Systems. Oxford University Press: New York & Oxford.

68

erik boot

Dienhart, J. M. 1989. The Mayan Languages: A Comparative Vocabulary. Three volumes. Odense University Press: Odense, Denmark. Edmonson, M. S. 1988. The Book of the Year. Middle American Calendrical Systems. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Estrada-Belli, F. 2002. Archaeological Investigations at Holmul, El Petén, Guatemala. Preliminary Results from the Third Season. Report submitted to FAMSI (Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc.). URL: . Förstemann, E. W. 1880. Die Mayahandschrift der Königlichen öffentlichen Bibliothek zu Dresden. Leipzig. —— 1886. Erläuterungen zur Mayahandschrift der Königlichen öffentlichen Bibliothek zu Dresden. Dresden. —— 1887–89. Zur Entzifferung der Mayahandschriften. Vols. 1–7. Bertling: Dresden. —— 1904. Aids to the Deciphering of the Maya Manuscripts. In Mexican and Central American Antiquities, Calendar Systems, and History, pp. 393–472. Bulletin No. 28. Bureau of American Ethnology: Washington, D.C. Graham, I. & E. Von Euw 1975. Naranjo. Corpus of Maya Hieroglyphic Inscriptions, Volume 2, Part 1. Peabody Museum, Harvard University: Cambridge, MA. Grube, N. 1990. Die Entwickelung der Mayaschrift. Acta Mesoamericana 3. Verlag Von Flemming: Möckmühl, Germany. Houston, S. D. 1984. An Example of Homophony in Maya Script. In American Antiquity, 49(4): 790–805. —— 1989. Archaeology and Maya Writing. Journal of World Prehistory, 3(1): 1–32. —— 2000. Into the Minds of Ancients: Advances in Maya Glyph Studies. Journal of World Prehistory, 14(2): 121–201. Houston, S. D., O. Chinchilla Mazariegos & D. Stuart 2001. The Decipherment of Ancient Maya Writing. University Press of Oklahoma: Norman. Houston, S. D., J. Robertson & D. Stuart 2000. The Language of Classic Maya Inscriptions. In Current Anthropology, 41(3): 321–356. Houston, S. D., D. Stuart & J. Robertson 1998. Disharmony in Maya Hieroglyphic Writing: Linguistic Change and Continuity in Classic Society. In A. C. Ruiz et al. (eds.), Anatomía de una civilización. Aproximaciones interdisciplinarias a la cultura maya, pp. 275–296. Sociedad Española de Estudios Mayas: Madrid. Justeson, J. S. 1989. The Representational Conventions of Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing. In D. S. Rice & W. F. Hanks (eds.), Word and Image in Maya Culture: Explorations in Language, Writing, and Representation, pp. 25–38. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Kaper, O. 2005. Playing around with the God’s Words II: principles of Egyptian cryptography. Paper presented at the 2005 Idea of Writing symposium, Leiden University, The Netherlands. Kaufman, T. (with the assistance of J. S. Justeson) 2003. A Preliminary Mayan Etymological Dictionary. Report submitted to FAMSI (Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc.). URL: . Kettunen, Harri J. & Christophe G. B. Helmke 2004. Introduction to Maya Hieroglyphs. Sixth edition (revised). Mesoweb Resources. URL: . Lacadena García-Gallo, A. 2003. The Glyphic Corpus of Ek’ Balam, Yucatán, México. Report submitted to FAMSI (Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc.). URL: . Lacadena García-Gallo, A. & S. Wichmann 2002. The Distribution of Lowland Maya Languages in the Classic Period. In V. Tiesler Blos et al. (eds.), La organización social entre los mayas. Memoria de la Tercera Mesa Redonda de Palenque, Volume II, pp. 277–319. Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia: Mexico, D.F.

the many faces of maya writing

69

Landa, fr. D. de 1566. Relación de las cosas de Yucatán. Manuscript. Biblioteca de la Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Copy produced in the late seventeenth, early eighteenth century. Looper, M. G. 2003. Lightning Warrior: Maya Art and Kingship at Quirigua. University of Texas Press: Austin. Lounsbury, F. 1982. Astronomical Knowledge and Its Uses at Bonampak, Mexico. In A. F. Aveni (ed.), Archaeoastronomy in the New World: American Primitive Astronomy, pp. 143–168. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. —— 1989. The Names of a King: Hieroglyphic Variants as a Key to Decipherment. In D. S. Rice & W. F. Hanks (eds.), Word and Image in Maya Culture: Explorations in Language, Writing, and Representation, pp. 25–38. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Macri, M. J. & M. G. Looper 2003. The New Catalog of Maya Hieroglyphs. Volume I: The Classic Period Inscriptions. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. Martin, S. 2001. Unmasking “Double Bird,” Ruler of Tikal. PARI Journal, 2(1): 1–6. Martin, S. & N. Grube 2000. Chronicle of the Maya Kings and Queens. Deciphering the Dynasties of the Ancient Maya. Thames & Hudson: London. Mathews, P. & M. Zender 1998. Notebook for the Kelowna Museum’s Second Annual Maya Hieroglyphic Workshop. Kelowna Centennial Museum: Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada. Milbrath, S. 1999. Star Gods of the Maya: Astronomy in Art, Folklore, and Calendars. University of Texas Press: Austin. Montgomery, J. 2000. How to Read Maya Glyphs. Hippocrene Books: New York. —— 2002. Dictionary of Maya Hieroglyphs. Hippocrene Books: New York. Mora-Marín, D. F. 2001. The Grammar, Orthography, Content, and Social Context of Late Preclassic Mayan Portable Texts. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. Department of Anthropology, State University of New York at Albany: Albany. Restall, M. & J. F. Chuchiak IV 2002. A Reevaluation of the Authenticity of Fray Diego de Landa’s Relación de las cosas de Yucatán. Ethnology, 49(3): 651–669. Stuart, D. 1987. Ten Phonetic Syllables. Research Reports on Ancient Maya Writing 14. Center for Maya Research: Washington, D.C. —— 1990. The Decipherment of “Directional Count Glyphs” in Maya Inscriptions. Ancient Mesoamerica, 1(2): 213–224. Stuart, G. 1988. A Guide to the Style and Content of the Research Reports on Ancient Maya Writing. Research Reports on Ancient Maya Writing 15, Special Supplement. Center for Maya Research: Washington, D.C. —— 1989. The Beginning of Maya Hieroglyphic Studies: Contributions of Constantine S. Rafinesque & James H. McCulloh, Jr. Research Reports on Ancient Maya Writing 29. Center for Maya Research: Washington, D.C. Taube, K. A. 1992. The Major Gods of Ancient Yucatan. Studies in Pre-Columbian Art & Archaeology 32. Dumbarton Oaks research Library and Collection: Washington, D.C. Thompson, J. E. S. 1962. A Catalog of Maya Hieroglyphs. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. Van Stone, M. 2000. Identifying Individual Hands in the Monuments of K’inich Ahkal Mo’ Naab of Palenque. Report submitted to FAMSI (Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc.). URL: . Vargas de la Peña, L., V. Castillo Borges & A. Lacadena García-Gallo 1999. Textos glíficos de Ek’ Balam (Yucatan, Mexico): Hallazgos de las temporadas de 1996–1998. Los investigadores de la cultura maya, 7(1): 172–187. Universidad Autónoma de Campeche: Campeche, Mexico. Webster, D. 1989. The House of the Bacabs: Its Social Context. In D. Webster (ed.), The House of the Bacabs, Copan, Honduras, pp. 5–40. Studies in Pre-Columbian Art & Archaeology 29. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection: Washington, D.C.

70

erik boot

Wichmann, S. (ed.) 2004. The Linguistics of Maya Writing. The University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Woodard, R. D. 2004. The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages. Camdridge University Press: Cambridge. Zimmermann, G. 1956. Die Hieroglyphen der Maya-Handschriften. Abhandelungen aus dem Gebiet der Auslandkunde, Band 62 – Reihe B (Völkerkunde, Kulturgeschichte und Sprachen) Band 34. Cram, De Gruyter & Co: Hamburg, Germany.

LOANWORDS

FROM GROUP-WRITING TO WORD ASSOCIATION: REPRESENTATION AND INTEGRATION OF FOREIGN WORDS IN EGYPTIAN SCRIPT Joachim Friedrich Quack Egyptian writing is traditionally a system which renders only consonants. As long as it uses words known to the readers and has enough mechanisms to avoid ambiguities, this is not likely to cause serious problems for the reader. Problems tend to arise, however, when new and unknown words appear. One area in which this is particularly likely to happen is foreign words, be they lexical items borrowed or, even more frequently, names of places and persons. Such items did not have a fixed traditional orthography. Since they appeared normally after the fixation of the Egyptian orthography, we would expect them to make use predominantly of one-consonantal signs in order make them easiest to recognize. Actually, this is the case only to some extent, whereas other factors additionally come into play. It is useful to separate the evidence chronologically, since during different times, quite different solutions were adopted. For the earlier periods, lexical loanwords are not distinguishable by their orthography from original Egyptian vocabulary – so much so that it is indeed disputed whether to consider some items as early loans or not. This is due to an actual debate raging about the phonetic correspondences between Egyptian and the Afro-Asiatic languages in general. Some crucial sounds are evaluated completely differently in the “traditional” school (e.g., Takács 1999) and the “Rößlerian” school (e.g., Quack 2002a, Schneider 2003b). The last one supposes, among other things, that Egyptian 颓 corresponds etymologically to the voiced dentals of the Semitic languages and only developed its quality as a laryngeal shortly before or in the Middle Kingdom. If one accepts this, word pairs showing a correspondence between Egyptian 颓 and Semitic ʿ and having a high-quality semantic fit could be picked up as Middle Kingdom loans (e.g., Schneider 2003: 194), whereas the traditional school would consider them to be genuinely Egyptian and proof against Rößlers ideas. Apart from those disputed cases, there is one fairly plausible loanword singled out recently. The word ı̓频ḳ.t “leek” corresponds to Semitic

74

joachim friedrich quack

yaraq, but the root is otherwise attested in Egyptian as w频č̣ “to be green”, and the initial sound ı̓ is typical for the north-west Semitic _ of the word shift w > y (Peust 1999: 108). The orthography ¬ is quite ordinary-looking, so much so that it took more than 150 years before anybody suspected it not to be genuinely Egyptian. It is written with one-consonantal signs but there are no two-consonantal signs that could have been used anyway. It is written with the appropriate determinative of an herb. Much more frequent, for the older times, are cases involving names. The question of how to write names from foreign languages might be almost as old as Egyptian writing itself. Actually, some people suspect that the famous palette of Nar-Meher, with its depiction of the triumph of the king over an enemy, already uses a combination of two hieroglyphs for writing his name. One of them is a two-consonantal sign (w 颓) mainly present in the Egyptian word for “one” and its derivatives. If the sequence is to be read phonetically, as w 颓š, in contrast to a possible inner-Egyptian interpretation as “harpoon-lake” or “one of the lake”, it could not be connected with any known root of the Egyptian language and so would be likely to attest the writing of a foreign name (cf. Morenz 2004: 183f.). With the later Old Kingdom, we are on safer ground. There we have names of non-Egyptian, probably Nubian, derivation on execration figurines (Abu Bakr & Osing 1973, Osing 1976, Quack 2002). Most of the signs used are just the one-consonantal ones, but some are more notable. Two-consonantal signs appear, even if relatively sparingly, and, in some cases, even Egyptian determinatives are used after soundsequences that could stand for Egyptian words typically determined with such a sign. For example, we have a sequence r-s determined by the sign normally used in the Egyptian root rs “to be awake”. A preliminary check indicates that the pluriconsonantal signs are used about to the degree realistically possible. Their rarity is not due to a conscious rejection, but to the basic fact that the sound sequences of the foreign names are too different from the normal Egyptian ones to allow for the possibility of using one out of the restricted amount of pluriconsonantal signs (of which by far not all theoretically possible combinations actually do exist in the Egyptian writing system). In a few cases, short Egyptian words consisting of only one sign are written as part of the name – by using the ideogram stroke this is made for nw or for rw (Abu Bakr & Osing 1973: very transparent; e.g., 104). In rare cases, longer Egyptian words are also used. We have a name

iatK

[

¸Ò

6Ò

from group-writing to word association

75

SÌauaaaaaatSi ś频ḥ频w频wh̠si. which incorporates as its first part the name of the constellation “Orion”, Eg. ś频ḥ. One group, the sign combination i¡ or Ò i that originally stands for 1

the interjection | “oh!”, is attested several times already in this corpus and likely to be one of the earliest cases where an inherent fixed vowel is intended to be represented; this group has a very long tradition in the Egyptian orthography of foreign words. Altogether, we have still a very low degree of precise indication of the vowels. The writing is not systematically different from that of Egyptian words and names; rather any difference is due almost exclusively to the fact that certain sound sequences that are normal in Egyptian are less normal in the foreign language – and vice versa. Much less secure is the interpretation that Schneider has proposed concerning a deity occurring several times in the pyramid texts and mentioned in connection with Byblos. It is written as ḫ颓y-t频w, using two-consonantal signs with normal phonetic complements. Even though it does not use any specific determinatives, it would be theoretically possible to analyze this sequence simply as Egyptian “he who appears burning”. Schneider has proposed that it is a phonetic rendering of Semitic ʿat̠taru reinterpreting it as Egyptian language (Schneider 2000). Such a case would be of considerable theoretical interest, given that it is a recurrent cultural tendency to adapt loan-words, if they can thus be given a seemingly normal derivation from within the borrowing language. A famous case is the German word “Hängematte”, which sounds like a derivation from “hängen” (to hang) and “Matte” (mat), but is, in fact, via the English “hammock”, derived from some American Indian language. Nevertheless, I remain a bit sceptical concerning Schneiders etymology; with the correspondence of ḫ to ʿ and 颓 to t̠ he has to postulate, even in the best of cases (with Rößler’s theories not only correct for the etymology but even valid for the actual pronunciation during the Old Kingdom) that there would be two fluctuations between voiced and voiceless consonants. For the Middle Kingdom at least, we have a considerable body of foreign personal and place names, especially from the so-called “execration texts”, which list the potential enemies of Egypt (Sethe 1926, Posener 1940, Posener 1987, Koenig 1990), but also from a lot of minor

1 The transliteration is based on the reasonable assumption that the group stands for a (pseudo)-pluralic 频w, not for 频频频.

aaa

76

joachim friedrich quack

monuments (Schneider 2003a: 112–176). They are from the Nubian as well as the Asiatic area; the first group, however, is more difficult to analyze because we lack a reliable basis for independent linguistic analysis; it is also in most cases the less numerous one. As a special treat, we even have some dog’s names attested on a stela of king Antef II (Schneider 2006). Some of them even have a translation into Egyptian. Again, we have mainly one-consonantal signs, but also two-consonantal ones with full regular complements, so the writing is not essentially different from the way an Egyptian name would be written. Trickier are the identifications proposed by Schneider (2002) for designations of rulers in the Middle Kingdom attested in the story of Sinuhe. If correct, that would make them the earliest Egyptian renderings of Hurrian and Luwian words. I am a bit sceptic because his as the city of Qaṭna involves identification of the writing a semantic difficulty. According to the text of the Sinuhe story, this is a place to which Sinuhe turns back after having been at Byblos; and the verb ḥsi̯ used in the text is otherwise known to have been used when the turning point of an expedition had been reached and it was returning to Egypt (Gardiner 1947: vol. 1, 159*). Applying this to the Sinuhe text would indicate the city is found to the south of Byblos, but Qaṭna is definitely to the north. In the corpus of Middle Kingdom renderings, one-consonantal values are more frequent, but a remarkably large amount (about 25) of twoand three-consonantal signs, mostly with phonetic complements, are present and actually used for sequences of two or three consonants (Sass 1991: 11–17, Hoch 1994: 487–501). In some cases, it seems, complete Egyptian words are used. One disputed group is worthy of special note. It is written like the Egyptian root 颓pr “equip”, including the typical sign with its phonetic complements. According to the most likely hypothesis, this sequence has become established for writing the Semitic word ʿabd “servant”, with the typical Middle Kingdom equivalence Egyptian r = Semitic d (See lastly Schneider 1992: 66–68; Schneider 1998: 35; Hoch 1994: 63–65, Zivie 1997: 120 versus Ryholt 1997: 127.). Besides those signs where all original consonantal values of the Egyptian sign are conserved as such, we also have some cases with signs containing a weak sound (half-vowel) as second element. In them, the second part (ı̓ or w) served for the rendering of vowels. Similarly, those two signs, ı̓ and w, as one-consonantal signs not only served to

∆d ¸ m'

g

from group-writing to word association

77

render the corresponding Semitic consonants, but also the vowels, with ı̓ normally standing for a, e and i, and w for u and o. Even within the body of such a system with a wide margin of applicability of the vowel indicators, the reliability, or at least the predictive force of those indications, seems relatively low. We have cases where Egyptian w seems to correspond to Semitic i or e, and also Egyptian ı̓ for Semitic u. Besides, even if we suppose that a as the most neutral (and in many languages, including Semitic, actually the most frequent) vowel is a default setting not in need of indication, we have neither a mark for each non-a vowel nor for the absence of a vowel. Consonantal sequences written with pluriconsonantal signs, unless they can be interpreted as specific Egyptian words with fixed pronunciation, would defy any attempt to indicate the vowels by their very nature, since such signs are, by the very system of the Egyptian writing, not exclusively used for any specific vowel (Schweitzer 2005: 59–63). Thus, any reading of the names exclusively on the basis of their writing without outside knowledge would give only a very poor imitation of the way they were actually to be pronounced. Summing up the evidence for the earlier periods, we can note that the writing of loan-words, as such, is so inconspicuous that no consensus has been reached by scholars to identify any certain case, although it would be most unlikely that none at all occurred. For names of places, peoples, and dogs, we have a writing system that uses mainly oneconsonantal signs, but does not shy away from two-consonantal ones whenever it is practical to use them. Short and sometimes even longer Egyptian words are used as parts of the writing and might be conditioned by a total or near-total similarity of sound. Otherwise, vowelindication is relatively sparse and mainly reduced to occasional hints of an i or u, which would set a as the default vowel. By the very signs they use, there is nothing in the writing which makes these names prima facie stand out very consciously against normal Egyptian words. In some ways, the New Kingdom is the high point of writing foreign words – or at least of modern discussions about their writing. It shows considerable change as compared to the Middle Kingdom, and most of the formative phases must have taken place during the Second Intermediate Period and the early eighteenth dynasty. The amount of words and names written in this orthography is fairly high – many hundred different items are on repertoire for the Asiatic area alone (Schneider 1992; Hoch 1994). A large number of place-names

78

joachim friedrich quack

are attested in well-known monumental lists; school-texts sometimes abound in exotic vocabulary, and also the everyday vocabulary contains items of unquestionably foreign origin. For the analysis of the graphic system, at the moment only a part of them are useable, namely those connected with the north. This is due to the fact that, for the south, we have no independent tradition for the localities and personal names which would allow us to establish their pronunciation. Equally, for northern loanwords from non-Semitic languages other than Hittite or early Greek, we normally do not understand the donor languages well enough to make an independent analysis. Besides the single words, we now have even longer texts written in foreign language. One famous school text, the so-called satirical letter preserved, e.g., in pAnastasi I, has a few Semitic expressions and even a whole sentence. By far the most substantial of the foreign-language texts, however, come from magical handbooks, in which some spells make use of phrases or even complete incantations, some probably in Semitic languages (Schneider 1989; Steiner 1992), others purportedly in Cretan (Haider 2004). Their understanding is still far from perfect. There is evidence that the Egyptians actively studied foreign languages. At least in the case of Akkadian, this happened typically in the medium of cuneiform writing (Izre’el 1997). The use of determinatives for foreign words is normally quite in line with their real semantic area. It has gained little scholarly attention. For personal names, we have quite often the specific determinative of the throw-stick , plus of course the seated man or woman. For for “desert, place-names, the throw-stick combined with the sign foreign country” is usual. For lexical loans, the determinative is chosen according to its meaning. There is one notable point, however, when it comes to transcribing whole sequences of foreign text. In those case, where we can be by no means sure if the Egyptian scribe understood the semantic meaning of what he said, different procedures were used. In the spell written in Cretan language, hardly any determinatives at all are used and the only ones occurring are visibly derived from the association of short Egyptian words serving to write parts of the phonetic sequence. In the spell from the magical papyrus Harris, we have the sign of the throw-stick followed by a slash as a unique determinative ( ) – no longer serving as a signal of specific meaning, but only as a word-divider plus an indication that this is foreign. Much more studied is the phonetic side. The so-called “syllabic” writing is at the heart of all recent contributions. Basically, we have a system of writing which no longer uses the long-established one-

‘

‘B

'

from group-writing to word association

79

consonantal values which are normal for ordinary Egyptian words. Instead, we have totally new sets. On the one hand, they use original two-consonantal signs where the second consonant is weak. Mainly, the weak sounds are 频, ı̓ and w – here we have an important difference form the earlier systems in that the sound 频, which was still a strong sound in the Middle Kingdom (used for rendering Semitic r and l), lost , its consonantal value by the New Kingdom. Thus, e.g., the sign originally a two-consonantal sign for š频, came to be used for š followed facultatively by a vowel. In cases where no two-consonantal sign exists, the one-consonantal sign can be combined with the one-consonantal sign of the weak sound in question (most frequently with 频), thus, e.g., , originally h频, simply for h – an important and often-overlooked part of the system of syllabic orthography. For this set, it is possible to establish a complete inventory where every possible sound of the Egyptian language can be combined with any of the weak consonants. We also have writings that by themselves could serve to express short Egyptian words. Highly notable is that the use of pluriconsonantal signs for foreign words drops dramatically. We still have some (plus some cases where complete words rather than pluriconsonantal signs with complements might be involved), but their use is sparse and most of them are attested only once or twice (Helck 1989: 138–143). Since this writing is considerably different from what is normally used for indigenous Egyptian words, and since it uses generally more signs, it should be possible to include added information, and this information should concern specifically the vowels. There are indeed some writings that can easily be identified and that encourage an inquiry in these lines. We have, for example, the expression čpr yṭ颓, which is likely to correspond to Hebrew ‫יֺֹד ַע‬ ֵ ‫ סו ֵֺפר‬sopher yodeʿa and probably even a translation of the Egyptian expression sẖ 频.w spṭ ḥr “knowledgeable scribe” that occurs otherwise in the same text (Fischer-Elfert 1986: 152). This would show that the vowel o is rendered, at least facultatively, by the Egyptian w, and e by Egyptian ı̓. In reality, things are far from easy. We have some highly promising and suggestive writings as well as many that are less convincing or even downright contrary to the theoretical assumptions. Scholarship has been on a zigzag course for decades. Sometimes people preferred the neatness of the possibilities and looked for helping hypotheses in order to get away with the problems, sometimes they verged towards declaring the system as simply not working. Some notable scholars have tried

Q

2a

E‘¡ ¥ Ø‘¡y d YÈ ›}¬arÒ

80

joachim friedrich quack

to establish the rules (e.g., Albright 1934; Helck 1971: 539–575; Helck 1989), and theoretically-minded scholars were keen to save them and put them into theoretical models (e.g., Schenkel 1986), while others saw the counter-examples and wanted to abandon the idea of reliable vowel indications for many groups in question (e.g., Edel 1966: 61–90; Schneider 1992: 360–402; Zeidler 1993). Some scholars have even had the courage to study details of Canaanite morphology of the later second millennium from these Egyptian renderings (Sivan & Cochavi-Rainey 1992; Hoch 1994: 438–459). Still, in those studies we sometimes get remarks in the line of “the u of the group t̠u, although misplaced, is characteristic of the passive” (Hoch 1994: 130). While admittedly, it is challenging to do such studies, and would enrich our knowledge of Early North-West Semitic considerable, I reluctantly point out that these very specialists who have undertaken these morphological studies have not sufficiently addressed the crucial issue of how unambiguously the Egyptian orthographies can be interpreted as far as the vowels are concerned. The most theoretically detailed interpretation was given by Schenkel (1986). He tried to establish three different principles at work in the writings. The first is the “Devanagari principle”. Here, Schenkel assumes that, as in Indian writing, a basic group stands for the consonant with either the vowel a or no vowel, or a reduced ə in a closed syllable. Other vowels are marked by adding specific signs (originally for the semi-vowels) to this group. The second is the “cuneiform principle” where signs (especially short Egyptian words) are given a fixed syllabic value. E.g., the sequence ı̓n-ı̓w , originally a question particle, has the value of nu. Finally, there is the “consonantal writing” where no vowel at all is indicated. The coexistence of three different systems obviously creates confusion, especially as several groups could be interpreted in different ways depending on which principle would be considered relevant for the actual word. The main problem of all this is that even the most elaborated theoretical model will ultimately fail to produce a predictive reading, i.e., one which would allow the reader to pronounce in an approximately correct fashion a word he did not know beforehand. In order to illustrate the supposed functioning of the syllabic writing system, I will present the possible indications of vowels in a syllable beginning by a b which is expressed in hieroglyphs by the sign of the leg . According to the “Devanagari-system”, you could add 频, ı̓频, ı̓ or

i√i}

Ù

from group-writing to word association

Ùa

ÙYia

81

ÙY

for ba, for be, for w as vowel indicators, thus for bu. But according to the “cuneiform system”, for bi you bi, would use (derived from the Egyptian word bi频 “soul”) while this same group, if used in the “Devanagari-system”, would count as an alternative way of writing ba. Helck has tried to establish a coherent set of rules for all groups used, but he had to use some basic assumptions which make his system flawed. According to him, unstressed syllables are so reduced in pronunciation that almost any vowel would be acceptable for them; and besides, metathesis of vowels should be a relatively frequent phenomenon; e.g., the well-known Levantine city of Ugarit should, according to his theories, have been pronounced as *Akurit by the Egyptians (Helck 1989: 129–134). Rather disappointing results also came to light by the recent studies of Schneider (1992: 360–402), who concentrated on personal names, and Zeidler (1993), who looked for Coptic renderings of words written in syllabic writing in the New kingdom. Both came to the conclusion that only a very limited amount of the groups actually used could be given a clear vocalic value. We have still to see whether this is the final word or whether studies, which are more fine-tuned chronologically, or which are prepared to accept more variants as secondary scribal error, will finally re-establish more successful principles of vowel rendering in the Egyptian New Kingdom syllabic orthography. The question of chronological development might end up being of special importance because, in the Later New Kingdom and Third Intermediate Period, important shifts in the pronunciation of the vowels came about in the Egyptian language and they would obviously affect any system of writing aiming at rendering vowels. One important point has to be stressed: While the syllabic writing is used in most cases for foreign words (loans or transcriptions of names), not all foreign words are affected by syllabic writing nor is syllabic writing confined to them. On the one hand, several words of obvious Semitic derivation are written in traditional Egyptian orthography with ordinary one-consonantal signs even in the New Kingdom. We have, however, to reckon with the possibility that quite a few of them are actually early loans, e.g., from the Middle Kingdom, which only now are positively attested in the preserved record. On the other hand, some Egyptian words also came to be written in the syllabic writing. Opinions are still debated as to whether those were only the ones

Ù} Ò ˙

82

joachim friedrich quack

which, for some reason, felt foreign to the Egyptians, those for which the traditional orthography was lost or had never existed, or whether the scribes simply had a fancy for syllabic signs and wanted to impress their teachers (cf. e.g., Janssen 1865–66: 443–444; Ward 1981: 371–373). I personally have some suspicions that, at least in some cases, there were deep-seated reasons for applying the new orthography. I would like to single out a verb occurring mainly in Late Egyptian mJ (š-m). Originally, school texts and written syllabically as this has been considered to be a verb of its own with the meaning “to whirl around”. Later, reasons were brought forward to consider it, in fact, as a rewriting of the traditional Egyptian word šm “to go” (cf. Ward 1981: 371–373; differently Tacke 2001: 64f.). However, I do not see it as a simple fancy orthography but as a deliberate choice in order to make an important point. In the verb šm, during the New Kingdom, some irregular phonetic progress brought about the dropping of the m, e.g., in Coptic we have the form ϣϵ. However, some demotic writings with alphabetical signs convey clearly that there was a high-register pronunciation of the word that artificially retained the m (Smith 1987: 91; Smith 1993: 61). The New Kingdom syllabic orthography is likely to be understood the same way, that is to show the scribe’s intention at marking specifically this slightly antiquated pronunciation (Quack 1994: 145). So we are left with the well-known open questions. The New Kingdom system is by no means completely new. Occasional cases of using short Egyptian words, or reducing the second part of a two-consonantal sign to a vocalic value if it was a weak half-vowel, are positively attested in the Old and Middle Kingdom. Also, the use of the one-consonantal signs of the weak consonants for vowel indication already occurs by then. But there it is a comparatively rare phenomenon, whereas it is much more frequent in the New Kingdom, so much so, that for this period, it produces a notable difference in writing. Even if Egyptian words also came to be written in it, syllabic writing is so much more frequently attested with foreign words that the normal reaction of a scholar who encounters a difficult or unknown word rendered by it would be to look up the Semitic dictionaries for possible candidates. We can suppose that such an elaborate system did not come about by a whim, and, by far the most logical assumption is that its intent was to provide a better indication of the vowels. However, it might have failed by its desire for perfection, which made it create too many subrules and which overburdened the scribes with requirements that most of them could not implement.

Qa ¡

from group-writing to word association

83

The Late Period poses quite different problems, although by no means less interesting, even if much less intensely debated. One point is to be noted immediately: Many of the old “syllabic” writings with original two-consonantal signs having a weak second consonant have become the origin of the basic one-consonantal signs in free use in the Demotic script. As such, they obviously are no longer in any way fixed to a particular vocalisation. Since such a state is likely to have had a prehistory of development, this in itself might go some way towards explaining the problems in the analysis of New Kingdom syllabic writing. The system was not stable in itself, but changed over time, and excluding late material, especially from texts of post-dynasty 20, should be imperative for any serious study of the New Kingdom syllabic orthography. This new development means that contrary to the state in the New Kingdom, the difference between hereditary Egyptian words and foreign loans is no longer hinted at by the graphic system itself. One particular case in the Late Period are texts written in demotic script but exclusively for rendering a foreign language. The most famous demotic text of this type is pAmherst 63 (See, e.g., Vleeming & Wesselius 1982; 1983–84; 1985; Nims & Steiner 1982; Steiner & Nims 1984; Steiner 1991; Kottsieper 1997a; Kottsieper 1997b.). This is a text in demotic script but Aramaic language. Such a constellation creates interesting phenomena. On the one hand, several important phonetic distinctions cannot be rendered at all, especially in most cases the distinction between voiced and voiceless consonants. On the other hand, several distinctions, namely that between ḥ and ḫ as well as that between ʿ and ġ not expressed in regular Aramaic script, turn up consistently in this text and thus show that they were still present in the spoken language. In general, the text uses the normal demotic one-consonantal signs, but there are about 20 non-alphabetic groups present. Most of them are actually short demotic words. A question that has not yet been verified by any scholar but that would certainly be worth a try is whether any of them can be fixed to a specific vowel corresponding to that of the demotic word in question. At least, it would seem a bit surprising if they were used without such a reason. We have, for example, the group for silver (Demotic ḥč̣) of which the actual pronunciation should be about *ḥet,2 or the god Mn for which a form *mīn can be assumed.

2 This is supposing that the dialect of the demotic relevant here is closer to Akhmimic than to Saidic in the vocalism.

84

joachim friedrich quack

Some groups are a bit more complicated, such as one interpreted by Nims and Steiner as originally being hn, but used mostly for simple h (Steiner & Nims 1984: 90–92), while Kottsieper thinks that it is a ligature of h and r, which, due to the fact that Egyptian r in final position was dropped from pronunciation, could also be used for the combination of h and vowel (Kottsieper 1997b: 399–406). I cannot follow Kottsieper. Firstly, the Demotic writing does not use such a ligature. Secondly, an original Egyptian r dropped from pronunciation would no longer be written with an r-sign in Demotic orthography. Equally problematic is the proposal to interpret a highly disputed divine name in the text. It is written as if it is a combination of demotic 频 and the group for the god Horus.3 Kottsieper has proposed to interpret this as writing for El. According to him, it would be modelled on the demotic writing of the preposition r before a suffix as r-ḥr or ı̓-ḥr, whereas the phonetic realization was something like er or el (Kottsieper 1988: 225f.; Kottsieper 1997a: 54f.). While I admit that I do not have any better positive proposal, and even though I concur with him in the refusal of Zauzich’s effort (1985) to interpret the writing as “Jahwe”, I cannot accept his argumentation. In the first place, the Demotic writing of the preposition uses only the form of the word “face”, never that of the divine name “Horus”, which has a distinctly different form in Demotic.4 Secondly, it is followed by no suffix at all. Finally, never in demotic orthography would the first sign of this combination be written as 频 instead of ı̓ or r. No one trained in Demotic orthography would ever have guessed that he had to pronounce such a group as *El.5 Among the vowels, the signs for i and e are fairly easy to identify and correspond to the normal demotic groups, but there is one huge problem. One of the most frequent signs in the text is the one that in demotic serves to write 频. In demotic writing, this has no longer a consonantal value. It is probably used for the indication of vowels, especially for a and e, and occurs as such in the demotic renderings of Greek words. However, most Semitists are not happy with the results of applying this to papyrus Amherst 63, because they think that such an 3 In my opinion, the group can only be analyzed as the writing of the god’s name, not as that of the word ḥr “face” or w频ḥ “to add”. 4 Kottsieper 1997a, 55 no. 115 cites Erichsen 1950, II 76 as example, but there Erichsen gives only a phonetic transliteration without indicating the form of the groups. 5 Actually, the evidence of the Coptic dialects would even indicate that the original form of the preposition before the suffix was *ar rather than *er.

from group-writing to word association

85

interpretation would run counter to all received theories about Aramaic pronunciation in the fourth century bc. Up to now, only Kottsieper has tried to take the all vowel indications seriously. Additionally, we have determinatives. One of them, in principle the sign for the man with the hand to his mouth, serves regularly as a worddivider. Others are fairly rare, but seem, at least in part, to be due to phonetic similarities between the Aramaic word and an Egyptian word typically written with this determinative (Steiner & Nims 1984: 91). A magical charm against scorpions written down in Early Demotic script in the Wadi Hammamat (Vittmann 1984) might contain a similar writing system, although it is still disputed to which extent it can really be read as Semitic (thus Steiner 2001) or might also contain purely magical gibberish (cf. Vittmann 2003: 119). Semitic loan-words in Demotic do occur, but it is likely that quite a few are not recent borrowings but are handed over from the New Kingdom (Vittmann 1996). Their writing is quite consistently alphabetic and with the appropriate determinative for their semantic class. The same goes for Persian words and names (Azzoni & Lippert 2000; Vittmann 2004). There is a fairly large corpus of Greek personal names rendered in Demotic script, especially from the Ptolemaic Period onwards. They permit to establish rather regular sets of correspondences between Greek sounds and demotic renderings (Clarysse & van der Veken 1983: 133–165). Vowel indication in those name-renderings is rather sparse. Only the vowels i and u are marked in the majority of the cases by demotic y and w. This does not even constitute a really special case for the foreign words because in Demotic words written with one-consonantal signs, specifically for long i and u, indicating them by those signs is an optional possibility. Normally, those names are written exclusively with the one-consonantal signs of the demotic script, but there are exceptions. In demotic, we have the word 颓ngên “vessel”, Greek ἀγγείον that uses as a first element the two-consonantal group 颓n (actually used in the word “again”). One case in hieroglyphic writing has recently been proposed where a name actually standing for Zenon would be written as snn by using the twoconsonantal sign sw or the two-consonantal sign sn followed by the group of three nw-vessels (Engsheden 2006). For loan-words other than names, we have a rather limited amount of Greek loan-words. A study arrived at an amount of a bit fewer than

86

joachim friedrich quack

a hundred items, but it has to be stressed that the number is likely to have been substantially higher during the Roman time, especially as two technical texts with a large number of loanwords, one magical, the other medical, were deliberately excluded from the count (Clarysse 1987). Rarely are demotic foreign words written with the group for an indigenous word used as part of it. There is only one very notable case: The rendering of the Greek συγγενής “relative” that was used as a high title at the Ptolemaic royal court. This was sometimes written using the demotic group for sn “brother”, followed by writing gns with standard one-consonantal values (Spiegelberg 1917: 128f.; Clarysse 1987: 15). The literal meaning “brother” of the first element certainly contributed to its choice in preference to a simple phonetic rendering of the first syllable. Even more remarkable are other forms of this word attested mainly in contemporary hieratic texts, but exceptionally also in demotic. There, we have a rendering as sn n mhw.t “brother of the family” (Möller 1913: 24* no. 156). This might seem obvious enough as a semantic rendering but is likely to be inspired by the phonetic form of the Greek word. Even more freely adapted are renderings as sn-nsw “the king’s brother”. Among the non-Greek loanwords in the demotic texts, we can point to the frequent word kwr as a designation of the Nubian ruler which is generally identified as Meroitic kore (Sauneron & Yoyotte 1952: 183–187; Verhoeven & Derchain 1985: 37). In older Egyptian texts, this is treated like any normal loan-word. In Demotic, however, it is typically written with the one-consonantal sign for k followed by the group for wr “the great one”. We can suppose that the appropriateness of such a semantic association contributed to its use. In all those cases, loanwords are not immediately recognizable from their writing. The great preponderance of using only one-consonantal signs obviously makes them a bit special, but such an orthography is equally possible for original Egyptian words. If anything, their phonetic structure can render them conspicuous. A special case, quite apart from the rest, are Demotic renderings in late-demotic magical manuscripts. In those, we have an intense fluctuation in language and script (see Quack 2004; Dieleman 2005). Very often, incantations are transposed into the medium of demotic script from a model written in Greek – regardless of the ultimate origin of the formulae, which can be Egyptian or Greek or Semitic or, mostly, a mingling of all of them. But regardless of their linguistic origin, most are treated as “loans”, i.e., transcribed phonetically on the basis of their

from group-writing to word association

87

Greek spelling. They adhere much more slavishly to their model than the Ptolemaic renderings, e.g., the aspiration of word-initial Greek ρ, or of the sounds φ and χ, is practically always indicated. There is a system of rendering of even the vowels in their actual pronunciation that makes this quite like a one-to-one correspondence, i.e., from the Demotic form, the Greek form can be inferred even when it is not given as a supralinear gloss (in most cases, it is). Notable is the handling of the determinatives. In this papyrus, we have practically all of the words in question with a final divine determinative as if they were felt by the Egyptian scribe to all represent the names of higher powers – even though not all of them actually do in an etymological sense. Much rarer are Greek loanwords in Graeco-Roman hieroglyphic temple inscriptions. This has given rise to some discussions as to whether this was a deliberate purism, perhaps with a political prejudice against the Greeks (cf. Peust 2000: 251; Knigge 2004: 70–72). More probably, this is simply due to the fact that most of those texts, even though written down in the Ptolemaic Period, are based on much older archetypes from a time before contacts with Greece and its vocabulary became really intense. There is, however, one often-commented upon word, namely 颓rḳ-wr, which designates a metal and is generally assumed to be derived from Greek ἀργυρός “silver” (Wilson 1997: 167f.). The Egyptian orthography makes use of purely Egyptian words for the rendering, and the writing could be interpreted as something like “great bend one”. If this really is derived from Greek, it would be a clear case of inner-Egyptian reanalysis including a phonetic shift that introduced the 颓 at the beginning of the word (a sound which does not exist in the Greek language). Concerning the mechanisms at work in creating special systems for writing foreign words, I would like to comment systematically on one point that might easily get lost on modern-day man. One of the driving factors of developing a system of writing for foreign words with efforts at indicating the vowels was magic, or at least ritual in a wider context. Of the earliest renderings of foreign names on a large scale, most came from execration figurines used by the Egyptians in official magical rituals. In the New Kingdom, the longer sequences of purely foreign words occur in magical handbooks, and this becomes even more pronounced in the late demotic papyri. There is a logical reason for it. The system of magic relied to a large extent on the correct use of formulae, tending to circumscribe ever more closely what to use if one wanted to succeed in one’s endeavour. Strangeness of the

88

joachim friedrich quack

formulae in itself was not a liability; it even could become an asset. For example, in a spell aimed at producing visions of the gods delivering messages, reciting a weird formula several times, often in dark rooms heavy with smoke of incense, would help to produce an altered state of mind actually resulting in visions. In magic, there never were prejudices against foreigners as such; rather a deep-seated suspicion that foreigners might be better at it (Koenig 1987). Thus, on the one hand, borrowing foreign formulae was encouraged; on the other hand, such borrowings often entailed preserving them in their original state of proven efficiency, not to translate them with the risk of destroying their power. This, more than anything else, would have been a driving force behind efforts to create a writing system capable of rendering also the vowels in an unambiguous way. All that I have presented up to now concerns cases where the foreign word was adapted to the writing in the Egyptian script; and this is certainly what the norm was. There is, however, one important group of texts where things are quite different. In the ostraca from Narmouthis (nowadays Medinet Madi) in the Fayum, which came from the late second and third century ad (Bresciani, Pernigotti, Betro 1983; Gallo 1997; Menchetti 2005), we have a percentage of Greek words in the demotic texts that far surpasses that of any other Demotic texts – probably a question of the historic development of the Demotic language, which absorbed many Greek loanwords in the Roman Imperial time. Those are not adapted to the Egyptian writing system. Instead, they retained their original Greek writing and as such stood out very much against the rest of the text – including the different direction of writing. That is, of course a short and transient state. Finally, the Greek writing, which is here still the isolated odd word, dominates, and we get Coptic with a basically Greek writing (plus a few taken from Demotic for sounds not present in Greek), which again uses the same alphabet for Egyptian words and Greek loans. References Abu Bakr, A. M. & Osing, J. 1974. Ächtungstexte aus dem Alten Reich, Mitteilungen des deutschen archäologischen Instituts Abteilung Kairo 29: 97–133, pl. 31–56. Albright, W. F. 1934. The Vocalisation of the Egyptian Syllabic Orthography, American Oriental Series 6, American Oriental Society: New Haven. Azzoni, A. & Lippert, S. L. 2000. An Achaemenid Loanword in the Legal Code of Hermopolis: 频bykrm, Enchoria 26: 20–30. Bresciani, E., S. Pernigotti & M. C. Betrò 1983, Ostraka demotici da Narmuti I (nn. 1–33). Giardini editori e stampatori: Pisa.

from group-writing to word association

89

Clarysse, W. 1987. Greek Loan-Words in Demotic. In S. P. Vleeming (ed.), Aspects of Demotic Lexicography. Acts of the Second International Conference for Demotic Studies Leiden, 19–21 September 1984, Studia Demotica 1, Peeters: Leuven, pp. 9–33. Clarysse, W. & van der Veken, G. with the assistance of S. Vleeming 1983. The Eponymous Priests of Ptolemaic Egypt. Chronological Lists of the Priests of Alexandria and Ptolemais with a Study of the Demotic Transcription of their Names, Papyrologia Lugduno-Batava 24. Brill: Leiden. Dieleman, J. 2005. Priests, Tongues, and Rites. The London-Leiden Magical Manuscripts and Translation in Egyptian Ritual (100–300 ce), Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 153. Brill: Leiden, Boston. Edel, E. 1966: Die Ortsnamenlisten aus dem Totentempel Amenophis III., Bonner biblische Beiträge 25, Peter Hanstein Verlag: Bonn. Engsheden, Å. 2006. Zenon, è vero? Zur Lesung eines frühptolemäischen Personennamens, Göttinger Miszellen 208: 13–18. Erichsen, W. 1950. Auswahl frühdemotischer Texte. Ejnar Munksgaard: Kopenhagen. Fischer-Elfert, H.-W. 1986. Die satirische Streitschrift des Papyrus Anastasi I. Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 44. Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden. Gallo, P. 1997. Ostraca demotici e ieratici dall’archivio bilingue di Narmouthis II (nn. 34–99). Edizione ETS: Pisa. Gardiner, A. H. 1947. Ancient Egyptian Onomastica. Oxford University press: London a.o. Haider, P. W. 2004. Minoische Sprachdenkmäler in einem ägyptischen Papyrus medizinischen Inhalts. In Th. Schneider (Hrsg.), Das Ägyptische und die Sprachen Vorderasiens, Nordafrikas und der Ägäis. Akten des Basler Kolloquiums zum ägyptisch-nichtsemitischen Sprachkontakt Basel 9.–11. Juli 2003, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 310, Ugarit-Verlag: Münster, pp. 411–422. ——. 1971. Die Beziehungen Ägyptens zu Vorderasien im 3. und 2. Jahrtausend v. Chr. Second edition Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 5. Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden. Helck, W. 1989. Grundsätzliches zur sog. „syllabischen Schreibung“, Studien zur altägyptischen Kultur 16: 121–143. Hoch, J. E. 1994. Semitic Words in Egyptian Texts of the New Kingdom and Third Intermediate Period. Princeton University Press: Princeton, NJ. Janssen, J. J. 1965–66. Semitic Loanwords in Egyptian Ostraca, Jaarbericht van het vooraziatisch-egyptisch Genootschap “Ex Oriente Lux” 19: 443–484. Izre’el, Sh. 1997. The Amarna Scholarly Tablets, Cuneiform Monographs 9, Groningen: Styx Publications. Knigge, C. 2004. Sprachkontakte und lexikalische Interferenz im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtausend. In Th. Schneider (ed.), Das Ägyptische und die Sprachen Vorderasiens, Nordostafrikas und der Ägäis. Akten des Basler Kolloquiums zum ägyptisch-nichtsemitischen Sprachkontakt Basel 9.–11. Juli 2003, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 310, Ugarit-Verlag: Münster, pp. 33–88. Koenig, Y. 1987. La Nubie dans les textes magiques. « L’inquiétante étrangeté », Revue d’égyptologie 38: 105–110. ——. 1990. Les textes d’envoûtement de Mirgissa, Revue d’égyptologie 41: 101–125. Kottsieper, I. 1988. Anmerkungen zu Pap. Amherst 63. I. 12,11–19 – eine aramäische Version von Psalm 20, Zeitschrift für alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 100: 217–244. ——. 1997a. El – ferner oder naher Gott? Zur Bedeutung einer semitischen Gottheit in verschiedenen sozialen Kontexten im 1. Jtsd.v.Chr. In R. Albertz, S. Otto (eds.), Religion und Gesellschaft. Studien zu ihrer Wechselwirkung in den Kulturen des Antiken Vorderen Orients. Veröffentlichungen des Arbeitskreises zur Erforschung der Religions- und Kulturgeschichte des Antiken Vorderen Orients (AZERKAVO), Band 1, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 248, Ugarit-Verlag: Münster, pp. 25–74. ——. 1997b. Anmerkungen zu Pap. Amherst 63, Teil II–V, Ugarit-Forschungen 29: 385–434.

90

joachim friedrich quack

Menchetti, A. 2005. Ostraka demotici e bilingui da Narmuthis (ODN 100–188). Biblioteca di studi egittologici diretta da Edda Bresciani 5. Edizione ETS: Pisa. Möller, G. 1913. Die beiden Totenpapyrus Rhind des Museums zu Edinburg. J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung: Leipzig. Morenz, L. 2004. Bild-Buchstaben und symbolische Zeichen. Die Herausbildung der Schrift in der hohen Kultur Altägyptens, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 205. Academic Press Friburg/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: Freiburg (Switzerland)/Göttingen. Nims, Ch. F. & Steiner, R. C. 1983. A Paganized Version of Psalm 20: 2–6 from the Aramaic Text in Demotic Script, Journal of the American Oriental Society 103: 261–274. Peust, C. 1999. Egyptian Phonology. An Introduction to the Phonology of a Dead Language. Monographien zur ägyptischen Sprache 2. Peust & Gutschmidt Verlag: Göttingen. ——. 2000. Über ägyptische Lexikographie. 1. Zum Ptolemaic Lexicon von Penelope Wilson, 2. Versuch eines quantitativen Vergleichs der Textkorpora antiker Sprachen, Lingua Aegyptia 7: 245–260. Posener, G. 1940. Princes et pays d’Asie et de Nubie. Textes hiératiques sur des figurines d’envoûtement du Moyen Empire. Fondation égyptologique Reine Élisabeth: Brussels. ——. 1987. Cinq figurines d’envoûtement. Bibliothèque d’Étude 101. Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale: Cairo. Quack, J. F. 1994. Die Lehren des Ani. Ein neuägyptischer Weisheitstext in seinem kulturellen Umfeld. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 141. Universitätsverlag Freiburg/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: Freiburg (Switzerland)/Göttingen. ——. 2002a. Zur Stellung des Ägyptischen innerhalb der afroasiatischen Sprachen, Orientalistische Literaturzeitung 97, col. 161–185. ——. 2002b. Some Old Kingdom Execration Figurines from the Teti Cemetery, Bulletin of the Australian Centre of Egyptology 13: 149–160, pl. 25. ——. 2004. Griechische und andere Dämonen in den demotischen magischen Texten. In Th. Schneider (Hrsg.), Das Ägyptische und die Sprachen Vorderasiens, Nordafrikas und der Ägäis. Akten des Basler Kolloquiums zum ägyptisch-nichtsemitischen Sprachkontakt Basel 9.–11. Juli 2003, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 310. UgaritVerlag: Münster, pp. 427–507. Ryholt, K. S. B. 1997. The Political Situation of Egypt during the Second Intermediate Period c. 1800–1550 bc, Carsten Niebuhr Institute Publications 20. Museum Tusculanum Press: Copenhagen. Sass, B. 1991. Studia alphabetica. On the Origin and Early History of the Northwest Semitic, South Semitic and Greek Alphabets, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 102, Universitätsverlag Freiburg/Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: Freiburg (Switzerland) / Göttingen. Sauneron, S. & Yoyotte, J., 1952. La campagne nubienne de Psammétique II et sa signification historique. Bulletin de l’Institut Française d’Archéologie Orientale 50 : 157–207, pl. 1–4. Schenkel, W. 1986. Article „syllabische Schreibung“. In W. Helck & W. Westendorf (eds.), Lexikon der Ägyptologie, Band VI. Stele-Zypresse. Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden, col. 114–122. Schneider, Th. 1989. Mag. p. Harris XII, 1–5. Eine kanaanäische Beschwörung für die Löwenjagd?, Göttinger Miszellen 112: 53–63. ——. 1992. Asiatische Personennamen in ägyptischen Quellen des Neuen Reiches, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 114, Universitätsverlag Freiburg/Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: Freiburg/Göttingen. ——. 1998. Ausländer in Ägypten während des Mittleren Reiches und der Hyksoszeit, Teil 1. Die ausländischen Könige, Ägypten und Altes Testament 42. Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden.

from group-writing to word association

91

——. 2000. Wer war der Gott „Chajtau“? In K. M. Cialowicz, Les civilisations du Bassin Méditerranéen. Hommages Joachim Śliwa. Instytut archeologii UJ: Cracow, pp. 215–220. ——. 2002. Sinuhes Notiz über die Könige. Syrisch-anatolische Herrschertitel in ägyptischer Überlieferung, Ägypten und Levante 12: 257–272. ——. 2003a. Ausländer in Ägypten während des Mittleren Reiches und der Hyksoszeit, Teil 2. Die ausländische Bevölkerung, Ägypten und Altes Testament 42. Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden. ——. 2003b. Etymologische Methode, die Historizität der Phoneme und das ägyptologische Transkriptionsalphabet, Lingua Aegyptia 11: 187–199. ——. 2006. Die Hundenamen der Stele Antefs II.: Eine neue Deutung. In B. Truschnegg, R. Rollinger (eds.), Antike und Mittelmeerraum. Die antike Welt diesseits und jenseits der Levante. Festschrift für Peter W. Haider zum 60. Geburtstag (Oriens et Occidens 12), Stuttgart 2006, in press. Schweitzer, S. 2005. Schrift und Sprache der 4. Dynastie, Menes 3, Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden. Sethe, K. 1926. Die Ächtung feindlicher Fürsten, Völker und Dinge auf altägyptischen Tongefäßscherben des Mittleren Reiches. Nach den Originalen im Berliner Museum, Abhandlungen der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, philosophisch-historische Klasse 1926, Abh. 5, pp. 5–74. Sivan, D. & Cochavi-Rainey, Z. 1992. West Semitic Vocabulary in Egyptian Script of the 14th to the 10th century bce, Beer-Sheva 6. Ben Gurion University of the Negev Press: Beer-Sheva. Smith, M. 1987. The Mortuary texts of Papyrus BM 10507. Catalogue of Demotic Papyri in the British Museum 3. British Museum publications: London. ——. 1993. The Liturgy of Opening the Mouth for Breathing. Griffith Institute: Oxford. Spiegelberg, W. 1917. Demotische Miszellen. Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 53: 116–129. Steiner, R. C. 1991. The Aramaic Text in Demotic Script: The Liturgy of a New Year‘s Festival Imported from Bethel to Syene by Exiles from Rash. Journal of the American Oriental Society 111: 362–363. ——. 1992. Northwest Semitic Incantations in an Egyptian Medical Papyrus, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 51: 191–200. ——. 2001. The Scorpion Spell from Wadi Oammamat: Another Aramaic Text in Demotic Script, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 60: 259–268. Steiner, R. C. & Nims, Ch. F. 1984. You Can’t Offer Your Sacrifice and Eat It Too: A Polemical Poem from the Aramaic Text in Demotic Script, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 43: 89–114. Tacke, N. Verspunkte als Gliederungsmittel in ramessidischen Schülerhandschriften, Studien zur Archäologie und Geschichte Altägyptens 22. Heidelberger Orientverlag. Heidelberg. Takács, G. 1999. Etymological Dictionary of Egyptian, Volume One. A Phonological Introduction. Handbuch der Orientalistik 48. Brill. Leiden, Boston & Cologne. Verhoeven, U. & Derchain, Ph. 1985. Le voyage de la déesse libyque. Ein Text aus dem « Mutritual » des Pap. Berlin 3053. Rites égyptiens 5. Fondation égyptologique Reine Élisabeth: Brussels. Vittmann, G. 1984. Ein Zauberspruch gegen Skorpione im Wadi Hammamat. In H.-J. Thissen, K. Th. Zauzich (eds.), Grammata demotica. Festschrift für Erich Lüddeckens zum 15, Juni 1983. Gisela zauzich Verlag: Würzburg. ——. 1996. Semitisches Sprachgut im Demotischen, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 86: 435–447. ——. 2003. Ägypten und die Fremden im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrhundert. Kulturgeschichte der antiken Welt 97. Philipp von Zabern: Mainz.

92

joachim friedrich quack

——. 2004. Iranisches Sprachgut in ägyptischer Überlieferung. In Th. Schneider (Hrsg.), Das Ägyptische und die Sprachen Vorderasiens, Nordafrikas und der Ägäis. Akten des Basler Kolloquiums zum ägyptisch-nichtsemitischen Sprachkontakt Basel 9.–11. Juli 2003, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 310. Ugarit-Verlag: Münster, pp. 129–182. Vleeming, S. P. & Wesselius, J. W. 1982. An Aramaic Hymn from the Fourth Century bc, Bibliotheca Orientalis 39, col. 501–509. ——. 1983–1984. Betel the Saviour, JEOL 28: 110–140. ——. 1985. Studies in Papyrus Amherst 63. Essays on the Aramaic Texts in Aramaic/ Demotic Papyrus Amherst 63. Volume I, Juda Palache Instituut: Amsterdam. Ward, W. 1981. Lexicographical Miscellanies II, Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur 9: 359–373. Wilson, P. 1997. A Ptolemaic Lexicon. A Lexicographical Study of the Texts in the Temple of Edfu, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 78. Peeters: Leuven. Zeidler, J. 1993. A New Approach to the Late Egyptian “Syllabic Orthography”. In Sesto congresso internazionale di Egittologia, Atti, Volume II. Turin, pp. 579–590. Zivie, A.-P. 1997. Le nom du vizir oAper-El. In M. Sigrist (ed.), Études Egyptologiques et Bibliques à la Mémoire du Père B. Couroyer, Cahiers de la Revue biblique 36 : 115–123. Zauzich, K.-Th. 1985. Der Gott des aramäisch-demotischen Papyrus Amherst 63, Göttinger Miszellen 85: 89–90.

WHAT IS BEING BORROWED? LANGUAGE AND SCRIPT CONTACT IN TAIWAN1 Henning Klöter Introduction Many terminological distinctions applied in loanword studies go back to Einar Haugen’s (1906–1994) analysis of the behavior of North American bilinguals (Haugen 1950). Citing an earlier study by Paul (1886), Haugen claims that “[f]or any large-scale borrowing a considerable group of bilinguals has to be assumed. The analysis of borrowing must therefore begin with an analysis of the behavior of bilingual speakers” (1950: 210). In the case of bilinguals, paths of borrowing are bidirectional, from language A to language B and vice versa. The analytical dimensions of linguistic borrowing turn out to be much more complicated when a multilingual community and the written representation of loanwords are taken into consideration. Multilingual speakers have a high degree of fluency in more than two languages, and they may be educated in different scripts. A case in point for this scenario is Taiwan, an island-state located off the southeastern coast of the Chinese mainland. Many people in Taiwan have a high degree of fluency in two or more languages and are familiar, to different degrees, with at least three different scripts. Whereas lexical borrowing between Taiwan’s languages has been analyzed in a number of previous studies (e.g., Chang 1995, Chung 2001, Hansell 1989, Li 2003, Yáo 1992), the effects of “multiscriptualism” on writing behavior and the interplay between language and script contact have largely been neglected. This article claims that this neglect has, in turn, led to terminological insufficiency whenever the analysis of loanwords is integrated with issues of loanword writing. This article neither deals with one particular script nor with one particular language. Instead, by inventorying types of borrowing evidenced in language and script

1 I would like to thank Sachiko Matsumoto, Heinz Lohmann, Tiun Hok-chû and Tiun Hak-khiam for providing some of the examples discussed in my paper and Jeroen Wiedenhof for his valuable comments on an earlier draft.

94

henning klöter

contact situations in Taiwan, it attempts to provide an empirical basis for terminological refinement. My analysis of linguistic borrowing is placed in the sociolinguistic context of the languages and scripts analyzed. Contact between languages and contact between scripts occur under specific sociolinguistic conditions. The coexistence of two or more different languages in one linguistic community is one important condition for languages to attain contact. Coexistence of language does not necessarily entail script contact. One obvious reason is that not all of the languages in contact are necessarily written languages. Another possible reason is the exclusion of an existing script from official language planning. If a script is not being spread through educational institutions, it is unlikely to become established within a linguistic community. The claim that coexistence of languages does not entail script contact may also be reversed: borrowing of a script does not require coexistence of languages within one linguistic community. For instance, alphabetic writing was brought to Taiwan by Western missionaries as early as in the seventeenth century. Since then, it has been used in various sources to write local languages. Various directions of language contact and patterns of script contact in Taiwan are introduced in the first two sections of this article. This is followed by an introduction to existing loanword terminology. Finally, different types of borrowing are distinguished on the basis of loanwords and their written representation in twentieth century Taiwan. Patterns of Language Contact The situation of Taiwan in the twentieth century can best be described as a multidirectional web of language and script contacts. The reasons for this multidirectionality can be found in Taiwan’s complex linguistic setting, its disputed political status, and in changing conceptualizations of its cultural belonging. According to the Ethnologue database, Taiwan is home to twenty-two living languages (Ethnologue 2006). Most of these are Austronesian languages spoken by Taiwan’s indigenous peoples, also referred to as Formosan languages (Li 2000: 45). Through the influx of Chinese settlers after the seventeenth century, Austronesian ethnicities have become marginalized. According to Ethnologue figures, seven of the sixteen living Formosan languages are nearly extinct. Speakers of

what is being borrowed?

95

Formosan languages now comprise less than two percent of Taiwan’s population. The overwhelming majority of the population are speakers of one or several Sinitic languages. Of these, Taiwanese Southern Mı ̌n (hereafter: TSM) is the most widely spread. According to most sources, the proportion of TSM speakers is about seventy-three percent (GIO 2005, Huang 2000, Tsao 1999). Speakers of Hakka dialects, the second major Sinitic dialect group, constitute about fifteen percent of the population. This would leave a ten percent portion of first language speakers of Mandarin Chinese. Considering that Mandarin has been the only official language and the dominant language of education since 1945, this figure seems questionably low. It is rather likely that Mandarin has replaced TSM and Hakka as first language to a much greater extent. This claim, however, cannot be substantiated on the basis of recent sociolinguistic surveys. Another language that has left its traces in Taiwan is Japanese. Japanese and Chinese are genetically unrelated languages. The spread of the Japanese language to Taiwan was brought about by Taiwan’s colonization in 1895. For the following fifty years, Taiwan was a part of the Japanese empire. The Japanese colonial government not only declared Japanese the national language, but colonial authorities also enforced the active use of Japanese through the newly established public education system and the media. During the final decade of Japanese colonial rule, the public use of local Taiwanese languages like TSM and Hakka in public was suppressed. As a result of this policy of monolingualism, many Taiwanese spoke, read and wrote modern Japanese when Japan ceded its colonies in 1945. It is noteworthy that during the period of Japanese colonial rule, Mandarin was hardly spoken in Taiwan. The first official attempts to promote a standard Mandarin pronunciation had no effect on the situation in Taiwan, as the island was part of the Japanese empire during the 1920s. Various Taiwanese intellectuals became conversant in Mandarin when they lived and studied in Northern China. Their number was, however, too small for us to consider Mandarin one of Taiwan’s languages before 1945. In 1945, after the end of the Second World War, Taiwan reverted to the Republic of China (ROC) and Mandarin replaced Japanese as the official language and the language of education. Ever since, written Mandarin has been the focus of literacy education. As Taiwan has not adopted PRC script reforms, traditional Chinese characters remain the essence of Mandarin

96

henning klöter

literacy. The spread of Mandarin received a boost in 1949, when, after its defeat in the Chinese civil war, the ROC government and millions of Chinese immigrants withdrew to Taiwan. Among these immigrants, Mandarin was widely used as a lingua franca. Since the 1980s, with the inflow of foreign popular culture and the rising popularity of foreign language learning, loans from donor languages such as Japanese (again) and English found their way into Taiwan. The contact between Taiwan’s Sinitic languages and Japanese has, in other words, taken place in two different sociolinguistic contexts. Before 1945, Japanese, as the official language and language of education, was at the top of the linguistic hierarchy. Since the 1980s, Japanese, now largely lacking communicative utility, is one donor of slang expressions associated with foreign pop culture (Hsieh & Hsu 2006). An attempt to integrate all of Taiwan’s languages into an analysis of linguistic borrowing would be beyond the scope of this article. Instead, I only consider those languages for which I have been able to collect data that distinguish the maximal number of types of borrowing. Therefore, Hakka and Formosan examples have not been taken into consideration. Even within this simplified framework, the multidirectionality of language contact in Taiwan will become obvious. As shown in Figure 1, nine different directions of borrowing can be considered. As can be seen, many TSM loanwoards come from Japanese, English and Mandarin. Zhāng Guāngyù’s dictionary (Zhāng 2005), with its more than thirty thousand entries, is a comprehensive source for these loanwords. In one instance (1), the direction of borrowing is indicated with a dotted arrow. This indicates that borrowing has not been reported in sources and can be expected to be rather limited. It is conceivable 1945

1895

time

languages (a)

1

languages (b)

Mandarin

Japanese

2

3

4

5

6

TSM 8

languages(s) (c)

7

Japanese

Figure 1. Directions of language contact in Taiwan.

9

English

what is being borrowed?

97

that Japanese residents of Taiwan2 who had achieved some proficiency in TSM used TSM loans in Japanese conversations with compatriots. I have, however, thus far not found any mention of this direction of borrowing. Arrow 3 stands for indirect borrowing from Japanese into Mandarin via TSM. The frame encircling languages (a) and (b) separates languages spoken in Taiwan from foreign languages. Japanese appears twice: as the official language, it occupied the highest level of Taiwan’s linguistic hierarchy before 1945. As a foreign language associated with foreign pop culture, Japanese has now little communicative utility in Taiwan. As can be seen, the general direction of borrowing is from high varieties (the official languages Japanese and Mandarin) to low varieties, here represented by TSM. Due to a lack of descriptive research, dimensions of borrowing from TSM to Mandarin and vice versa cannot be assessed in quantitative terms. My personal impression is that TSM spoken by younger speakers has absorbed a high number of lexical loans from Mandarin. The number of TSM loans in Mandarin seems to be smaller. Directions of Script Contact Analogous to Haugen’s loanword analysis, analysis of script borrowing must assume a considerable group of “biscriptuals” or “multiscriptuals”, i.e., users of two or more scripts. In the case of script borrowing, sociolinguistic constraints make the direction of borrowing more predictable than in the case of language contact. In the case of Taiwan, only dominant languages are linked to written traditions and subject of literacy planning. Conversely, script users are only exposed to scripts culturally linked to dominant languages. In the case of Taiwan, three different scripts associated with the two dominant languages, Japanese and Mandarin, have been in use during the twentieth century. In addition, alphabetic writing has been used as a script imported from outside. The directions of script borrowing are summarized in Figure 2. The frame separates scripts associated with Taiwan’s national languages from alphabetic writing, which has no footing in a national language. Two scripts are culturally linked to the writing of modern Japanese, viz. characters originating from China known as kanji ዧ‫( ڗ‬Chinese 2 According to Davidson ([1903] 1992: 560–594), about 19,000 Japanese lived in Taiwan in 1900.

98

henning klöter script language

language

script

Japanese kana

Japanese kanji

Chinese characters

Japanese

MPS

Mandarin

TSM

alphabetic writing

Figure 2. Directions of script contact.

hànzì) and the two kana syllabaries, hiragana and katakana. The former is typically “used for particles, auxiliary verbs, and the inflectional affixes of nouns, adjectives, and verbs”. Katakana “is used in contemporary texts to write foreign names and loanwords, onomatopoeic and mimetic words, exclamations, and some specialized scientific terminology” (Smith 1996: 212). In other words, in a written Japanese sentence, all scripts may co-occur, and each encodes a different kind of linguistic information (for details, see Seeley 1991, Shibatani 1990, Smith 1996). Written Mandarin in Taiwan is likewise associated with two scripts: Chinese characters, known as hànzì ዧ‫ڗ‬, and Mandarin Phonetic Symbols (zhùyīn fúhào ࣹଃฤᇆ, hereafter: MPS). MPS are currently taught at Taiwanese schools as a stepping-stone to character reading and as an input method for word processing systems. In contrast to Japanese writing in which three scripts co-occur, MPS only have auxiliary functions, indicating the reading of the character to which they are attached. The treatment of Japanese kanji and Chinese characters as two different scripts is admittedly not uncontroversial. Both scripts are logographic,3 and they have a high number of characters in common. However, because Japan has its own set of locally developed kanji, I treat kanji and Chinese characters as two different scripts. The Roman alphabet is the only script in Taiwan which has gained acceptance with-

3 In logographic writing systems, a written graph has a semantic link with the word or morpheme it represents. The categorization of Chinese writing as logographic is not uncontroversial, as it is well known that the pronunciation of the represented word has likewise been an important factor in the development of Chinese writing.

what is being borrowed?

99

out being linked to a national language. Its use for writing Mandarin is restricted to street signs and other public boards. TSM has never been subject to orthographic standardization and literacy education. There have been, however, various attempts by Western missionaries and local language revivalist groups to establish a written TSM standard. Closely linked to socio-cultural debates on the status of authentic Taiwanese culture (for details, see Klöter 2005: Chapters 4 and 5, Klöter 2009), these attempts involve the use of various scripts, which in turn explains why TSM has been written with all of the scripts that have ever been brought to Taiwan. To be sure, as a Sinitic language, TSM is culturally linked to the Chinese character script. Classical Chinese texts written in characters have a local, albeit almost forgotten, recitation convention in Southern Mı ̌n. Moreover, many speakers, when asked about a particular TSM expression, tend to explain its meaning in terms of characters cited from classical texts or written Mandarin. However, the links between TSM and the Chinese character script are limited. As estimated by Cheng (1978), about five percent of TSM morphemes, most of which are frequently used function words, lack an appropriate established Chinese character. The lack of such characters is one reason why written TSM has made use of auxiliary scripts like MPS or romanized transcriptions. The ideological dimension behind the selection of scripts is another reason for the widespread use of alphabetic TSM writing in recent years.4 In the course of Taiwan’s ideological and political de-Sinification movement, alphabetic TSM scripts have been heralded as a symbol of cultural non-Chineseness. Terminological Considerations As stated above, a description of borrowing processes between languages lacks appropriate terminology when both words and their written representation are taken into consideration. Western linguistic terminology sufficiently describes morphemic, phonemic, and semantic

4 TSM language revivalist groups advocating the use of the traditional missionary romanization system have become increasingly influential. In September 2006, the Ministry of Education decided that TSM textbooks for elementary schools will use an alphabetic orthography (Zhū 2006). Since 2001, two weekly hours of local language learning (i.e., in TSM, Hakka or an Austronesian language) has been compulsory for Taiwanese elementary school students. Most elementary schools offer TSM classes only (Klöter 2006).

100

henning klöter

changes occurring in the process of borrowing from the donor language to the recipient language. Most analyses (for example, Hock & Joseph 1996, Lehiste 1988) employ terminological distinctions introduced by Haugen (1950), who distinguished between loanwords, loanblends, and loanshifts. A loanword, according to Haugen’s definition, refers to expressions “in which speakers have not imported only the meaning of the form but also its phonemic shape, though with more or less substitution of native phonemes” (1950: 213f.). Phonemic substitution is the rule rather than the exception. For instance, when used as a loan in Dutch, the French word restaurant /rɛstɔ'rã/ ‘restaurant’ becomes /resto'rant/. A loanblend is defined as “morphemic substitution as well as importation” (Haugen 1950: 215). An example is German chatten ‘communicate interactively via computers’, which is combination of the borrowed English verbal stem chat and the German infinitive ending -en. A loanshift has the two subtypes, loan translation (also known as calque) and semantic loan. A loan translation is “a compound expression with a new meaning” (Haugen 1950: 214). The meaning and the structural pattern of the loanword are direct renderings of the original expression, as English power politics < German Machtpolitik (power+politics). In the case of a semantic loan, the donor language induces a semantic shift of a word already existing in the recipient language, e.g., American Portuguese humoroso ‘capricious’ > ‘humorous’ (< American English humorous). As I have argued above, these terms are unspecific about the written representation of loans. Questions of spelling, for instance the issue of orthographic assimilation vs. preservation of original spellings (e.g., Dutch vs. ‘gift’), find little attention in studies on linguistic borrowing, but is, rather, discussed in orthography studies on particular languages (e.g., Johnson 2005 on German, Upward & Pulcini 1996 on Italian). In Chinese and Japanese terminology, we find the reverse situation. Here terminological distinctions are centered on written graphs. At the same time they are rather unspecific when it comes to identifying types of morphemic, phonemic, and semantic differences between a borrowed word and the original word in the donor language. For example, semantic borrowing in Japanese is associated with the term kun (or its Mandarin equivalent xùn) ಝ ‘gloss, meaning’. According to Coulmas (1989: 123), kun refers to a “meaning-based way of using Chinese characters”, e.g., the Japanese reading hito of the character Գ ‘man, person’. The meaning ‘man, person’ of the graph Գ is derived from

what is being borrowed?

101

Chinese sources where the same character has the Mandarin reading rén (< MC nyin < OC *njin ‘man, person’). The reverse “sound-based” type of borrowing is associated with the Japanese term on (Mandarin yīn) ଃ ‘sound’. On readings refer to Japanese approximations of the original Chinese character reading. For example, the Japanese reading nin ‘man, person’ of the character Գ is derived from an earlier form of Mandarin rén (MC nyin < OC *njin) ‘man, person’. Another term associated with borrowing in a broader sense is Chinese jiǎjiè ೗ଗ, which Norman & Mattos translate as ‘loangraph’ (2000, Chapter 9). According to their English translation of Qiú Xíguī’s (1995) definition, “a loangraph is a homophonous or nearly homophonous graph borrowed to write another word”, e.g., the use of the character ࿜ for cè ‘horse whip’ for the semantically unrelated word ࿜ cè ‘register, book’ (Qiú 1995: 203, 209, tr. Norman, Mattos 2000: 261, 268). ‘Loangraph’ in the sense of the Chinese term jiǎjiè ೗ଗ, to be sure, does not refer to borrowing between different languages, but to an internal process within the Chinese writing system: an unwritten expression receives a character on the basis of an established word-graph association. The Japanese kun and on terminology likewise do not distinguish processes of borrowing but instances of character reading. This look at language through the written character, aptly characterized by William Wang (1996) as “Hanzi filter” (hànzì ዧ‫‘ ڗ‬Chinese character’), is quite common in traditional Chinese philology. It is noteworthy that the Chinese term zì ‫ ڗ‬itself is not clearly defined as either a unit of the spoken or the written language. The definition ‘written graph’ is implied in the division of dialect expressions into two groups: those “having sounds and having characters” (yǒu yīn yǒu zì ‫ڶ‬ଃ‫ڶ‬ ‫)ڗ‬, i.e., dialect expressions with an established Chinese character, and those “having sounds but no characters” (yǒu yīn wú zì ‫ڶ‬ଃྤ‫)ڗ‬, i.e., dialect expressions lacking an established Chinese character. In the field of Chinese etymology we find a similar terminological focus on characters. Linking etymological verification to the search for written characters, etymological research, as defined by traditional Chinese philology, involves the search for “original characters” (běnzì ‫)ڗء‬. Commenting on the methodological implications of this characterfocused approach to etymology, Branner writes (2000: 35): [T]he use of beentzyh [běnzì] leads people to see the characters as absolute symbols of the Common Chinese morphemes underlying all dialect forms. This is one of the implications of the Chinese writing system that has both helping and misleading results. Many field-workers in China apparently

102

henning klöter elicit dialect morphemes mainly as monosyllabic character-readings, which causes confusion. For instance, one may easily fail to distinguish between real words and mere learnèd forms that are artefacts of literacy.

In summation, an attempt to describe the many facets of the interplay between language and script in the process of borrowing has to deal with deficient terminology. Previous attempts to fill the gaps have arguably not provided feasible solutions. One example is the term “graphic loans”, introduced by Novotná (1967) and employed in many later studies (e.g., Hansell 1989, Kuiper 1993). Novotná’s definition of a graphic loan runs as follows (1967: 614): The graphic shape together with the meaning of a word of the giving language is introduced into the borrowing language. The phonemic shape of this loan is formed on the basis of the phonemic system of the borrowing language according to the phonemic values which the applied graphs possess, irrespective of the phonemic shape of the model. This technique of borrowing is possible only between languages using ideographic writing where the meaning of the morpheme is not entirely dependent on the intermediary function of its phonemic shape, but can be displayed directly by the grapheme.5

On the one hand, this definition seems appealing, as it nicely links morphemic and phonemic aspects of borrowing to the issue of graphic representation. But, on the other hand, it remains unspecific with regard to the question whether the term graphic loan actually implies graphic innovation in the recipient language. Graphic innovation seems to be suggested by the explanation “the graphic shape [. . .] is introduced into the borrowing language.” Novotná furthermore argues that “[t]here are numerous instances of graphic loans in modern Chinese from Japanese without any, or any essential change in the morphemic shape of the borrowed word. Only a Chinese phonemic shape is supplied” (1967: 616). Two of her examples are Chinese kèfú ‫‘ ࣚ܌‬overcome, conquer’ < Japanese kokufuku ‫ ࣚ܌‬and shǒuxù ֫ᥛ ‘procedure’ < tetsuzuki ֫ᥛ. The linguistic innovations in Chinese are the linguistic forms kèfú and shǒuxù and their meanings ‘overcome, conquer’ and ‘procedure’ respectively. The individual graphs ‫܌‬, ࣚ, ֫, and ᥛ cannot be

5 As Coulmas points out, “ideographic writing” is often used interchangeably with “logographic writing”. He also correctly remarks that “the two should be carefully distinguished. Ideograms in the strict sense of the term are non-linguistic symbols which express concepts such as numbers. By contrast, logograms are signs which express units of a language” (1999: 309).

what is being borrowed?

103

considered innovations, as all of them were in Chinese use long before the words kèfú ‘overcome, conquer’ and shǒuxù ‘procedure’ were borrowed from Japanese. The only new aspect on the graphic side is the sequence of characters in ‫ ࣚ܌‬and ֫ᥛ, but as this sequence reflects and is determined by the structural pattern of the borrowed words, the term “graphic loan” for this type of borrowing seems misleading. This is not to refute the notion that the characters play an important role in the process of borrowing. After all, as visible and easily recognizable indicators of the morphological structure of borrowed Japanese words, characters may ease a loan’s way into the Chinese recipient language. Still, as a label for a specific process of borrowing I find the term “graphic loan” misleading, as it may suggest that new characters are added to the existing stock of Chinese characters. This is by no means the case. Another weakness of Novotná’s definition is the categorical exclusion of script mixing as a possible type of graphic borrowing. This exclusion conceals a widespread instance of language and script contact. For example, the common spellings of the loans dīwéidī ‘DVD’ and xīdī ‘CD’ are and respectively. As shown below, the insertion of “foreign” graphic items into the Chinese script is by no means uncommon. One may argue that most of such spellings are not recognized by orthographic authorities. Still, I claim that an orthographic bias conceals many aspects of how speakers of a language and users of a script accommodate foreign elements. Therefore, going beyond the scope of orthographically sanctioned writing, many of the examples treated below are selected from informal written contexts, such as roadside billboards, shop signs, cartoons, or television subtitles. Types and Subtypes of Borrowing The central question of my analysis of borrowing types is: what is borrowed when languages and scripts are in contact? Haugen’s distinction of loanword types focuses on two aspects of linguistic analysis: form and meaning. Form refers to the phonological form of speech units, and, by definition, not to the graphic representation of words in writing. In other words, if issues of loanword writing are integrated into the analysis, graphic representation must be distinguished from the linguistic form as a third aspect. The question “what is being borrowed” thus refers to form, meaning and graphs of loanwords. It determines

104

henning klöter

which of these three aspects enter the process of borrowing, and which emerge from the borrowing process as innovations in the recipient language. The plus and minus signs in my formulae for types of borrowing indicate whether an aspect is maintained (+) or dropped (–) in the borrowing process. Type 1: [+ form, + meaning, + graph] Loanwords of this type retain the linguistic form, the meaning, and the graph(s) of the original word. As mentioned above, retention of linguistic form does not exclude phonemic substitution. type 1 Example 1: form meaning graph

donor language Japanese chûko used, second hand խ‫ײ‬ʳ

> > >

recipient language Taiwanese tiong1-koo2 used, second hand խ‫ײ‬

In the case of example 1, the Japanese form chûko is assimilated into the phonology of TSM, resulting in tiong1-koo2. According to Chang (1993: 143), TSM “developed a set of phonological rules to assimilate Japanese loanwords systematically” (phonological aspects of Japanese/ TSM are also treated in Tsao 2000, Hsieh 2006). Type 1 of borrowing is quite common in twentieth century Taiwan. Example 2 shows that the TSM loan tiong1-koo2 խ‫‘ ײ‬used, second hand’ has induced lexical innovation in Mandarin. Example 3 is the common TSM word for toilet. It is very likely of Japanese origin, as Southern Mı ̌n dictionaries from the PRC, like the one compiled by the Xiàmén University (1993), do not list pian7-soo2. Examples 4–11 are recent Mandarin loans used by younger TSM speakers. Due to these speakers’ high exposure to spoken and written Mandarin at all levels of education, in the media, and in literature, Mandarin loans are gradually replacing TSM native vocabulary. Older speakers would use chin3-cheng5 instead of TSM chi1-cheng5 ‘before, prior to’ (ex. 4), si3-ke3 ‘everywhere’ instead of to3-chhu3 (ex. 5), tai7-seng1 instead of siu2-sian1 ‘at first’ (ex. 6), liam5-pinn1 instead of ma2-siong7 ‘at once’ (ex. 7), chhin3-chhai2 instead of sui5-pian7 ‘as you like’ (ex. 9), bat4 instead of chan5-keng1 ‘have already, exp’ and siong7 ho2 instead of choe3 ho2 ‘the best’ (ex. 11). The transfer of the Chinese characters from Mandarin to TSM expressions in examples 4–11 is

what is being borrowed?

105

self-evident, as the representation with other Chinese characters is simply inconceivable. Table 1. Examples for type 1 of borrowing Ex.

Donor language

2. TSM tiong1-koo2 ‘used, second hand’ խ‫ײ‬ 3. Jp. benjo ‘toilet’ ঁࢬ 4. Md. zhīqián ‘before, prior to’ հছ 5. Md. dàochǔ ‘everywhere’ ࠩ๠ 6. Md. shǒuxiān ‘at first’ ଈ٣ 7. Md. mǎshàng ‘at once’ ್Ղ 8. Md. shùnbiàn ‘at one’s convenience’ ႉঁ 9. Md. suíbiàn ‘as you like’ ᙟঁ 10. Md. céngjīng ‘have already, exp’ མᆖ 11. Md. zuì hǎo ‘the best’ ່‫ړ‬

Recipient language >

Md. zhōnggǔ ‘old, second hand’ խ‫ײ‬

>

TSM pian7-soo2 ‘toilet’ ঁࢬ TSM chi1-cheng5 ‘before, prior to’ հছ TSM to3-chhu3 ‘everywhere’ ࠩ๠ TSM siu2-sian1 ‘at first’ ଈ٣ TSM ma2-siong7 ‘at once’ ್Ղ TSM sun7-pian7 ‘at one’s convenience’ ႉঁ TSM sui5-pian7 ‘as you like’ ᙟঁ TSM chan5-keng1 ‘have already, exp’ མᆖ TSM choe3 ho2 ‘the best’ ່‫ړ‬

> > > > > > > >

Type 1 is certainly not restricted to borrowings from donor languages using logographic scripts. As mentioned above, English loanwords as dīwéidī ‘DVD’ and xīdī ‘CD’ are common in Chinese texts. Some English loans have two possible spellings: the original spelling is either maintained or replaced by Chinese characters. These different renderings in writing may reflect different degrees of phonemic substitution in the donor language, as in cool ‘cool’ vs. Ꭹ kù ‘cool’ and hello ‘hello’ vs. শᦗ hāluó ‘hello’. As I claimed above, the widespread use of English loans keeping their original spellings contradict the claim that graphic borrowing only occurs between languages using the same writing system.

106

henning klöter

Type 2: [+ form, + meaning, – graph] This type refers to all words which are borrowed without graph(s). A look at the initial and final points of the borrowing process reveals that there are many different reasons why a graph is not borrowed into the recipient language and also many different ways to fill the missing gap [– graph] in the recipient language. When considering both the reasons for not borrowing a graph and the solutions for the resulting gap, various subtypes of type 2 can be distinguished. These subtypes are summarized below. The first division distinguishes instances of borrowing in which an established graph α of the donor language A is dropped in the process of borrowing (2.1) from instances of borrowing in which an unwritten word enters the process of borrowing (2.2). In case of the former, three different solutions to the gap [– graph α] in the recipient language B can be distinguished (subtypes 2.1.1–2.13.). These can be summarized as follows: (2.1.1) The loanword remains unwritten in the recipient language, as its use is restricted to spoken contexts. The gap [– graph α] is, in other words, not filled with a graph β from the script of the recipient language. The claim that loanwords of this subtype remain unwritten does not imply that they are intrinsically unwritten. Ad-hoc spellings of “unwritten loans” in an auxiliary script can certainly be found. Such solutions are, however, perceived as improvised dummy spellings by script users. (2.1.2) Graph β from the script of the recipient language B is used to write the loanword. The loanword and its written representation thus have different donors. The graph is selected on the basis of phonological similarity between the borrowed word and the reading of the character. I refer to these characters as “phonetic loan graphs”. (2.1.3) The only difference with type 2.1.2 lies in the selection of graph β. In type 2.1.3 it is selected on the basis of phonological and semantic links between the chosen character and the loanword. I refer to these graphs as “phonosemantic loan graphs”. When an unwritten loanword enters the process of borrowing (type 2.2), the responses to the gap [– graph α] in the donor language seem to differ from (2.1.1)–(2.1.3). I have found no example for an originally

what is being borrowed?

107

Table 2. Subtypes of type 2 [+ form, + meaning, – graph] Language A 2.1 graph(s) α

2.2 no graph α

Language B

2.1.1 2.1.2 2.1.3

no graph α, or graph(s) γ graph(s) β (phonetic loan graph) graph(s) β (phonosemantic loan graph) no graph α, or graph(s) γ

Note: Graph α is from a script linked to language A, graph β from a script linked to language B, and graph γ from an auxiliary script (MPS or Roman alphabet).

unwritten loanword that came to be written with characters without losing or changing its original meaning. Like loanwords of the type 2.1.1, their written status is in a grey zone between unwritten and occasionally written with graph(s) γ of an auxiliary script such as MPS or the Roman alphabet. The subtypes of type 2 of borrowing are summarized in table 2. type 2.1.1 Example 12: form meaning graph

donor language Japanese tomato ‘tomato’ 垉垟垉

> > >

recipient language TSM tho2-ma2-tooh4 ‘tomato’

In colloquial TSM, tho2-ma2-tooh4 ‘tomato’ is a common expression, yet it lacks an established spelling. In the Japanese donor language, the spelling 垉垟垉for tomato ‘tomato’ is in katakana. In TSM reference works of the period 1895–1945 compiled by Japanese linguists working for colonial government, a modified katakana syllabary is used for TSM expressions (for details, see Klöter 2005: 133–152). This system has, however, never gained any currency outside Japanese government publications. Note that the Japanese word tomato is itself a loan from English. As TSM borrowed the word from Japanese, I treat Japanese as the donor language. type 2.1.2 Example 13: form meaning graph

donor language Japanese obasan ‘aunt, old lady’ 圔场土坝

> > >

recipient language TSM oo1-ba2-sang2 ‘aunt, old lady’ ௻֣ௌ

108

henning klöter

In the case of example 13, the original Japanese expression obasang ‘aunt, old lady’ is represented in hiragana. Hiragana has never been used for writing TSM. The TSM spelling ௻֣ௌ is quoted from a contemporary TSM dictionary (Dǒng 2001: 964). The characters are chosen purely for their phonetic values, i.e., ௻ oo1, ֣ ba2, and ௌ sang2. Semantic links between the meaning of the characters ௻ ‘black’, ֣ name of an ancient state, and ௌ ‘mulberry tree’ and the meaning of the loan ‘aunt, old lady’ cannot be established. type 2.1.3 Example 14: form meaning graph

donor language Japanese tempura ‘tempura’ ֚坁坓

> > >

recipient language TSM thian1-pu2-lah4 ‘tempura’ กլ᎚

The example under discussion refers to Japanese batter-dipped seafood and vegetables. The main difference between this example and the former lies in the motivation behind the selection of characters. Other than in the case of ௻֣ௌ, the characters กլ᎚ establish an association with the meaning of the loanword: the Japanese tempura dish is envisaged as ‘sweet and not hot’. TSM very likely borrowed the Japanese word tempura as thian1-pu2-lah4 during the Japanese colonial period. After 1945, TSM thian1-pu2-lah4 was in turn borrowed as tiánbúlà into Mandarin. Borrowing into Mandarin came along with the semantic reinterpretation tiánbúlà ‘sweet and not hot’. This reinterpretation must be ascribed to Mandarin, as TSM *tinn1-be7-hiam1 for ‘sweet and not hot’ can hardly be linked to Japanese tempura. The loanword TSM thian1pu2-lah4 has, in other words, different sources: the form thian1-pu2-lah4 and the meaning ‘tempura’ come from Japanese, and the characters ก լ᎚, together with the semantic reinterpretation ‘sweet and not hot’, were later re-borrowed from Mandarin. type 2.2 Example 15: form meaning graph

donor language TSM keng1 ‘demure, reserved’

> > >

recipient language Mandarin keng1 ‘demure, reserved’ ԉԣԡ

When used in colloquial Mandarin, the TSM loanword keng1 ‘demure, reserved’ does not undergo phonemic substitution. Lacking an estab-

what is being borrowed?

109

lished Chinese character, it is mostly represented with the phonetic symbols ԉԣԡ [gɪŋ] in writing, as, for instance, in the title of the book ߊԳՖԳຟৰԉԣԡ nánrén nǚrén dōu hěn keng1 ‘Men and women are all demure’ (Wéijíní & Mıq̌ ìěr 2003). Such improvised spellings are not restricted to phonetic symbols. Another widespread donor script is the Roman alphabet. An example for a TSM loanword used in Mandarin and spelled with a Roman letter is khiu7 ‘sticky, viscous’. The English reading [kjuː] of the letter resembles the form khiu7 of the loan. Type 3: [– form, + meaning, + graph] In this type of borrowing, the graph and the meaning of the original word are preserved and the foreign linguistic form is replaced by an unrelated native form. I have not been able to find an example which unambiguously qualifies for this type. Example 16 must be taken with a grain of salt, as I explain presently. type 3 Example 16: form meaning graph

donor language Japanese machi ‘town’ ᮫

> > >

recipient language TSM teng1 ‘town’ ᮫

In example 16, the Japanese character ᮫ and its semantic referent ‘town’, have been borrowed into TSM. In the donor language, the Japanese reading machi has been replaced by the unrelated TSM reading teng1. In contemporary TSM, teng1 ᮫ ‘town’ and its Mandarin counterpart dīng ᮫are bound forms, generally associated with the compound Se1-mng5-teng1 (Md. Xīméndīng) ۫॰᮫, lit. ‘Western Gate Town’, the name of a district in Taipei. The reason why this example does not qualify unambiguously as a type 3 loan is that the character ᮫ is, strictly speaking, not a graphic innovation as it is attested in traditional Chinese dictionaries. In these dictionaries the reading of ᮫ is indicated as tı̌ng (Southern Mĭn teng2) ‘boundary between agricultural land’. The character is a so-called xíngshēng ‫ݮ‬ᜢ character consisting of a semantic determinative broadly indicating the meaning of a character and a phonetic determinative roughly indicating the sound. In ᮫, the left part ‫‘ ض‬agricultural land, field’ is the semantic determinative and the right part ԭ (TSM teng1,

110

henning klöter

Md. dīng) is the phonetic. The historical path of borrowing of the character ᮫ can be conceived as follows: Japanese once borrowed the Chinese character ᮫ for its native expression machi ‘street, town’. The semantic link between ‘boundary between agricultural land’ and ‘street, town’ is self-evident: streets and town-like rural settlements are located between fields. In modern Japanese, machi is a commonly used morpheme for administrative units within a town. TSM in turn borrowed Japanese ᮫ ‘street, town’ and replaced the Japanese reading machi with the native reading teng1. It is difficult to judge whether the historical “pre-Japanese” origin of ᮫ has played a role when the graph was borrowed from Japanese into TSM. In other words, the question whether Taiwanese recipients of the graph ᮫ recognized a historical Chinese character or simply imposed a TSM reading on a graph perceived as Japanese cannot be answered with certainty. It is noteworthy, however, that the form teng1 in Se1mng5-teng1 ‘Western Gate Town’ does not correspond to the traditional Southern Mı ̌n recitation form teng2 for ᮫. On the other hand, the TSM form teng1 ‘town’ exactly corresponds to the reading teng1 of the graph ԭ, which is the phonetic in ᮫. This in turn suggests a reinterpretation of the graphic components of ᮫ rather than a rediscovery of a historical character reading. Moreover, many Taiwanese users perceive the graph ᮫ as a Japanese kanji, regardless of its historical Chinese origins. Type 4: [– form, – meaning, + graph] In this type, the only thing borrowed is the graph. The fact that neither linguistic form nor meaning are borrowed does not imply that they are absent from the process of borrowing. Instead of being borrowed, semantic or phonetic features shared by the donor and the recipient language explain the selection of characters. Two subtypes can be distinguished: (4.1) characters that are borrowed on semantic grounds only, and (4.2) characters borrowed on phonetic grounds only. This type is the reverse counterpart of type 2. Whereas the selection of characters is the default result of type 4, type 2 by definition involves the borrowing of lexical items. type 4.1 Example 17: form meaning graph

donor language (Mandarin) (zài < EMC *tsaj`) ‘be in, at’ ‫ڇ‬

>

recipient language TSM ti7 ‘be in, at’ ‫ڇ‬

what is being borrowed?

111

Mandarin zài ‘be in, at’ and TSM ti7 ‘be in, at’ are etymologically unrelated. Whereas the origins of the former can be traced back to archaic sources (1000–200 bce) (Peyraube 1994), the oldest written evidence of ti7 can be found in Southern Mı ̌n translations of the Christian doctrine dating back to the seventeenth century (Klöter 2005: 57–8, Klöter 2007). In these sources, the character ‫ ڇ‬is used for its semantic value in Mandarin. The same character for TSM ti7 ‘be in, at’ can be found in TSM sources of the twentieth century. All Japanese characters with a kun reading are based on this type of borrowing (Chinese > Japanese), viz. Գ hito ‘man, person’, ᮫machi ‘street, town’, haru ਞ ‘spring’, hitsuji ‫‘ ے‬sheep’, etc. type 4.2 Example 18: form meaning graph

donor language (Mandarin) bǔ (EMC *pǝwk) ‘divine’ Խ

recipient language TSM bueh4 ‘wish’ > Խ

In example 18, the use of Խ for TSM bueh4 ‘wish’ is based on the Mandarin character reading Խ bǔ (EMC *pǝwk). The Mandarin and the TSM share phonetic similarities, but are semantically unrelated. Type 5 [– form, + meaning, – graph] Loan translations (or calques) typically fall under this category. New words in the recipient language are translations of the morphemes of a foreign word. The loanword not only reflects new meaning, but also a new structural arrangement of existing morphemes. type 5 Example 19: form meaning graph

donor language English /hɑːd dɪsk/ hard disk

> > >

recipient language Mandarin yìngdié hard disk ࿏጗

In example 19, the morphemes already existing in the recipient language are yìng ‘hard’ and dié ‘small plate’. Under the influence of English hard disk, they form the new compound yìngdié ‘hard disk’. In this compound, dié ‘small plate’ has undergone a semantic shift from ‘small plate (eating utensil)’ > ‘disk, flat piece for storing information in a

112

henning klöter

computer’. Neither the phonological form /hɑːd dɪsk/ nor the original spelling are preserved in the loanword yìngdié ࿏጗ ‘hard disk’. Loans of type 5 abound in Taiwan Mandarin, viz. English hot dog > Md. règǒu ᑷद (hot+dog) ‘hot dog’, cold war > lěng zhàn ‫ܐ‬ᖏ (cold+war) ‘cold war’, foreplay > qiánxì ছ䉭 (before+play) ‘foreplay’, download > xiàzǎi Հሉ (down+load) ‘download’, etc. Concluding Remarks In conclusion, an integrated analysis of language and script contact has two sides. Diversity in the written accommodation of loanwords is closely linked to the social contexts of writing and to linguistic hierarchies and policies of literacy education. The question of what is borrowed when languages and scripts are in contact cannot be answered sufficiently on the basis of existing loanword terminology. As above examples show, it is by no means the rule that all analytic components of a word, i.e., its form, its meaning and its representation in writing, enter the recipient language as a closed unit. Instead, recipient languages are eclectic with regard to what is borrowed. Only a single component or a combination of two components may be borrowed. On the level of writing, users of a script resourcefully accommodate loanwords traditionally written in a foreign script. Eclectic borrowing and diversity in scriptal accommodation of loanwords yield various types and subtypes of loanwords. My list of types and subtypes of borrowing is unlikely to be complete. One obvious reason is that hybrid loans have not been included. It can also be expected that more types and subtypes are indentified when data from other language and script communities are considered. Conventions Transcription The romanization of Taiwanese expressions follows the Church Romanization system. Tone marks have been replaced by numerals: 1 = yīnpíng (high level [55]), 2 = yīnshǎng (falling [52]), 3 = yīnqù (falling [31]), 4 = yīnrù (falling abruptly, ending in voiceless stop [32]), 5 = yángpíng (falling-rising [214]), 6 = identical with 2, 7 = yángqù (medium level [33]), 8 = yángrù (falling abruptly, ending in voiceless

what is being borrowed?

113

stop [43]). The digraph stands for the close-mid back vowel /ɔ/. The transcription of Mandarin expressions is according to the Hànyǔ Pīnyīn ዧ፿਋ଃ system. Japanese expressions are transcribed according to the Hepburn system. Symbols and Abbreviations exp Jp. MC Md. OC TSM <word> +

experiential aspect marker Japanese Middle Chinese Mandarin Old Chinese Taiwanese Southern Mĭn (1) direction of borrowing (2) direction of diachronic changes alphabetic spelling of a word morpheme boundary

References Branner, David Prager. 2000. Problems in Chinese dialectology: The classification of Miin and Hakka. Berlin, New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Chang, Yü-hung. 1993. The assimilation of Japanese loanwords in Taiwanese Hokkien. In Studies on syllable features in Asian monosyllabic languages, edited by Yü-hung Chang, pp. 143–174. Taipei: Bookman Books. ——. 1995. Two aspects of lexical differences between Amoy Hokkien and Taiwanese Hokkien. Paper presented at the workshop on Fukien and Taiwan in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Leiden University, July 1995. Cheng, Robert L. 1978. Taiwanese morphemes in search of Chinese characters. Journal of Chinese Linguistics 6, no. 2:306–314. Chung, Karen Steffen. 2001. Some returned loans: Japanese loanwords in Taiwan Mandarin. In Language change in East Asia, edited by Thomas E. McAuley, pp. 161–179. Richmond, Surrey: Curzon. Coulmas, Florian. 1989. The writing systems of the world. Oxford (UK), Cambridge (USA): Blackwell. Davidson, James W. [1903] 1992. The island of Formosa: Past and present. Taipei: SMC Publishing. Dǒng Zhōngsī ᇀ࢘‫׹‬. 2001. Táiwān Mı̌nnányǔ cídiǎn ፕ᨜Ꮈত፿᢯ࠢ [A dictionary of TSM]. Taipei: Wǔnán túshū նতቹ஼. Ethnologue. 2006. Languages of Taiwan, Ethnologue: Languages of the World. http:// www.ethnologue.com/show_country.asp?name=TW. GIO (Government Information Office). Taiwan Yearbook 2005. Taipei: Government Information Office. http://www.gio.gov.tw/taiwan-website/5-gp/yearbook/. Hansell, Mark Donald. 1989. Lexical borrowing in Taiwan. Ph.D. dissertation. University of California, Berkeley. Haugen, Einar. 1950. The analysis of linguistic borrowing. Language 26:210–231. Hock, Hans Henrich & Brian D. Joseph. 1996. Language history, language change, and language relationship. Berlin, New York: Mouton de Gruyter.

114

henning klöter

Hsieh, Feng-fan. 2006. High infidelity: The non-mapping of Japanese accent onto Taiwanese tone. MIT Working Papers in Linguistics 52:1–27. Hsieh, Shelley Ching-yu & Hui-li Hsu. 2006. Japan mania and Japanese loanwords in Taiwan Mandarin: Lexical structure and social discourse. Journal of Chinese Linguistics 34, no. 1:44–79. Huang, Shuanfan. 2000. Language, identity and conflict: A Taiwanese study. International Journal of the Society of Language 143:139–149. Johnson, Sally. 2005. Spelling trouble? Language, ideology and the reform of German orthography. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Klöter, Henning. 2005. Written Taiwanese (studia formosiana 2). Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ——. 2006. Mandarin remains more equal: Changes and continuities in Taiwan’s language policy. In What has changed? Taiwan before and after the change in ruling parties (studia formosiana 4), edited by Dafydd Fell, Henning Klöter, and Chang Bi-yu, pp. 207–223. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ——. 2007. ‘ay sinco lenguas algo diferentes’: China’s local vernaculars in early missionary sources. In Missionary linguistics III: Morphology and syntax. Selected papers from the Third and Fourth International Conferences on Missionary Linguistics, Hong Kong/ Macau, 12–15 March 2005, Valladolid, 8–11 March 2006, edited by Otto Zwartjes, Emilio Ridruejo & Gregory James, pp. 191–210. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. ——. 2009. Re-writing language in Taiwan. In Re-writing culture in Taiwan, edited by Fang-long Shih, Stuart Thompson & Paul Tremlett, pp. 102–122. London: Routledge. Kuiper, Koos. 1993. Dutch loan words and loan translations in Modern Chinese: An example of successful sinification by way of Japan. In Words from the west: Western texts in Chinese literary context, essays to honor Erik Zürcher on his sixty-fifth birthday, edited by Lloyd Haft, pp. 116–144. Leiden: Centre of Non-Western Studies. Lehiste, Ilse. 1988. Lectures on language contact. Cambridge, Mass. [etc.]: MIT Press, 1988. Li, Chin-an. 2003. Lexical change and variation in Taiwanese literary texts, 1916–1998: A computer-assisted corpus analysis. Tainan: Zhenping. Li, Paul Jen-kuei. 2000. Formosan languages: The state of the art. In Austronesian Taiwan: Linguistics, history, ethnology, prehistory, edited by David Blundell, pp. 45–67. Berkeley, Taipei: Phoebe A. Hearst Museum of Anthropology, Shung Ye Museum of Formosan Aborigines. Mair, Victor H. 1993. East Asian round-trip words. Sino-Platonic Papers 34. Masini, Federico. 1993. The formation of modern Chinese lexicon and its evolution toward a national language: The period from 1840 to 1898. Journal of Chinese Linguistics Monograph Series 6. Berkeley: University of California. Norman, Jerry & Gilbert L. Mattos. 2000. Chinese writing [translation of Qiū Xíguī 1995]. Early China Special Monograph Series No. 4. Berkeley: The Society for the Study of Early China and the Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, Berkeley. Novotná, Zdenka. 1967. Contributions to the study of loan-words and hybrid words in modern Chinese. Archiv Orientální 35:613–649. Paul, Hermann. 1886. Prinzipien der Sprachgeschichte. Halle: Max Niemeyer. Peyraube, Alain. 1994. On the history of Chinese locative prepositions. Zhōngguó jìngnèi yǔ yán jì yǔ yánxué խഏቼփ፿ߢዄ፿ߢᖂ 2:361–387. Qiú Xíguī ᇗᙔ‫ڈ‬. 1995. Wénzìxué gàiyào ֮‫ڗ‬ᖂᄗ૞ [Chinese writing]. Taipei: Wànjuànlóu túshū ᆄ࠴ᑔቹ஼. Seeley, Christopher. 1991. A history of writing in Japan. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Shibatani, Masayoshi. 1990. The languages of Japan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smith, Janet S. 1996. Japanese writing. In The world’s writing systems, edited by Peter D. Daniels & William Bright, pp. 209–217. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

what is being borrowed?

115

Tsao, Feng-fu. 1999. The language planning situation in Taiwan. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development 20, nos. 4&5:328–375. ——. 2000. Táishì rìyǔ yǔ Táiwān guóyǔ – bǎi nián lái zài Táiwān fāshēng de liǎng ge yǔyán jiēchù shílì ፕ‫ֲڤ‬፿ፖፕ᨜ഏ–፿‫ڇࠐڣۍ‬ፕ᨜࿇‫س‬ऱࠟଡ፿ߢ൷ᤛኔࠏ [Taiwanized Japanese and Taiwan Mandarin – two case studies of language contact during the past hundred years]. ዧᖂઔߒ / Chinese Studies 18:273–297. Upward, Christopher & Virginia Pulcini. 1996. Italian spelling, and how it treats English loanwords. Journal of the Simplified Spelling Society 20:19–23, http://www .spellingsociety.org/journals/j20/italian.php. Wang, William S.Y. 1996. Linguistic diversity and language relationships. In New horizons in Chinese linguistics, edited by C.-T. James Huang & Yen-hui Audrey Li, pp. 235–267. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. ̌ Wéijíní ፂ‫ ࡣٳ‬and Mǐqìěr ‫ۏ‬ৈዿ. 2003. Nánrén nürén dōu hěn keng1: Nánrén bì kàn, nǚrén bì dú wǔ shíqī zé xīnzhàn qíngbào ߊԳՖԳຟৰԉԣԡΚՖԳ‫ؘ‬઎ΕߊԳ ‫ᦰؘ‬ऱ57ঞ֨ᖏൣ໴ [Men and women are all demure: 57 heart war intelligence reports men must look at and women must read]. Taipei: Hóngyìn wénhuà. Xiàmén University (ed.). 1993. Pǔtōnghuà Mǐnnányǔ cídiǎn ཏຏ兯吠ত兿兟ࠢ [A Mandarin-Southern Mĭn Dictionary]. Fúzhōu 壂‫ڠ‬: Fújiàn rénmín chūbǎnshè 壂৬Գ‫נا‬ठष. Yáo Róngsōng ৔ዊ࣪. 1992. Táiwān xiànxíng wàiláiyǔ de wèntí ፕ᨜෼۩؆ࠐ፿ऱ ംᠲ [Issues concerning loanwords currently used in Taiwan]. ஃՕᖂ໴ / Bulletin of National Taiwan Normal University 37: 329–362. Zhāng Guāngyù ്٠ᇛ. 2005. Táiyǔ yīn wàiláiyǔ cídiǎn ‫؀‬፿ଃ؆ࠐ፿᢯ࠢ [A dictionary of loanwords in Taiwanese]. Taichung: Shuāngyǔ chūbǎnshè ᠨ፿‫נ‬ठष. Zhū Lìqún ‫مڹ‬ᆢ. 2006. Táiluó pīnyīn múyǔ jiàocái: Jiàoyùbù tōngguò ‫؀‬ᢅ਋ଃ‫ئ‬ ፿ඒ‫ޗ‬: ඒߛຝຏመ [Mother tongue teaching manuals in Taiwanese Romanization approved by the Ministry of Education]. խഏழ໴ / China Times, 30 September 2006.

THE ADAPTATION OF THE CUNEIFORM SCRIPT TO FOREIGN LANGUAGES Wilfred H. van Soldt The Case of Hurrian Hurrians are attested in Mesopotamian sources since the reign of king Naram-Sin of Akkad, ca. 2200 bc (Wilhelm 1996: 175, Steinkeller 1998: 88f ). This king conquered a number of places with Hurrian names, probably located in the Habur region in the northeast of modern Syria. Two hundred years earlier there are no Hurrian names to be found in the written sources and the population in the north seems to have been largely Semitic (ibid.). However, by 2200 bc Hurrians appear to have established themselves throughout northern Mesopotamia and their immigration must have started at least one generation earlier than the reign of Naram-Sin. In this early period, we already find a few Hurrian names of kings who ruled over city-states. King Atal-shen (ca. 2100) ruled over a small state in the Habur region that encompassed his capital Urkesh (modern Tell Mozan) and the city of Nawar/Nagar (modern Tell Brak; Salvini 1998: 106f ). We know this from an inscription of his written in Akkadian (Wilhelm 1988). His successors, Tupkish and Tish-atal, probably only ruled over Urkesh; a large number of seal impressions of Tupkish and his consort were found in Tell Mozan (Buccellati & Kelly-Buccellati 1995–1996). King Tish-atal left us the first inscription in Hurrian (Wilhelm 1998). Attestations for the Hurrian population in northern Mesopotamia are scarce during the Old Babylonian period (2000–1600 bc),1 a period that saw a strong Amorite immigration from the west (Steinkeller 1998, 97f ). They become more numerous during the time of the Mittani empire, which probably came into existence before the sixteenth century and which came to an end around 1340 (Wilhelm 1994, 1996: 179f ). During this time Hurrian city-states were united under a dynasty whose members bore Indo-Arian names. The Mittani empire was one of the

1

For an overview of the available Hurrian sources, see Wegner (2000:16f).

118

wilfred h. van soldt

prominent states during the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries bc and several letters of its last king Tušratta were found in the Egyptian capital Amarna (Akhet-Aten). The language used in these letters was Akkadian, which served as lingua franca in the ancient Near East. One letter, however, was written in Hurrian, the language of Mittani, and this text has become one of our most important sources for our knowledge of this language (Wegner 2000, 21, Wilhelm 1987, 1989: 32f). The scribes used a special orthography that seems to have been designed for writing the Hurrian language (see below). During the same period Hurrian influence in the Hittite empire (Anatolia) was strong, in particular in the religious cult. This may be so because of the close ties with the southern Anatolian state Kizzuwatna that was once part of Mittani, but which had been closely linked with the Hittite empire since king Tudḫaliya I at the end of the fifteenth century (Klengel 1999: 112f, Bryce 2005: 139). The influence is largely ascribed to the fact that Puduḫepa, one of the most influential Hittite queens, originated in this country. Many of the cultic texts from the Hittite capital Ḫ attuša are written in Hurrian, but the orthography used to write the language was not really standardized. Only in a bilingual text in Hittite and Hurrian found in the 1980s is the orthography more or less the same as that of the Mittani letter of Tušratta (Neu 1988, 1996). The Mittani empire was conquered by the Hittite king Šuppiluliuma I around 1340, but the standard Mittani orthography was still in use until the beginning of the twelfth century, as is clear from texts written at both Karkamiš and Ugarit (van Soldt 1991: 364f ). Hurrian was also written in another script, in the alphabetic cuneiform of Ugarit. Since the Mesopotamian cuneiform expressed the vowels but was less accurate with the consonants, and since Ugaritic cuneiform wrote no vowels but expressed the consonants quite clearly, words written in both scripts give us a better idea of their pronunciation (for examples, see below). The Use of the Mesopotamian Syllabary for the Hurrian Language The Mesopotamian cuneiform script was probably developed for Sumerian. During the third millennium bc it was adapted for writing the Akkadian language. Since Sumerian and Akkadian have different phoneme inventories, it took considerable time before the script

the adaptation of the cuneiform script

119

was developed enough to express the Akkadian sounds satisfactorily. Hurrian, however, was a language quite different from Akkadian, and its phonemic structure did not allow for a simple borrowing of the Akkadian syllabary. The following list gives the most important differences: Akkadian – has a nominative-accusative structure – is inflexional – consonants: voiced-voiceless-(emphatic) long(geminated)-short no labial fricatives – vowels: long-short aeiu

Hurrian – has an ergative structure – adds suffixes to a fixed stem (tense-lax?) long-short labial fricatives ( f, v) long-short aeiou

Two main differences will be discussed here: the Hurrian adaptation of the consonant signs as they are used for Akkadian, and the orthography of the vowel /o/. These two are interconnected.2 The Hurrian orthography uses the Akkadian syllabic values for consonants in a way that deviates from the latter. For example, where Akkadian distinguishes between /d/ and /t/ this is not the case in Hurrian orthography. For example, signs that are written in Akkadian texts to express /d/ can, apparently, be used for both /d/ and /t/ in Hurrian. In Akkadian texts written by Hurrian scribes, this is a common phenomenon. The reason is easy to find: unlike Akkadian, the Hurrian language knew no opposition d:t, but only an opposition between long and short (geminated and non-geminated) consonants. Moreover, in Hurrian the correct spelling of the vowels /e/ and /o/ was more important than in Akkadian. In the latter, [e] usually was an allophone of /a/ or /i/ and /o/ did not exist, at least during this period (van Soldt 1989). First we will look at the Mittani orthography. In Tušratta’s letter (the so-called Mittani letter) the following syllabary is used (Bush 1964: 20). The signs are arranged horizontally according to vowel and vertically according to consonant. The values are those of the Akkadian syllabary:

2 Unfortunately, our understanding of the Hurrian phonemes is limited due to the cuneiform script. It is quite possible that other consonants and vowels existed which could not be expressed.

120

wilfred h. van soldt -a A PA TA KA Ḫ A LA MA NA RA SA ŠA ZA PI AB AD AG AḪ AL AM AN AR [AZ] AŠ AZ [AB]

– p t k ḫ l m n r s š z w p t k ḫ l m n r s š z w

-e E BE TE GI Ḫ É LI ME NI RI [SI] ŠE [ZI,ZÉ?] PI IB ID IG AḪ EL IM EN IR [IZ] EŠ IZ IB

-i I BI TI KI Ḫ I LI MI NI RI [SI] ŠI ZI PI IB ID IG AḪ IL IM IN IR [IZ] IŠ IZ IB

-o U BU DU KU Ḫ U LU MU NU RU SU ŠU ZU PI UB UD UG AḪ UL UM UN UR [UZ] UŠ UZ UB

-u Ú BU DU GU Ḫ U LU MU NU RU SU ŠU ZU PI UB UD UG AḪ UL UM UN UR [UZ] UŠ UZ UB

On the basis of the use of this syllabary in the Mittani letter, we can distinguish the following phonemes: Vowels: Consonants:

a e i u o (probably long and short) f p t k ḫ š z s l m n r w y (partly long and short)

For the consonants f p t k ḫ š, there existed an opposition short : long (that is, single : geminated).3 The Hurrian scribes made a random choice from the available signs of the Akkadian syllabary, in which the Akkadian opposition voiced : voiceless : emphatic was ignored. For instance, for /t/, the series TA TE TI DU was chosen. The opposition short: long was expressed by gemination: a-ta vs. at-ta. The pronunciation of the long consonants was probably always voiceless, that of the short consonants differred according to position (note

3

The opposition may have been lax : tense, see Thiel (1974:116f, 135).

the adaptation of the cuneiform script

121

that these allophones were only noticed by non-Hurrian speakers). Compare the following spellings in texts from Babylonia and Ugarit, where Semitic languages were spoken: Middle Babylonian:

A-gi–te-šub (Agi-Teššub)

Ugarit (syllabic): Ugarit (alphab.):

A-da-al–še-ni (Adal-šēni) adl-ḏn

vs. Ak-kul–en-ni (Akkul-enni). vs. At-te-nu (Attenu). vs. atn

The pronunciation of the short consonants (at least to non-Hurrian ears) was as follows: 1) voiceless: beginning of a word and in combination with another consonant: talami, “big”; šove, “mine”; aštoḫhe̮ , “feminine”; Tēššoppe < Tēššob-ve, “Teššob’s”. 2) voiced: between vowels, after a liquid (m l n r) and at the end of a word: eže, “earth”; arde, “town”; keldi, “health”; andi, “that”; šēniffuž, “my brother”. Text examples: d

te-e-eš-šu-pa-aš = Tēššobaž; ta-a-nu-u-ša-a-aš-še-na = tānōžaššena

Note the spelling of the following consonants: w is written with Ú: še-e-ni-ip-wu-ú-e-en = šēniffuwen, “my brother’s”.

y is written -i-i-, -i- and -ia-: a-i-i-in = ayn, “if”; at-ta-i-wu-uš = attayvuž, “your father”; ia-a-la-an = yalan, “and the things which . . .”

Particularly interesting are the spellings of the fricatives v and f. Outside Mittani they can be expressed by B, P or W-signs. Compare the following table:

Short Long

Mari

Chagar Bazar

Nuzi

Mittani

w w

b p

w

w pw

Ugarit Alfab. Syll. b b p p

Ḫ attuša b, w

This table shows that these phonemes cannot have been stops, but that the scribes tried to express the fricative consonants v and f. The following examples are taken from the Mittani letter:

122

wilfred h. van soldt še-e-ni-ip-wu-ú-e-en = šēniffuwen, “my brother’s”. at-ta-i-wu-uš = attayvuž, “your father”

Finally, I give an example from the Mittani letter in which the text is given in sign-by-sign transliteration, phonemic transcription and translation. In the phonemic transcription, the morphological elements have been separated by hyphens: (Mitt. letter III:12–13, king Tušratta to the pharao):

un-du-ma-a-an še-e-ni-ip-wu-ú-e-en aš-ti a-ru-u-ša-ú id-du-u-uš-ta-ma-a-an še-e-niip-wu-ta undo-mān šēna-iffu-we-n ašti ar-ōž-av itt-ōšt-a-mān šēna-iffu-da “Now then, my brother’s wife I have given and she has gone to my brother; in-na-a-ma-a-ni-i-in ú-ú-un!-et-ta še-e-ni-ip-wu-uš-ša-a-an wu-re-e-ta innā-mā-nīn ūn-ett-a šēna-iffu-ž+nna-an fur-ed-a when she will come my brother will see her.”

The Case of Ugaritic The city of Ugarit is one of the oldest cities in the Ancient Near East: the first levels of habitation date back to the seventh millennium bc. Until the fourteenth century, there are, as yet, hardly any traces of writing in this city, a situation that can, perhaps, partly be explained by the fact that the excavators have concentrated only on the last phase (fourteenth-twelfth c.). However, in a number of trenches, a few soundings have been made to explore all the lower levels of the city and no textual material has so far emerged from these excavations. It is only from outside Ugarit that we have some earlier evidence for writing, such as the letters written to the pharaohs of Egypt shortly before the Hittite conquest (ca. 1350). It is during the last phase (fourteenth-twelfth c.) and after the Hittite conquest by king Shuppiluliuma I that we find an abundance of written sources. They were discovered in various archives in different parts the city (Yon 2006). The most important archives were located inside the royal palace, a large building of considerable fame – at least in antiquity. No less than five large archives were stored here, mostly on the second floor, in which tablets were partly arranged by general topic. For example, all the texts concerning the relations with the Hittite king, overlord over Syria, and his deputy, the viceroy of Karkamiš, were stored in a special wing. Texts containing juridical records concerning land transfer inside the city-state were stored in another archive. Apart from the palace, there were at least seven major archives in private houses

the adaptation of the cuneiform script

123

where scribes were trained in the craft of their fathers. The scribal profession was a trade as much as that of bakers, singers or soldiers. It is during this period that we find a large bureaucracy in the city. The reason why it was introduced can perhaps be explained by the Hittite conquest of Syria that marks the beginning of writing here around 1330.4 The end of this period came at the beginning of the twelfth century (±1180) when the Levant was overrun by newcomers from the west, the so-called Sea Peoples (Singer 1999). It is possible that the bureaucracy at Ugarit came into being because the city became part of the bureaucracy of the Hittite empire. We find lists of towns and professional groups (‘guilds’) that had to pay their part of the tribute to the Hittite king and taxation could therefore have been an incentive to take over the bureaucratic tradition. However this may be, the scribes faced a difficult task: they had to learn the Mesopotamian languages, Sumerian and Akkadian, both of which were foreign to them. Moreover, their teachers often came from a region where neither Sumerian nor Akkadian were spoken and these languages were as foreign to them as to their pupils. The native language of the scribes was a West Semitic dialect called Ugaritic. In structure this language was relatively close to Akkadian. Both were Semitic languages that shared a number of characteristics such as, for example, the case system. However, Akkadian had lost part of its sound inventory, probably because of its long symbiosis with Sumerian. But Ugaritic still preserved most of the typical Semitic phonemes, in particular, the gutturals and sibilants. It is these two groups on which I would like to concentrate by showing how the West Semitic scribes solved the problems of a script that could not express their complete phonemic inventory. The fact that the scribes in Ugarit had created their own script greatly facilitates the comparison with the Akkadian script. For Ugaritic, an alphabet of 30 signs was used which expressed 28 different consonants. It was written like the Mesopotamian cuneiform script: impressed with a stylus on clay tablets. Only exceptionally were vowels expressed. The Mesopotamian script was syllabic in nature and was able to express vowels as well as consonants. In the following paragraphs I will give comparisons between spellings of Ugaritic words in the Ugaritic alphabet and in the Mesopotamian

4 Naturally, we cannot exclude the possibility that texts had been written in the Middle or the Early Bronze Age. New excavations will probably bring more clarity.

124

wilfred h. van soldt

syllabary. First, I will list the phonemes distinguished by the alphabetic script, then I will give examples of Ugaritic words and names in both scripts. The Ugaritic alphabet distinguishes the following gutturals: velar fricatives: pharyngal fricatives: laryngal fricative: glottal stop:

ḥ ḫ ʿ ,g h ʾ (ʾa-ʾi-ʾu)

Of these, the Akkadian script can only distinguish between ʾ and ḫ. 1) Velar fricatives ḥ and ḫ: ḥ (116x Ḫ):

(6x ø): ḫ (62x Ḫ):

Ugaritic alphabet yḥ šr mnḥ m rḥ bn ʿbdḥ gb mrzḥ rḥ bn ʿbdḫmn ḫrmṯt

Mesop. syllabary ia-ḫé-šar mu-na-ḫé/ḫi-mu ra-aḫ-ba-ni èr-ḫa-gab mar-za-i (also mar-zi-ḫi) ra-bá-ni èr-ḫa-ma-nu ḫa-ar-me-ša-tu

2) Pharyngal fricatives ʿ and ,g: ʿ (32x ʾ): (240x ø):

ǵ (16x Ḫ):

Ugaritic alphabet tbʿ bʿldn mʿrby ʿbd bʿl ʿṯtra͗b knʿm nǵr ǵmr a͗bǵl

Mesop. syllabary ta-ba-ʾa ba-aʾ-la-da-a-ni ma-aʾ-ra-bá ab-du ba-a-lu aš-tar-a-bi ku-un-am-mu ni-iḫ-ru ḫa-ma-ru(-ú) a-bi-ḫé-li

3) laryngal fricative h: h (16x ø):

Ugaritic alphabet thmt hw u͗lnhr

Mesop. syllabary ta-a-ma-tu4 ú-wa ú-lu-na-a-ri

the adaptation of the cuneiform script

125

4) glottal stop ʾ: ʾ (13x ʾ): (300x ø):

Ugaritic alphabet nı͗t yṣa͗ rpa͗n a͗dn rpa͗n nnu͗ ʿmrpı͗

Mesop. syllabary ni-iʾ-tu i-ṣa-ʾa rap-ʾa-a-nu a-da-nu ra-ap-a-nu na-nu-ú am-mu-ra-pí

In accordance with the syllabic orthography the spellings of the gutturals can be divided into three different groups: 1. Syllabic spellings with Ḫ: 2. Syllabic spellings with ʾ or ø: 3. Syllabic spellings with ø:

Ugaritic ǵ - ḥ - ḫ (ḥ sometimes with ø) Ugaritic ʾ - ʿ (ʿ more frequently than ʾ) Ugaritic h

The grouping of these phonemes shows that there was practically a one-to-one correspondence between spellings that expressed the same phoneme (like ḫ) or a phoneme that was very similar (like ǵ), whereas the other phonemes show variation in spelling (like ḥ and ʿ). Note that in Akkadian ʾ is only written when its omission could create confusion. The phoneme h was apparently considered to be too different from ḫ and ʾ. Its place was expressed by additional vowel signs. Since this spelling is also used for long and contracted vowels, the existence of h can only be demonstrated by an alphabetic spelling of the word in question. The Ugaritic alphabet distinguishes the following sibilants: dental fricatives (or affricates): interdental fricatives: alveolar fricative

z s ṣ ḏ ṯ ṯ̣ š

Of these, the Mesopotamian syllabic script only distinguishes z s ṣ š. Thus, the interdental fricatives could not be adequately expressed by the syllabic script. Since the other phonemes are all represented in this script, I will only discuss the interdentals. Interdental fricatives: ḏ (37x Z):

Ugaritic alphabet yʿḏrn ḏmrd ḏkr

Mesop. syllabary ia-(aʾ)-zi-ra-nu zi-im-rad-du za-ki-ru

126

wilfred h. van soldt (3x Š):

ṯ [(2x S):5 (60x Š):

t ̱̣ [(8x Ṣ):6

yʿḏrn ḏmrd ḫrṯt(?) ṯnǵrn u̓nṯ ʿt ̱tr mṯb ṯbʿm ṯrn ̣

ia-aʾ-ši-ra-nu ši-im-rad-dú ḫa-ar-sà-ti] sa-an-ḫa-ra-na] ú-nu-uš-ša aš-ta-ru mu-ša-bu šu-ub-am-mu ṣa-ri-nu]

Apparently ḏ was normally written with Z-signs and occasionally with Š-signs, t ̱ was almost always written with Š-signs, and t ̱ ̣ was probably written with S-̣ signs. The phonemes could thus be expressed adequately by the syllabic cuneiform script and one of the main acoustic characteristics was singled out in the choice of the syllabic sign. Conclusion In this contribution I have tried to show how different languages adopted and adapted the syllabic Mesopotamian cuneiform script to their own needs when they were faced with a significant difference between the Akkadian (usually Babylonian) phoneme inventory and their own. In Mittani this led to a deliberate selection of signs for the syllabary of the Hurrian language. This was achieved by disregarding phoneme oppositions characteristic for Akkadian, both with regard to consonants and to vowels. In Ugarit the substitution of syllabic signs for Ugaritic phonemes that could not be expressed properly is more coincidental and dependent on the scribe who wrote the text; sometimes different spellings are used even within a single text. It is exactly this fluctuation in spelling that gives us some idea of the phonetic differences that must have existed between the Ugaritic sounds and their Akkadian counterparts, at least as the Ugaritic scribes perceived them.7

5 6 7

Since both attestations are not beyond doubt I have put this part between brackets. The evidence is based on a single place name. For Akkadian words written in alphabetic script, see van Soldt (1991:296f).

the adaptation of the cuneiform script

127

References Bryce, T. 2005. The Kingdom of the Hittites, new edition. Oxford. Buccellati, G. & Kelly-Buccellati, M. 1995–96. The Royal Storehouse of Urkesh: The Glyptic Evidence from the Southwestern Wing. Archiv für Orientforschung, 42–43. Bush, F. 1964. A Grammar of the Hurrian Language. Ann Arbor. Klengel, H. 1999. Geschichte des hethitischen Reiches, Handbuch der Orientalistik I/34. Leiden. Neu, E. 1988. Das Hurritische: Eine altorientalische Sprache in neuem Licht. Stuttgart. —— 1996. Das Epos der Freilassung I, Untersuchungen zu einem hurritisch-hethitischen Textensemble aus Ḫ attuša. Studien zu den Boghazköy-Texten 32. Salvini, M. 1998. The Earliest Evidences of the Hurrians Before the Formation of the Reign of Mittanni. Urkesh and the Hurrians, Studies in Honor of Lloyd Cotsen, pp. 99–115. Singer, I. 1999. A Political History of Ugarit. Handbook of Ugaritic Studies. pp. 603–733. Leiden. Steinkeller, P. 1998. The Historical Background of Urkesh and the Hurrian Beginnings in Northern Mesopotamia. Urkesh and the Hurrians, Studies in Honor of Lloyd Cotsen, pp. 75–98. Thiel, H. J. 1974. Phonematik und grammatische Struktur des Hurrischen. In Das hurritologische Archiv, V. Haas and H. J. Thiel (eds.), 98ff. van Soldt, W. H. 1989. An Orthographic Peculiarity in the Akkadian Letters of Tušratta. To the Euphrates and Beyond, Archaeological Studies in Honour of Maurits N. van Loon, pp. 103–115. Rotterdam. —— 1991. Studies in the Akkadian of Ugarit, Dating and Grammar. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 40. Neukirchen-Vluyn. Wegner, I. 2000. Einführung in die hurritische Sprache. Wiesbaden. Wilhelm, G. 1987. EA 24, A letter in Hurrian about marriage and friendship. In W. L. Moran, The Amarna Letters, 63–71 (translation). —— 1988. Gedanken zur Frühgeschichte der Hurriter und zum hurritisch-urartäischen Sprachvergleich. Xenia 21:43–67. —— 1989. The Hurrians, Warminster. —— 1994. Mittan(n)i. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 8, D. O. Edzard et al. (eds.), pp. 286–296. —— 1996. l’Etat actuel et les perspectives des études hourrites. Amurru I:175–87. —— 1998. Die Inschrift des Tišatal von Urkesh. Urkesh and the Hurrians, Studies in Honor of Lloyd Cotsen, pp. 117–143. Yon, M. 2006. The City of Ugarit at Tell Ras Shamra, Winona Lake, Indiana.

LOANWORDS, “FOREIGN WORDS,” AND FOREIGN SIGNS IN MAYA WRITING Erik Boot Introduction The script now generally referred to as Maya writing had its origin in southeastern Mesoamerica, in an area encompassing the present countries of Mexico (the states of Chiapas, Tabasco, Campeche, Yucatan, and Quintano Roo), Belize, Guatemala, and the western parts of Honduras and El Salvador. The earliest now known example of Maya writing dates from circa the fourth to second century bce and was discovered in April of 2005 at the site of San Bartolo, Guatemala (Saturno et al. 2006). Classic Maya writing (circa 250–1000 ce) represented the different Classic Mayan languages through a mixed writing system or script that contained both syllabograms and logograms, i.e., signs that represented syllables (e.g., ’a, ba, ma) and complete words (e.g., K’IN, TUN, YOPAT).1 In total some 650 to 700 signs were developed. In

1 In this essay the following orthography will be employed: ’, a, b, ch, ch’, e, h, j, i, k, k’, l, m, n, o, p, p’, s, t, t’, tz, tz’, u, w, x, and y. In this orthography the /h/ represents a glottal aspirate or glottal voiced fricative (/h/ as in English “house”), while /j/ represents a velar aspirate or velar voiced fricative (/j/ as in Spanish “joya”) (Grube 2004a). In this essay there is no reconstruction of complex vowels based on disharmonic spellings (compare to Houston, Stuart & Robertson 1998 [2004] and Lacadena & Wichmann 2004, n.d.; for counter proposals see Kaufman 2003 and Boot 2004, 2005a). In the transcription of Maya hieroglyphic signs uppercase bold type face letters indicate logograms (e.g., TUN), while lowercase bold type face letters indicate syllabic signs (e.g., ba). Queries added to sign identifications or transcribed values express doubt on the identification of the assigned logographic or syllabic value. Items placed between square brackets are so-called infixed signs (e.g., po[mo]); order of the transcribed signs indicates the epigraphically established reading order. All transliterations are placed in italics (e.g., uyum); reconstructed sounds in transliterations are placed within square brackets (e.g., yune[n]). All reconstructions (i.e., transliterations) in this essay are but approximations of the original intended Classic Maya (“epigraphic”) linguistic items (Boot 2002: 6–7), a written language which was employed by the various distinct language groups already formed in the Classic period. Stress in Mayan words is not indicated in this essay, unless it does not fall on the last syllable (e.g., *pátah). The occasional citing of so-called T-numbers (e.g., T12) refers to the hieroglyphic signs as numbered and cataloged by Thompson (1962).

130

erik boot

the early phase of the Classic period the number was some 125 to 300 signs were in use, during the middle phase of the Classic period some 300 to 360 signs, while in the late phase of the Classic period some 200 to 300 signs were being used. In the late Postclassic period (circa 1250–1525 ce) the Maya screenfold books employed close to 300 different signs (see Grube 1990a). While there is a tendency to employ more syllabic signs towards the late Postclassic period, Maya writing was and always remained a mixed script. The last hieroglyphic manuscripts were probably composed at the Itza’ island capital of Tayasal (*Ti-Ah Itza’-il “At the Itza’ People Place”), at the end of the seventeenth century in the central Peten, Guatemala, just before the Spanish conquest in 1697 ce.2 At present some 30 different Mayan languages are still spoken in the same area once covered by Classic Maya civilization. In total some five million people speak a Mayan language as their first language; some languages are represented by only a few speakers (e.g., Itza’, only 10–12 speakers), while others have many hundreds of thousands of speakers (e.g., Yucatec, over 750,000 speakers). The basic syllable structure of Mayan words is monosyllabic and of the form CVC (Campbell & Kaufman 1985: 193),3 consonant-vowel-consonant; less common is CVCVC. Thus generally words in Mayan languages end in closed syllables (i.e., the final sound is a consonant). Mayan languages are synthetic and agglutinative. Syntactic relations within sentences are indicated through inflection and suffixes of all type are attached to the root of an expression (e.g., bak “bone,” ubakel “his bone”; chum “sit,” chumlajijiy “he sat [long ago]”). Stress is mostly on the last syllable. Word order is predominantly VOS (verb-object-subject). The different Mayan languages evolved from the proto-Mayan language (Kaufman

2

On April 10, 1699, in a sworn testimony now at the General Archive of the Indies in Seville, Spain, two Yucatecan clergymen named Morales and Mora referred to “books made of tree-bark, and their pages of betun [stucco page coating], in which they kept their prophecies, and which are presently in the possession of Señor Don Martín de Ursua [conqueror of Tayasal]” (Jones 1994: 106–107). 3 The root shapes are CVC, CVVC, CV’C, CVV’C (or CV’V1C), CVhC, and CVVhC (e.g., Kaufman 1976: 106; compare to Brown & Wichman 2003: 139; Houston, et al. 1998; Lacadena & Wichmann 2004, n.d.). Whether there were hieroglyphic spelling conventions, established early on and/or developed gradually as the writing system and languages evolved, that guarded and guided vowel complexity during the course of the development and evolution of Maya writing is a matter of debate. See note 1.

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

131

& Norman 1985: 80, note 3),4 which has no apparent genetic affiliation with any of the other language families in Mesoamerica (Campbell & Kaufman 1985: 191). During their history Mayan languages were in contact with surrounding and nearby languages as well as languages located further away (Figure 1),5 mostly through socio-political, religious, and/or economic relationships (e.g., Justeson et al. 1985). In this essay I present a short but critical overview of loanwords which have been discussed in recent epigraphic and linguistic research (Kaufman 2003, Lacadena & Wichmann 2004, Macri & Looper 2003, Meléndez & Pallan 2005). To this I add one important lexical item which previously has not been identified as containing a possible loanword. Additionally, I discuss the presence of several rare examples of “foreign” words in Maya writing as well as the presence of non-native script signs in Maya writing. What is a Loanword, “Foreign Word,” and Foreign Sign? Within the context of this essay I employ the following descriptive definitions for loanword, “foreign word,” and foreign sign: Loanword: That word or expression which is not native to the language that records it. Within time it has been fully integrated within that language and defines an important natural or cultural object or concept originally unknown to that language or the loanword has obtained an important and prestigious place and it may be, but not necessarily is, supraordinate to, or may even replace, (an) indigenous word(s) or expression(s) with the same meaning. Foreign Word: That word or expression which is not native to the language that records it. It is of recent time, not fully integrated within that language, but it defines an important natural or cultural object or 4 The approximately thirty Mayan languages and their genetic groupings within the family can be found summarized and outlined in tabular format in Bricker (2004: Figure 43.1), Campbell and Kaufman (1984: Figure 1), Dahlin, Quizar, and Dahlin (1987: Figure 1, with lexicostatistical estimates), Kaufman (1976: Table 1, with lexicostatistical estimates), Kaufman and Norman (1984: Table 1), and Stuart, Houston, and Robertson (1999; table on page II-5, with a different genetic grouping in regard to the Huastecan languages). 5 This map only illustrates the locations of the Mesoamerican languages at the time of contact. The early phases regarding original location, movement, and final dispersal of all Mesoamerican languages, many of which have an ancestry of some 4000 to 5000 years, is most difficult to ascertain, especially in combination with archaeological remains.

132

erik boot

a

b Figure 1. Maps, a) Linguistic map of Mesoamerica at the time of contact (map by T. Kaufman, after Lacadena 2005), b) Map of Mesoamerica, with sites mentioned in this essay (map by the author; location of sites only approximate).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

133

concept and it is generally subordinate to (an) indigenous word(s) or expression(s) with the same meaning. Foreign Sign: That sign or combination of signs which is not native to the writing system or script that employs it. The sign or signs have characteristics uncommon to the adoptive script, which can be established based on comparative research.

The language or writing system that provides the lexical items and/or signs can be identified as the donor language or writing system, while the language or writing system that receives the lexical items and/or signs can be identified as the recipient language or writing system. The successful adoption of loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs depends on the level of contact intensity between the identified linguistic (and cultural) communities (e.g., Curnow 2001, Thomason & Kaufman 1988). With regards to both loanwords and “foreign words” the following has to be observed: A loanword, within its process of adoption, may have undergone specific phonological changes, especially when the loanword contains phonemes unknown to the adopting language; also morphological changes are possible, e.g., the deletion and/or addition of meaningful suffixes. A foreign word may undergo (a) similar phonological and morphological change(s) (compare to Campbell & Kaufman 1976: 82–84; Justeson et al. 1985: 3–4).

Foreign signs may, although not necessarily, undergo a similar process in which non-indigenous donor signs are graphically adjusted (e.g., size; shape [square, rounded]; rotation; scribal direction) to correlate with the adoptive and recipient indigenous writing system. The study of the presence of loanwords and foreign words is a recent trend in Maya epigraphic and linguistic studies (e.g., Dakin & Wichmann 2000, Macri & Looper 2003, Meléndez & Pallan 2005), although earlier important studies have appeared (e.g., Campbell & Kaufman 1976, Justeson et al. 1985). In three sections I discuss a small selection of possible loanwords, foreign words, and a variety of foreign signs. Loanwords A small selection of loanwords has entered Mayan languages and subsequently an even smaller selection entered Maya writing at different moments in time. Some words are common in some or even many

134

erik boot

a

b

d

g

c

e

h

f

i

j

Figure 2. Possible loanwords, a) yum, in spelling ’u-yu-mu, b) unen, in spelling ’u-2ne, c) chik, in spelling bu-tz’a[ja] SAK-chi[ku], d) tzima’, in spelling ’u-tzima-li, e) patah, in spelling pa-ta-ha, f ) kakaw, in spelling ka-2ka-wa, g) ul, in spelling ti-’u-lu, h) pom, in spelling 6-[po]mo, i) patan, in spelling ’u-pa-ta-na, j) ko’haw, in spelling ’u-KO’HAW-wa (drawings by various artists).

Mayan languages, but only appear in Maya writing in unique or rare instances. Other possible loanwords are more abundant in writing. The first loanword presented here is yum “boss, master; father” (Figure 2a). This word occurs at present only once in the whole corpus of Maya hieroglyphic texts,6 in a possible parentage statement. It occurs

6 In my personal epigraphic research I have identified a spelling yu-ma in the Paris Codex (page 7) and transliterated this spelling as yum “father, boss, patron” (Boot 2002: 93). This would be the second example, although the context is less clear. Possibly it functions as an opening epithet yum . . . “master/father . . .” (note in present-day Yucatec Maya for instance Yum Ixim “Master/Father of the Corn” and Yum K’aax “Master/ Father of the Forest.” This glyphic example for yum was not included by Lacadena and Wichmann (2004: 162).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

135

in the text on a stuccoed and painted early Classic ceramic vessel from Río Azul (Guatemala) in a spelling ’u-yu-mu, as first identified by Stuart (1997: 4–5).7 The transcription ’u-yu-mu leads to a transliteration uyum, in which the third person pre-consonantal possessive pronoun u- can be identified, prefixed to the noun yum. This word yum can be found in the following Mayan languages: Yucatec yu:m (no tones), #yum Lacandon @k-yum Mopan ki-yum, tiyum Ch’orti’ yum Ch’olti’ #yum Ch’ol yum, yujmel Q’eqchi’ yum, xkab yum, xyum wanab (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 110, /@/ represents the /schwa/, /:/ indicates vowel length; compare to Dienhart 1989: 231–233)

For these Lowland Mayan languages the original form *yuum has been reconstructed (Kaufman 2003: 110). Q’eqchi’, a language in the Greater K’iche’an language group, possibly adopted the word from one of the Eastern Ch’olan languages (Ch’olti’, Ch’orti’), although a direct diffusion from one of Yucatecan languages is possible too. Researchers have offered two different proposals on the origin of this word. According to Kaufman (2003: 110) the Maya word yum is a loanword from MixeZoquean languages, based on the proto-Zoquean word *yumi “boss, patron.” Commonly the word in Mixe-Zoquean languages is of the shape CVCV. If correct, in this proposal the loanword yumi lost the -i (an open syllable, a characteristic not common to Mayan languages) and became a simple CVC root (the most common root in Mayan words). However, according to Wichmann (in Lacadena & Wichmann 2004: 162), Mayan languages adapted the word from a proto-Zoquean word *’omi “boss, father” (note Wichmann 1995: 262, proto-Zoquean *ko’omi “boss, host,” item ?O#027). If this proposal is correct, after adoption the word underwent a root vowel change (/o/ > /u/), the opening sound /’-/ was replaced by /y-/,8 and the suffix /-i/ (an open syllable)

7

The 1997 article is based on a 1989 paper presented at the Language of Maya Hieroglyphs: An Interdisciplinary Conference. 8 Note Central Zoquean coymi at Tecpatán and Southern Zoquean koymí’ (no community indicated) (after Wichmann 1995: 262). These entries seem to contribute to an understanding of the phonological process that led to the appearance of the phoneme /y/. However, this evolution takes place in Zoquean, not in Mayan.

136

erik boot

was dropped to arrive at yum. Although this is possible, at present I have more confidence in the reconstruction as suggested by Kaufman. In Mayan languages, the indigenous words for “father” descended from proto-Mayan *#taata’ (Kaufman 2003: 112). The example of uyum “(he is) the father of . . .” in a relationship statement is unique, as most commonly relationship statements identify the subject of a sentence as “child of mother” and “child of father” (or vice versa, depending on region in the Maya area, see Boot 2005b: 213).9 The second loanword discussed here is unen “child of father” (Figure 2b). This word occurs within certain parentage statements (in possessed form, y-unen “[he is] the child of father named . . .”) (Hopkins 1991, his study includes a discussion of the origin and evolution of the word; compare Stuart 1997: 3) as well as in the proper name of an important god at the sites of Palenque and Tortuguero (named Unen K’awil “Child K’awil”). Within the context of a parentage statement the word unen occurs in hieroglyphic texts in the Early Classic (e.g., Kerr No. 1216, yu-ne > yunen[n]) and the late Classic (e.g., Ichmac, Glyphic Band, Stone 2, yu-ne-ta-ka > yune[n]tak).10 The spelling ’u-2ne leads to a transliteration unen.11 The word unen can be found in the following Mayan languages: Ch’orti’ Tzeltal Tojolab’al Chuj

unen, onen unin unin unin, uninal, unen

9 Other rare parentage/relationship statements include u-mam (’u-MAM-ma; ’u-ma-ma) “the (maternal) grandfather/son of,” u-mim (’u-mi-mi) “the grandmother of,” y-atan (ya-TAN-na) “the wife/partner of,” and ya-BAT/ya-BAT-na/ya-na-BAT “the mother of.” This last collocation is not yet securely deciphered (BAT is a sign that represents a leaf-nosed bat head). It was Yuriy Polyukhovich who some years ago noted the spelling ya-la-na (y-alan) on the Castillo Bowl in the Museo Popol Vuh collection, which may provide a syllabic substitution for ya-BAT-na. 10 The spelling yu-ne-ta-ka at Ichmac leads to an item yune[n]tak or y-une[n]-tak, in which y- is the third person pre-vocalic possessive pronoun and -tak is a rare plural suffix on animate objects. The hieroglyphic band at Ichmac (Campeche, Mexico) unfortunately has survived in an incomplete state, but in front of this relationship statement thus two or more names should have appeared. The name of the father appears after the y-une[n]tak expression (Pollock 1980: Figure 802d) and tentatively I identify it in another context at the more important and nearby site (ca. 15 km to the southwest) of Xcalumkin (Lintel 4, Front: B; Graham and Von Euw 1992: 161). 11 In the transcription ’u-2ne the 2ne means that the sign is doubled (2ne > ne-ne); the Maya employed two small dots to indicate the doubling of certain signs (or, when space permitted the scribes doubled the sign). This particular Classic Maya scribal convention was identified first by Stuart (1988; also see Stuart & Houston 1994).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

137

Jacateco w-unin Qanjob’al unin Acateco unin Popti’ unin, w-unin (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 117 and Dienhart 1989: 592–595)

According to Kaufman (2003: 117) the word unen, as it is found in Classic Maya inscriptions, is based on a loanword from Mixe-Zoquean. The above Lowland and Western Mayan languages obtained the word *’une.. (sic; final phoneme in the suggested reconstructed proto-term at present is unknown) “(male) son of father” from that language group. The terminal sound /-e../ may have been an open syllable (common to Mixe-Zoquean languages)12 and possibly it was replaced by a reduplicated root consonant /-n/. Mayan languages do have a pair of indigenous terms to refer to children, for instance Yucatecan languages have al (child of mother) and mehen (male son of father). Nobles were known as almehen; their descent was known in both lines. In Ch’orti’ the pair seems to be al (“mother’s child”) and unen/onen (“father’s son”), in which the loanword has replaced the indigenous term.13 In Classic Maya the predominant pair may have been al (“mother’s child”) and mijin (“father’s son”).14 12 Note Wichmann (1995: 255, item ?U#026), who reconstructs proto-Mixe-Zoquean *’unV(k) “child” and proto-Zoquean *’une “child” (compare to Campbell & Kaufman 1976: 86, item 40). Also note Wichmann (1995: 256, item ?U#032) who has protoZoquean *yawa-’une as “baby.” In both cases the reconstructed form *’une ends in an open syllable. 13 The onen groups among the Lacandon Maya, a (now defunct) zoomorphic system of association in which each individual born had an animal companion of some kind (Bruce 1979: 23–24), ultimately may have been derived from unilateral male descent groups or lines (from unen, onen, “male son of father”) which had an exclusive association with certain animals. The onen animal companion was inherited from one’s father (McGee 1990: 30). At one time the onen determined permissible and non-permissible marriages (Bruce 1979: 25). An onen had one or two common animal names and a ceremonial name (McGee 1990: Table 3.3). As Boremanse (1998: 104) summarized, “ideally, Lacandon onen could be seen as local descent groups, with patrilineal descent and virilocal residence.” Lacandon Maya belongs to the Yucatecan language family, which possibly lost the loanword unen. The fact that unen is found recorded at Ichmac, a site well within the Yucatecan speaking Maya area, may indicate that at one time Yucatec Maya had such a word. Alternatively, unen/onen as a word and its associated meaning possibly diffused from a neighboring Mayan language and may have been adopted as it carried more prestige in contrast to a native term. 14 This epigraphic Classic Maya pair is based on a recent proposal by Stephen Houston and Marc Zender that T534 is logographic MIJIN, based on the rare prefixed phonetic complement mi- (as identified first by Stephen Houston) and the common postfixed -na. The al reading is based on the generally accepted syllabic transparant spelling ya-la for y-al “([s]he is) the child of mother” (Stuart 1997: 2).

138

erik boot

The third possible loanword is chik (Figure 2c). The word chik possibly can be found in a nominal phrase of the third Palenque king named Butz’aj Sakchik, the third ruler of that archaeological site. The examples of his nominal date from the seventh and eight century ce. The spelling chi-ku in his nominal phrase leads to a transliteration chik, which is often translated as “coati.” The word chik “coati” can be found in the following Mayan languages: Yucateco chik, chiik Itza’ chik, chi’ik Mopan chi’ik, kotonchi’ik Cholti’ chiik Chontal ajchiku (linguistic data after Boot 2000a: 2, Dienhart 1989: 130 and Kaufman 2003: 581)

The Itza’ and Mopan entries are reflexes of the proto-Yucatecan term *chi’k (Kaufman 2003: 581). The Eastern Mayan item seems to be diffused from the Yucatecan languages to Ch’olti’ (a language now extinct). Kaufman (2003: 581) has suggested that proto-Yucatecan *chi’k “coati” is a loan from proto-Mixe-Zoquean *tziku (note Bricker et al. 1998: 70, *chiku; note Wichmann 1995: 268 *ciku “coati,” item CI#016).15 The root -chiku in the Chontal entry is particularly close to the proposed loanword *tziku. Indigenous terms for “coati” include kojtom (Eastern languages), siis (K’iche’an languages), and tz’utz’ (proto-Mayan *tz’utz’[ub], non-Eastern languages) (Boot 2000a: 2–3, although different species may have been grouped together; compare Campbell 2004: 73). The Maya glyphic spelling chi-ku seems to contain the sounds present in the original loanword (accepting a /tz/ > /ch/ evolution). However, as I have suggested on another occasion, the nominal phrase Butz’aj Sakchik should not be analyzed as “Smoking (butz’aj) White (sak) Coati (chik)” (a common interpretation among some epigraphers), but as “Smoking (butz’aj) Lark (sakchik)” (Boot 2000a: 4). If my estimation is correct, the glyphic spelling chi-ku in this particular context has nothing to do with the suggested loanword *tziku as it does not refer to a mammal (coati), but to a bird species (lark). The spelling chi-ku

15 Campbell (2004: 73), following Justeson et al. (1985: 24), notes that while protoMixe-Zoque had *tziku “coati-mundi,” the Mixe branch, due to sound changes, produced the reflex *chik. From this, Campbell writes, “it appears that Yucatecan took the word more directly from the Mixe branch.” This suggestion does not explain Chontal -chiku.

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

139

appears in another context, as part of a toponym that refers to a location at the archaeological site of Calakmul, namely chi[ku]-NAB for chiknab (e.g., Calakmul Stela 114). Possibly in this toponym the part chik may have the meaning “coati,” while nab may have the meaning “pool, pond; lagoon” (Kaufman 2003: 429, proto-Mayan *najb). The fourth possible loanword is tzima’ “calabash (Spanish: jícara)” (Figure 2d). It has been identified only once in the corpus of Maya hieroglyphic texts (Reents-Budet 1994: 127, Fig. 4.19), in a text painted on a thin-walled gourd-shaped Classic ceramic vessel (see Boot 2005b: 9). The spelling can be transcribed ’u-tzi-ma-li and transliterated as utzima[’]il.16 In this item u- is the third person pre-consonantal possessive pronoun and -il is a common possessive suffix on (a) certain class(es) of nouns. In Mayan languages the following entries can be found: Huasteco tzima’ Ch’orti’ tzimaj Ch’ol tzimaj Tzotzil tzima Tzeltal tzima Tojolab’al tzima Chuj tzima Qanjob’al tzima Acateca tzima Popti’ tzima Mocho tzi’m Tuzanteco tzi’m Teco qtzimaq’ Mam tzma, tzma’ Awacateca tzimaa’ Ixil tzimay K’iche’ tzimay Sipacapense tzmay Tzutujil tzimaay Kaqchikel tzimay Q’eqchi’ #tzima, tzimaj johm (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 993)

According to Kaufman (2003: 993), the above cognates (spread over representatives of most Mayan language sub-groups and families) descend

16

Reents-Budet (1994) and the present author (Boot 2005b: 9) once opted for a transliteration utzimal. However, based on the reflexes of the proto-Mayan word *tzima(’) a transliteration u-tzima[’]-il, as proposed here, is to be preferred in Classic (“epigraphic”) Maya.

140

erik boot

from proto-Mayan *tzima(’).17 This particular word was borrowed from proto-Mixe-Zoquean, *tzima’ “calabash” (Kaufman 2003: 993; note Campbell & Kaufman 1976: 84, *¢ima [item 2] and Wichmann 1995: *cima “jícara/bowl made out of a gourd,” item CI#021). If correct, this loanword retained the ending /-a’/, which in some cases was reduced to /-a/ (an open syllable) as in tzima, but which in other cases evolved to /-ay/ and /-aay/ (closed syllables) as in tzimay and tzimaay and even was deleted as in tzi’m. In the late Classic period (circa 750–900 ce) the spelling ’u-tzi-ma-li suggests a shape utzima[’]il, in which tzima[’] would be the late Classic reflex of proto-Mixe-Zoquean *tzima’. The tzima’ “calabash” was and is an important cultigen in the Maya area. The fifth possible loanword discussed here is patah “guava, guayaba (a certain fruit)” (Figure 2e). The word occurs in a nominal phrase of the mother of a king of the archaeological site of Bonampak and can be found written pa-ta-ha and pa-ta (an abbreviation) (Boot 2002: 67). In Mayan languages one can find: Mopan p@ta, pataj Ch’orti’ pata, pataj Ch’olti’ #pata Ch’ol p@taj Tzotzil patá, poto, potow Tzeltal páta, patá Tojolab’al páta Chuj pata, patak Q’anjob’al pata Acateca pata Popti’ pata’ Mocho’ pataj Tuzanteco patah Q’eqchi’ pata, patá, patah, patahl, paataahl (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 1102 [/@/ represents the /schwa/ and Dienhart 1989: 303–304)

According to Kaufman (2003: 1102) proto-Mayan *pátah was adopted from the proto-Zoquean word *patajaC (unknown final consonant) “guayaba” (compare Campbell & Kaufman 1976: 84, item 10). Presence of stress in the first syllable is a good indicator of foreign origin. If cor-

17

Note the absence of a reflex of proto-Mayan *tzima(’) in the Yucatecan languages group (Yucateco, Itza’, Mopan, and Lacandon). These languages possess a variety of indigenous words that refer to various kinds of calabashes, most common of which are homa’, lek, and luch (e.g., Barrera Vásquez et al. 1980: 229, 444, and 464).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

141

rect, by Classic times the final syllable was dropped as the loanword now followed the CVCVC pattern of a small group of Mayan words (e.g., balam, balun, lajun, k’awil, yopat). Meléndez & Pallan (2005: 4) suggest that the Classic Maya term patah descended from pataŋ (a word ending in a velar nasal), as known in Sierra Popoluca. At present I have more confidence in the suggestion by Kaufman. Proto-Mayan also had *(’i) kaq’ as a word for “guava, guayaba,” the cognates of which survive in the Greater K’iche’an and Mamean languages (Kaufman 2003: 1101). Possibly the loanword *pátah replaced the indigenous word *(’i)kaq’ in the Lowland Mayan languages. The sixth loanword is kakaw “cacao” (Figure 2f ). This word occurs frequently in dedicatory texts on ceramics in a part that describes the contents of ceramic containers. The word was identified first by Lounsbury in the Dresden Codex, one of four surviving late Postclassic (ca. 1250–1525 ce) screenfold books, identifying an offering of cacao. It was subsequently identified by Stuart (1988) in the hieroglyphic text on a stirrup lidded vessel found at the archaeological site of Río Azul spelled ka-2ka-wa (illustrated). The common spelling is ka-ka-wa, but also 2ka-wa, ka-ka, ka-wa, and ka can be found. The last three spellings are abbreviated spellings. The following Mayan languages record the word: Huasteco Yucateco Itza’ Lacandon Mopan Ch’orti’ Ch’ol Tzotzil Tzeltal Chuj Q’anjob’al Acateco Popti’ Tuzanteco Teco Mam Awateco Ixil Uspanteco K’iche’ Sipacapense

kakaw chukua, kakaw kakaw k@kaw, k@kow kàkàj, kukuj kakaw k@k@w kokow kakaw kakaw kakaw kakaw kakaw kakaw kakaw kiku, kukuuw, kyikyiw kyikyuj kakaau, kikyuj kakaw kakaw, kako kakaw

142

erik boot Tzutujil kokow Kaqchikel kakow, kaakow, kakaw, kako’u Poqomam kakau, kakawaa Poqomchi’ kakau, kikow (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 1104 and Dienhart 1989: 102–103; /@/ represents the /schwa/)

Kaufman (2003: 1104, Campbell 2004: 73, Campbell & Kaufman 1976: 84, item 1) reconstructed the term *kakaw for proto-Mayan and suggested that that language borrowed the term from proto-Mixe-Zoquean *kakawa or perhaps *kakaw. The first occurrence of the word kakaw in a Maya text dates at present from the mid-fifth century (and is the example illustrated); it is found on the stuccoed and painted stirrup lidded vessel from the archaeological site of Río Azul that also contained the item yum mentioned above. A chemical analysis of residue found in the vessel indicated that the vessel indeed had contained a cacao drink (Hall et al. 1990). If the Mixe-Zoquean word *kakawa is the correct loanword, it would mean that in the process of adoption the final open syllable was dropped; if the word *kakaw is the correct loanword, this would mean that proto-Mayan adopted the term in straightforward fashion to which would attest most of the present-day reflexes. This most viable reconstruction of the process of adoption has been challenged in a recent article by Dakin & Wichmann (2003). These authors suggest that kakaw was not a native Mixe-Zoquean word, but that that language adopted the term kakawa-tl “cacao” from an Uto-Aztecan language, possibly by the first/second century ce after the split of the main branch into proto-Mixean and proto-Zoquean (Dakin & Wichmann 2003: 57). One of the basic arguments is that the word structure CVCVCV is uncommon to Mixe-Zoquean languages; the same is also true for the shape CVCVC (as the common MixeZoquean syllable structure is CVCV). The Uto-Aztecan word kakawa-tl is probably a descriptive term based on *kawa “egg” (a word later lost in Uto-Aztecan languages) and it followed a pattern of reduplication to set it apart from the original referent (Dakin & Wichmann 2003: 58–60). If this reconstruction is correct, Mayan languages borrowed the word prior to the mid-fifth century ce directly from an Uto-Aztecan language, Náhuatl.18 And if this alternative proposal is correct, in 18 If the Náhuatl origin of the word kakaw is correct, the word should not and can not be reconstructed back into proto-Mayan, as the word would have been adopted from the time of the first to second century ce onwards, when also the first Teotihuacan-

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

143

the process of adoption the ending -atl was dropped. A CVCVCVC structure is uncommon for a noun and the sound /-tl/ is unknown in Mayan languages (see below). The seventh possible loanword discussed here is ul “atole (cornmeal, mash, gruel)” (Figure 2g). The most common spelling, as found on Maya ceramics, that refers to the contents of the ceramic container as ul, is ’u-lu, but also a spelling ’u-li can be found (Kerr 1989: 103, Kerr 1994: 544). 19 The word ul can be found in the following Mayan languages: Yucateco ’uul Ch’ol ul Tzeltal ul Tuzanteco ’ulul Tojolab’al ulul Chuj ulul Q’anjob’al ulul Acateco ulul Popti’ ulul Mocho’ ’ulul Q’eqchi’ ’ulul (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 1186)

For proto-Mayan, Kaufman (2003: 1186) reconstructed the shape *’uul and suggested that it is based on a word *’unu “atole” which was adopted from proto-Zoquean. If correct, the Zoquean word lost the final open

derived architecture occurs in the Maya area (at Tikal). At that time already some ten distinct Mayan languages can be identified (for which I apply lexicostatistical estimates, if those are correct) (see Kaufman & Norman 1985: Table 1). This also means that the word diffused rapidly to the other existing Mayan languages and eventually was adopted by all, possibly replacing any (now lost) indigenous word or words for kakaw as the cacao tree, Theobroma cacao L., is native to tropical Central America (which includes the tropical part of the Maya area). Although the exact original location of Uto-Aztecan languages is debated, it was not located in a tropical zone, but far north in Mesoamerica (or even outside of it). Based on the fact that Early Classic examples of cacao iconography seem to be rooted deeply in Maya religious thought (e.g., vessel at Dumbarton Oaks, see Miller & Martin 2004: 78–79), I am still somewhat hesitant to accept the Náhuatl origin of the word kakaw. Alternatively, the Náhuatl kakawa:tl may be unrelated to proto-Mixe-Zoquean *kakaw(a) and proto-Mayan *kakaw and its apparent donor status simply may be based on a comparable lexical shape with very similar phonemes that evolved through chance (see Aikhenvald & Dixon 2001: 2). 19 Lacadena and Wichmann (2004: 158) do not include the spellings ’u-li, only ’u-lu. Also Kaufman (2003: 1186) only refers to a spelling ’u-lu. In my Classic Maya English vocabulary I only included the spelling ’u-lu (Boot 2002: 81), to which the ’u-li is added in an upcoming updated version.

144

erik boot

syllable and the terminal consonant -n changed to -l through some phonological process. Also the root vowel was lengthened. Lacadena and Wichmann (2003: 158) reconstruct the word to proto-Mayan (basing themselves on Kaufman & Norman 1984: 135, item no. 596), but do not suggest a loanword scenario. Meléndez & Pallan (2005: 4) follow Kaufman’s suggestion. Indigenous Mayan words for “atole (cornmeal, mash, gruel)” include proto-Mayan *maatz’, Lowland Mayan *sa’, and Greater Kiche’an *joch’ (Kaufman 2003: 1184–1185, 1187), as well as the descriptive terms sakha’ “white water” and uk’ha’ “drink water” in the Greater Mamean languages (Kaufman 2003: 1185). The word ul was included in primary dedicatory texts on late Classic ceramics, which were used in an elite context (although most are without known provenance). Possibly the loanword ul carried more prestige in this context, but sa’ and the descriptive term sakha’ are also recorded.20 The eighth possible loanword is pom “incense (copal)” (Figure 2h). The word is spelled po[mo]; the Dresden Codex example can be transcribed 6-po[mo] for wak pom “six (times) incense.” This word pom is known in the following Mayan languages: Yucateco Itza’ Mopan Ch’olti’ Ch’ol Tzoztil Tzeltal Tojolab’al Chuj Q’anjob’al Popti’ Mocho’ Tuzanteco Teco Mam Awateco

poom pom pom #pom pom pom pom pom pom pom pom poom poom pom poon pom, poom

20 At present I have identified two possible examples of sakha’ in dedicatory texts on ceramics (over 625 dedicatory texts in database). One is recorded in the dedicatory rim text on a small cup (Hellmuth 1987: Figure 411, yuk’ib sakha’ “the drink-instrument [for] sakha’ ”), the second is recorded in the dedicatory rim text on a straight-walled vessel (Kerr 1989: 639, yuk’ib ta sakha’ “the drink-instrument for sakha’ ”). The term sa’ “atole” is found spelled with the syllabic sign sa on the body of small flared vessels within court scenes on Late Classic ceramics (e.g., Kerr No. 8008).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

145

Ixil pom Uspanteco poom K’iche’ poom Sipacapense pom Sacapulteco pom Tzutujil poon Kaqchikel pom Poqomam poom, puam Poqomchi’ pom, poom Q’eqchi’ pom, poom (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 1358–1359 and Dienhart 1989: 352–354)

The proto-Mayan shape, from which these cognates descend, has been reconstructed as *poom (Brown & Wichmann 2004: 177, Kaufman 2003: 1358), the reflex of a loanword *poom@ diffused from proto-MixeZoquean (Kaufman 2003: 1358; /@/ represents the /schwa/; also see Campbell & Kaufman 1976: 85, item 19). According to this proposal, in its process of adoption the loanword lost its final open syllable /-@/ (uncommon to Mayan languages), but in most languages retained the vowel length. Most of the Lowland and Western Mayan languages shortened the vowel, while some Highland languages changed the final consonant from a bilabial nasal (/-m/) to an alveolar nasal (/-n/). Incense is commonly made from the resin or sap of the copal tree; Mayan languages do provide indigenous words for tree-derived “resin,” “sap” (Lowland Mayan: *iitz), as well as “gum” (Eastern Mayan: *q’ool) (after Kaufman 2003: 1047–1048 and Dienhart 1989: 352–354). Possibly the cultural importance and prestige of the Mixe-Zoquean loanword pom outweighed the indigenous words; in many instances the indigenous words were replaced or they shifted their meaning (e.g., q’ool “gum” > “turpentine, pitch”). The complex visual narratives contained in the murals at San Bartolo, Guatemala include several short captions that identify events and participants, although many of the signs employed remain undeciphered. One of the few captions that can be transcribed without difficulty is po-mo-ja (Figure 3). Saturno, Taube & Stuart (2005: 41) tentatively suggest that the part po-mo may hint at pom “incense,” but they remained doubtful as they could not explain the final syllabic sign -ja. Wichmann (2006: 1–2) suggests that the spelling po-mo-ja may hint at a word pomoj, the Mayan rendition of the loanword *pomoh “incense” of proto-Zoquean origin or perhaps *po:moh (/:/ indicates lengthened vowel) of pre-proto-Zoquean origin. This particular hieroglyphic

146

erik boot

Figure 3. The spelling po-mo-ja, San Bartolo (drawing by David Stuart, after Saturno et al. 2005: Figure 31).

text at San Bartolo dates to circa the first century bce (Saturno et al. Stuart 2005: 6–7) and thus pom constitutes one of the earliest attested loanwords. The loanword may have entered through the (pre-)protoZoquean speaking communities of Chiapas or Veracruz a few hundred years earlier to eventually diffuse to all Mayan languages. According to Wichmann, after this early recording of the item pomoj it came to loose the ending -oj.21 The ninth possible loanword discussed here is patan, a word with the meaning “tribute, service” (Figure 2i). It can be found spelled pa-ta in the majority of examples known, and is discussed as such in previous research (Kaufman 2003: 59, Macri & Looper 2003: 289–290, Meléndez & Pallan 2005: 8). However, one unique spelling gives ’u-pa-ta-na 21 Here I suggest a different interpretation. The spelling po-mo-ja leads to an item pom-aj, in which pom indeed is the Maya rendition of the proto-Zoquean loanword for “incense.” The final syllabic sign -ja is employed in much later hieroglyphic texts to lead to an ending -aj through a process of vowel insertion (e.g., 2tzu-ja > tzu-tzu-ja > tzu[h]tz-aj; chu[ku]-ja > chu[h]k-aj). Although this Late Classic convention is within verbal context, it may be applicable in this late Preclassic example. What would pom-aj mean? I suggest that pom-aj means “incense-person.” The suffix -aj “person,” based on the general agentive aj (Kaufman 2003: 83), can be found spelled with T12 ’AJ/’a (a process of acrophony probably reduced ’AJ to simply ’a in the Late Classic) in both Early Classic (e.g., Río Azul Looted Mask, k’uh-aj “god-person”) and Late Classic contexts (e.g., Palenque, Temple XIX, joch’-k’ak’-aj “drill-fire-person”). In the mural at San Bartolo the spelling po-mo-ja can be found next to a male human figure, his body painted black, and with both hands above his head he carries a rectangular object clouded in thick, dark smoke scrolls probably emanating from burning incense. This figure may thus carry the incense, as he is a pom-aj “incense-person,” an appropiate epithet.

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

147

for upatan “his patan” (Kerr 1994: 640), an example which, to my knowledge, was discussed first by Stuart (1995: 356; also see Houston & Stuart 2001: 69).22 This complete syllabic spelling substantiates the correctness of the earlier identification of pa-ta as an abbreviated spelling for patan (Stuart 1995: 354–357). In Mayan languages the following words can be found: Yucateco #pátan, ah patan (“tributary”) Ch’orti’ patan (“work to clean the corn field”) Ch’olti’ #patan Chontal patan Tzotzil patan Tzeltal patan, spatanil Mocho’ pataan (“milpa,” “plant corn”) Tuzanteco pataan (“milpa”), patan.laq (“milperio”) Uspanteco ptan (“mecapal”) K’iche’ patan, pataan Sipacapense ptem (“mecapal”) Poqomchi’ #patan, patnal (“mecapal”) Kaqchikel patan samaj (“service for the cofradía”) (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 59–60; Lacadena 2006: note 2; Macri & Looper 2003: 290, Table 4; Dienhart 1989: 675)

In the above Mayan languages the word has the meaning of “tribute,” but as some entries show, the word has also obtained the extended meanings of “milpa” (corn field), “plant corn,” and “mecapal (object to carry cargo)” (Kaufman 2003: 58). For the Central Mayan languages (the western and eastern Mayan languages combined) a reconstruction *pataan “tribute, service” has been proposed (Kaufman 2003: 58), a probable indication that the word can not be placed back into the proto-Mayan language. It is thus a possible candidate for a loanword. Macri & Looper (2003: 289–290) have suggested that the Mayan word is based on a loanword from Náhuatl, patla “to trade, to change” or 22 This Classic Maya vessel (Kerr No. 4996) illustrates a court scene in which bundles of items (too eroded to be identified properly) are delivered by three male individuals (entitled lakam, see Stuart 1995: 356, Lacadena 2006) to the court of Tayel Chan K’inich, the king of Motul de San José. The opening section reads jun *kib chan paxil tz’a[h]paj upatan ux lakam a[w]ichnal tayel chan k’inich k’uhul hux[?]a’ ajaw “(on the day) 1 *Kib 4 Paxil stacked was the tribute of three lakams (court officials with military and tributary associations) in your presence, Tayel Chan K’inich, Divine Motul de San José (Hux[?]a’) King” (reconstruction of day name kib and full transliteration by the present author; compare to Houston & Stuart 2001: 69 & Lacadena 2006: 1–2). The vessel probably was produced in or close to the site of Xultun (northeastern Peten), as the local title Kabte’ occurs in the primary dedicatory rim text.

148

erik boot

patiuhtli “price, payment, salary, security.” If the first suggestion patla is correct, the sound /tl/ would be conceived as /t/, as in *pat or *pata. If *pat would be the derivation of patla, the Mayan word, in its process of adoption, obtained an -an suffix. If pat would have become a Mayan verb with the meaning “to service, to give tribute,” the suffix -an (a participial ending in origin) would be present to derive a noun. The second suggestion patiuhtli is also possible; only the root *pat would have been adopted, to which a suffix -an would have been attached to derive a noun.23 The inscriptions at Palenque, La Corona,24 and Piedras Negras may provide the tenth possible loanword, ko’haw (Figure 2j). This item can be found spelled with a logogram as well as transparent syllabic spellings: ’u-KO’HAW-wa (illustrated), ’u-ko-’o-ha-wa, and ’u-ko-ha-wa. The loanword ko’haw probably means “helmet” and only one (Colonial) language seems to provide a surviving cognate word: Tzotzil kovov (linguistic data after Macri & Looper 2003: 290)

Macri & Looper (2003: 290–291) suggest that the Classic Maya word ko’haw is based on a loan from Náhuatl, cua:itl, which means “head.” Entries for certain kinds of helmets in the early colonial Náhuatl dictionary by Molina, as the authors indicate, contain the part cua- “head” (pronounced /kwa-/) (Siméon 1988: 389, as quaitl, quai-). The possible loanword ko’haw only seems to have survived in colonial Tzotzil as kovov. The mosaic helmet which is employed as the logographic sign probably had its origin in a central Mexican iconographic tradition. Mosaic helmets of different sorts can be found in the early iconographic programs at the site of Teotihuacan in central Mexico (e.g., Von Winning 1981). Presented last is my contribution to the small corpus of possible loanwords. The eleventh possible loanword to be discussed here can be found in a composite noun that functions as a title and lies at the heart of Maya socio-political organization. That word is ajaw, commonly

23 If indeed the word patan consists of a root *pat- adopted from the Náhuatl donor language and the suffix -an, a participial ending in origin, in the Mayan recipient language this word could qualify as a loanblend (Haugen 1950: 215). 24 The panel on which a spelling ’u-ko-’o-ha-wa occurs is known as “Site Q Panel 11.” Recently, based on an important find of two small panels at the site of La Corona, Site Q has been identified as La Corona (located close to the important site of El Peru).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

149

Figure 4. Spelling examples of the title ajaw “king, lord”: a) ’AJAW, b) ’AJAW, c) ’a-’AJAW, d) ’AJAW-wa, e) ’AJAW, f ) ’a-’AJAW, g) ’AJAW-wa, h) ’a-’AJAW-wa, i) ’AJAW, j) ’AJAW, k) ’AJAW-wa, l) ’AJAW-wa, m) ’a-’AJAW, n) ’a-ja-wa, o) ’AJAW, p) ’AJAW-wa, q) ’a-’AJAW, s) ’a-’AJAW, t) ’AJAW-wa (drawings by Linda Schele, after Schele & Freidel 1990: Figure 1:4).

translated as “king, lord.” This word can be found spelled hieroglyphically in a large variety of ways (Figure 4)25 as it is not only the most common recorded paramount title, but is also one of the most common

25 This is only a selection of spelling examples. In previous research I identified a spelling ’a-ha-wa for ahaw (with T60+1040 ha). However, with better photographs available of the looted monument in which this spelling putatively occurred, it is now clear that it does not exist.

150

erik boot

recorded words (Stuart 1995: 189). Mayan languages provide the following entries on “king, lord; boss, chief ”: Huasteco Yucateco Itza’ Lacandon Ch’olti’ Ch’ol Tzotzil Tzeltal Tojolab’al Q’anjob’al Popti’ Mocho’ Uspanteco Mam Teco Awateco K’iche’ Sacalpulteco Tzutujil Kaqchikel Poqomchi’ Poqomam Q’eqchi’ (linguistic data after 397)

ajaatik ahaw ajaw yajaw #ahaw #ajaw ojow, ajwal ajaw, yajwhal ahaw, ajwal y-ajaw-il, yajaw, ajaw ajaw, q-ajaw (“God”) ’aj(a:)w (“moon; month”) aj-aw, áajaaw aajaw, q-aajaw (“God”) ’aajaaw ajw ajaw, ajaaw ajaw ajaap, aajaaw ajaw, aajaaw (a)jaw, haaw, jaaw aajcaal ajaw, ajaaw Kaufman 2003: 84–85 and Dienhart 1989: 396–

For the proto-Mayan language *’aajaaw has been reconstructed (Kaufman 2003: 84). The item ajaw can be analyzed as a composite noun aj+aw, as some epigraphers have suggested (e.g., Houston & Stuart 1996, 2001; Stuart 1995; Zender 1999: 44, note 22), including the present author (Boot 2000b: 1, note 3 and 2005: 382), for “he who shouts.” The part aj can be identified as the common male or general agentive prefix, followed by the part aw. On this item the following cognates can be found in Mayan languages: Yucatec Mopan Ch’olti’ Tzotzil Tzeltal Tojolab’al Chuj Q’anjob’al

awát (“cry out”), ’awat (“shout”) ’awat (“howl”), uchi uyawat (“shout”) awlu (“call”) aw (“shout”)*, awan(el), awan (“cry out”) aw (“shout”)*, awun (“shout”) awan, awen, awanal (“cry out”) aw (“shout”)* aw (“shout”)*

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

151

Popti’ aw (“shout”)* Mocho’ ’a:w (“shout”)*, ’a:w-a’ (“shout”) Tuzanteco ’a:w (“shout”)*, ’a:w.a-:n (“howl [as animals]”) K’iche’ #awunik (“howl”) (linguistic data after Kaufman 2003: 716, Dienhart 1989: 165–166 and Wichmann & Brown 2003: 166; items marked by * are nouns)

For proto-Ch’olan the form *’aw has been reconstructed, while for the Western Mayan languages (which includes proto-Ch’olan) the form *’aaw has been reconstructed (Kaufman 2003: 716). This item has not been reconstructed into proto-Mayan by Kaufman, although Brown and Wichmann (2003: 166) on a similar and thus limited set of cognates suggest a proto-Mayan term *aahw “shout, shouting.” The distribution of a root aw- with the meaning “shout, call, howl, cry out” in these mainly Western Mayan languages makes it a likely candidate for a loanword, independent of the fact whether it can reconstructed into proto-Mayan (note reconstructed forms in proto-Mayan for the items kakaw “cacao” and pom “incense” above, which both are considered to be loanwords). This loanword aw- may actually originate in the Mixe-Zoquean languages, as the following entries indicate for “mouth”: North Highland Mixe ’a:h South Highland Mixe ’o:w, ’a:, ’a:w Midland Mixe ’a:, ’a:w, ’a:w (“opening”) Lowland Mixe ’a:w, ’a:, ’a:w Mixe de Coatlan [’]a:hwak * Popoluca de Otula ’avi Popoluca de Sayula ’ahw Zoque de Chiapas ’aŋnaka (linguistic data after Wichmann 1995: 250, item ?A#052, except item marked with *, which is from Hoogshagen & Halloran de Hoogshagen 1993: 268, original spelling aahuac)

The proto-Mixe-Zoquean form has been reconstructed as *’aw “mouth” (Wichmann 1995: 250).26 The scenario I suggest here is that Western Mayan languages adopted the word aw “mouth,” but with a meaning

26 Huave, a language isolate spoken in the southeast of the Mexican state of Oaxaca (circa 12,000 speakers), contains an item aw with the meaning “he says, he said,” which occurs at the end of sentences in which somebody is quoted (Huave de San Mateo del Mar, Stairs and Scharfe de Stairs 1981: 76). Huave may have borrowed the word aw from Mixe-Zoquean.

152

erik boot

shifted to “shout, yell, call, cry out.”27 This shift in meaning can be explained as aw does not mean “mouth” in Mayan languages (or, at least, it does not anymore) and that the indigenous proto-Mayan word *tyii’ “mouth” (Brown & Wichmann 2003: 180; Kaufman 2003: 262–264) was retained through reflexes in most if not all Mayan languages (also see Dienhart 1989: 439–442). The most common verb for “to speak, to tell” in the Western Mayan languages is derived from *hal~’al and for the Yucatecan languages it is derived from *(h)a’l.V (Kaufman 2003: 729), which is suggestive of the fact that these are indigenous words even though a proto-word has not yet been proposed.28 The root awprobably was adopted at the end of the early Preclassic period (ca. 2000–1000 bce) and diffused into the existing Mayan languages (probably three in the Eastern Mayan language group, two in the Western Mayan language group, if lexicostatistical estimates can be taken as a measure; e.g., Kaufman 1976: Table 1). It was adopted through the composite noun aj+aw “person (male) that shouts, yells, calls, cries out,”29 as the earliest Maya hieroglyphic text now known (from the fourth to second century bce) at the site of San Bartolo contains the item ajaw. Here the scribe employed a late Preclassic variant of the composite sign T168 MAT+THRONE ’AJAW (see Boot 2000b on the origin and evolution of the sign T168) (Figure 5). The prefixed agentive aj “male; a relatively large/strong living thing” is of indigenous Maya origin (Kaufman 2003: 83). The total of eleven loanwords discussed here could be extended to include other possible loanwords, but in many cases the linguistic origin

27 If correctly identified, the proto-Mixe-Zoquean item *’aw “mouth” that was adopted by Mayan languages as aw “shout, yell, call, cry out” can be identified as a loanshift ( Haugen 1950: 215; Lehiste 1988: 20), although a more in-depth study on the semantic shift of this item may be in order (compare to Choi 2001: 116). That an item aw indeed became to mean “shout, yell, call, cry out” may find some corroboration in the fact that in Huave aw has the meaning “he says, he said.” See note 26 above. 28 Perhaps there was a semantic distinction between “speaking in private” and “speaking in public,” represented by the indigenous roots *hal~’al and *(h)a’l.V “to speak, to tell” in private and the non-native root *aw “to shout” in public. If this semantic distinction was present, it may underlie the origins of Mayan kingship as it is centered around the ajaw “he who shouts (in public).” 29 As noted by various researchers, paramount titles in other Mesoamerican languages have a similar etymology. For instance, the Azteca-Mexica paramount title was tlatoani “he who speaks well, purist” (derived from Náhuatl tlatoa “speak, sing”) or simply “speaker” (e.g., Evans 2001: 238), which by extension means “great lord, prince, ruler” (Karttunen 1992: 266; Siméon 1988: 674).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

153

Figure 5. The earliest Maya text column now known, with Preclassic ’AJAW at position 7 (drawing by David Stuart, after Saturno et al. 2006).

is much more difficult to prove.30 These other loanwords (that is, those that possibly made it into hieroglyphic writing) include words from Mixe-Zoquean, Uto-Aztecan (Náhuatl), as well as Otomanguean and Totonac languages (see Campbell & Kaufman 1976, Justeson et al. 1985, Macri & Looper 2003, Meléndez & Pallan 2005). The loanwords discussed above diffused to Mayan languages through either Mixe-Zoquean 30 For instance, Mayan words may “deer” and pay “guide” are possibly loaned from Mixe-Zoquean and Náhuatl, respectively (Meléndez & Pallan 2005), or the Mayan word ol “heart, center” loaned from Náhuatl (Macri & Looper 2003). From Otomanguean languages, for example, the word ok “dog” may have been borrowed, which became used as the tenth Maya day name Ok “Dog” (see Justeson et al. 1985; Meléndez & Pallan 2005). As a Late Classic ceramic vessel that surfaced in a private collection only recently (May 2007) indicates, ok also referred to “dog” in Classic Maya outside the day name context, as a spelling ’OK-ki occurs next to the drawing of a dog.

154

erik boot

or Uto-Aztecan languages. While Mixe-Zoquean languages are neighbors or close neighbors to the Mayan languages, Uto-Aztecan languages were not. To this I will return in the final section. “Foreign Words” In this section I will discuss the presence of five “foreign words,” words that have a foreign origin but which were not adopted systematically in any of the Mayan languages. Their status remained foreign. The first “foreign word” is the Náhuatl word cozcatl “jewel” (pronounced /koskatl/) (Figure 6a). The word is recorded only once and it is employed within a complex hieroglyphic collocation ko-sa-ka-[chi] THRONE on Tikal Stela 31, dedicated in 445 ce. The three opening syllabic signs ko-sa-ka may hint at koska, as suggested by David Stuart (cited in Houston & Nelson 2006), in which the final phoneme /tl/ (unknown to Mayan languages) remained underspelled or abbreviated.

a

c

b

d

e

Figure 6. “Foreign words” in Maya writing, a) cozcatl, in spelling ko-sa-ka[chi]THRONE (drawing by Linda Schele), b) -co locative, in spelling K’AN-ko (drawing by Ian Graham, dots added for clarity by the present author), c) Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli, in spelling ta-wi-si-ka-la, d) Xiuhtecuhtli, in spelling CHAK-xi-wi-te-’i, e) kak(a)tunal, in spelling ka-ka-tu-na-la (black-andwhite scans by the author after the Förstemann 1880 edition of the Dresden Codex).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

155

The word koskatl means “jewel” (Siméon 1988: 129, cozcatl, cuzcatl). The most common Mayan word for jewel was uh (Kaufman 2003: 500, Greater Lowland Mayan languages: *uuh). The “foreign word” koska was never fully adopted. The second “foreign word” is the Náhuatl word -co, a suffix with the meaning “place” (pronounced /-ko/) (Figure 6b). Also, in this case, this “foreign word” only occurred once and was identified by Stephen Houston (Houston & Nelson 2006). The fairly eroded collocation on Uaxactun Stela 14 still can be transcribed with confidence as K’AN-ko. This stela is of late Classic manufacture, probably close to 810 ce. This spelling can be transliterated k’anko, in which k’an- would be a Mayan word with a variety of meanings (“bench; yellow, precious, ripe”), and -ko tentatively can be identified as the Náhuatl toponymic suffix -co. Mayan languages provide a variety of indigenous suffixes to indicate “place,” among them -nal (e.g., K’anwitznal “Yellow/Precious Mountain Place”), -il (e.g., Sotz’il “Bat Place”), and -al (e.g., Bakal “[Abundance of] Cascades of Water Place”). Again, the “foreign word” -ko was not adopted into Mayan languages. The Dresden Codex, one of the four late Postclassic (circa 1250–1500 ce) screenfold books, contains a five page section (pages 46–50) dedicated to an eight year Venus cycle. Within this section a series of gods is named; these gods guard and supervise different portions of the Venus cycle. Three of these gods are of non-Maya origin, as recognized in earlier research (Barthel 1952: 80–82; Bricker 2000; Grube 1986: 55–61; Macri & Looper 2003: 287–288; Riese 1982: 37–39; Taube 1992: 125; Taube & Bade 1991; Whittaker 1986: 56–60).31 The first foreign god is named in a collocation that provides the spelling ta-wi-si-ka-la (Figure 6c). This spelling can be transliterated tawiskal and can be related to the Náhuatl god name Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli (or tla-wis-kal-pan te-kuh-tli) “Dawn Lord” (alternatively tla-wis-kal pan te-kuh-tli, “Dawn House Lord”). The opening sound /tl/, as seen earlier, is unknown in Mayan languages and at the beginning of a word it is rendered simply as /t/. The next syllabic signs conform to the correct pronunciation of the Náhuatl god name, but a large part

31 Although these foreign god names were recognized in earlier epigraphic research, the earlier “readings” of the god names may be (far or slightly) removed from those proposed here (based on more recent epigraphic research) and will not be discussed, to avoid confusion.

156

erik boot

of the name is not rendered. The second foreign god is named in a collocation spelled CHAK-xi-wi-te-’i (Figure 6d). This spelling can be transliterated chak xiwte’i[’] and it is probably the Mayanized approximation of the Náhuatl god name Xiuhtecuhtli (or xiw te-kuh-tli) “Fire Lord.” The Maya rendition of the name opens with chak, a word with the meaning “red, great” and a common part of the Maya name for the planet Venus, Chak Ek’ “Red/Great Star” (which follows each of the god names in this section). The first two syllables are rendered as in the Náhuatl word, but the closing part of the god name -kuh-tli apparently is abbreviated to simply -i[’], possibly due to the fact that the Náhuatl god name ended in a sound unknown to Mayan languages, -tli (compare to Macri & Looper 2003: 288, who favor a derivation based on xihu[i]tl “year” or xi:hu[i]tl “comet”). The third foreign god is named in a collocation that spells ka-ka-tu-na-la (Figure 6e). This spelling can be transliterated acatunal (e.g., Riese 1982: 38–39; Whittaker 1986: 57) or kak(a)tunal. There is, however, no Náhuatl god of that name known in central Mexico and perhaps it is an epithet standing in for a god name. The first part, written as ka-ka, still eludes a good interpretation (compare Whittaker 1986: 57), while the second part of the god name, -tunal, is perhaps the Maya approximation of tonalli, a Náhuatl word meaning “spirit; birth sign; part, portion” (Siméon 1988: 716) or “warmth of the sun, day” (Karttunen 1992: 246). Mayan languages had great difficulty in adopting these Náhuatl god names. The Maya completely abbreviated certain adopted words, as some of the sounds contained in the original Náhuatl word were unknown to the indigenous language or the string of syllables was simply too long. This unfamiliarity with certain sounds also led to the abbreviation of much shorter loanwords from Náhuatl. The word kot “eagle” (which perhaps did make into Maya writing)32 is based on the Náhuatl word cuauhtli (or: kwa:w-tli) (Kaufman 2003: 608). The indigenous Mayan word for “eagle” was xik (Kaufman 2003: 607, proto-Mayan, *xi[h]k), while in the Classic period the now generic word for “bird,” tz’ikin, may have referred to “eagle” (Boot 2005b: 252–259).33 32 An incised text at Comacalco (Urn 26, Pendant 14) provides the spelling ko-toka-ba for a possible toponym, kotkab. Tentatively I interpret kotkab as “eagle (kot) land (kab).” 33 The so-called Fenton Vase, now at The British Museum, records the nominal phrase Jolom Tz’ikin written as JOL-ma EAGLE-na (Boot 2005c, cited in Van Akkeren 2005: 46–52), which on Kerr No. 1392 seems to be spelled in an abbreviated form as JOL-ma? tz’i-na. The EAGLE-na spelling, clearly using an “eagle’s head” (compare to

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

157

These are at present the only five “foreign words” that have been identified in Maya hieroglyphic texts, and by chance, each is represented by only one (surviving) example. These five foreign words are all of Náhuatl origin and it is to this particular phenomenon that I return in the last section. Foreign Signs In this section I present a third phenomenon that had some impact on Maya writing, namely the incorporation of foreign signs. At different points in time Maya scribes included signs (seemingly) of foreign origin into their hieroglyphic texts.34 The Tikal Marcador is a unique monument. It is shaped after a kind of monument known at the central Mexican archaeological site of Teotihuacan, now termed marcador, or mark stone, as the original referent is unknown.35 It is not known if it ever had the same or a similar function at Tikal, as it was found in secondary context at Group 6C-XVI (Fialko 1988; Laporte 1987). The monument is dedicated on a

eagle depicted on Kerr No. 0791), suggests the value TZ’IKIN EAGLE. The abbreviated spelling tz’i-na on Kerr No. 1392 (within a spelling of the same name) does underwrite the opening syllable tz’i-. The day sign TZ’IKIN was employed for the fifteenth day name in the Classic Maya calendar; the fifteenth day sign/name in many Mesoamerican calendars was “eagle.” 34 As Lacadena (2005) recently suggested, the original basic syllabic Maya sign inventory may have been adopted from the Isthmian (aka. epi-Olmec) writing system employed by Mixe-Zoquean speakers. This important suggestion has much merit, but some of the details need to investigated further. For instance, some of the Maya signs have clear referents in Isthmian writing, but many signs can not be traced back. This may simply be due to insufficient Isthmian hieroglyphic texts currently available. The oldest Maya text actually predates the Isthmian/epi-Olmec examples; thus direction of influence may be questioned (see Saturno et al. 2006) or is there a missing common ancestor (compare to Justeson 1986)? In earlier research it already has been suggested that the so-called Long Count place notational method of time keeping used by the Maya in their inscriptions possibly was adopted from non-Mayan speaking communities surrounding them employing the Isthmian writing system. Long Count dates from these Isthmian inscriptions date from 36 bce to 162 ce, some 328 to 130 years before the earliest now known Maya Long Count date (Tikal Stela 29, dated to 292 ce). 35 This mark stone tentatively has been associated with the ballgame, but also has been identified as an effigy war banner/standard associated with the ballgame (Freidel, Schele, & Parker 1993: 299). The identification is problematic, as the mark stone was found in a secondary context. The hieroglyphic text does not make any reference to the ballgame, but that is actually quite common on Classic Maya sculpture associated with the ballgame (specifically disks in the playing court and rings set into the court side walls). For a most recent study on ballgame related sculptures, see Barrois 2006.

158

erik boot

date in 416 ce. After the date there is a simple inaugural statement that opens with the appropiate verb, the name of the object, and the name of the subject (Figure 7a). The verb is spelled tz’a[pa]-ja for tz’a[h]p-aj “planted is,” a typical statement to refer to the erection of a monument (Grube 1990b). The next collocation opens with a common Maya script sign for ’u to indicate u-, the third person pre-consonantal possessive pronoun “his/her/its.” The glyph that represents the object is however a glyphic approximation of a non-Maya sign that provided the original non-Mayan name of the object. There is no indication present (i.e., phonetic complements) to indicate the correct phonetic value of the logographic sign that names the object.36 The Marcador itself is marked with this sign to identify the object.37 The name of the subject, the owner of the object, can be transcribed in Maya script values, based on this example and other examples of this nominal phrase. In the illustrated example it employs two signs of non-Mayan origin. These signs are a hand holding an atlatl or spear thrower (placed within a Maya script sign for ma) and an owl. The nominal phrase can be tentatively transcribed [JATZ’?]ma KUH for Jatz’om Kuh “Scourger Owl” or “Owl that will Scourge.”38 This Jatz’om Kuh was the father of Nun Yax Ahin, the king who acceded to power in 379 ce. The Marcador itself is marked by a non-Maya collocation of the same name, Jatz’om Kuh. The text on the Marcador provides yet other examples of foreign signs, such as a logograph for SERPENT (non-Mayan are the “mosaic pattern” and upturned, curled nose) (Figure 7b), subfixed with the Maya syllabic sign -na, directing the reader to the common transcription CHAN-na

36 The “foreign word” that named the object more than probably opened with a consonant, as is indicated through the use of the prefixed third person pre-consonantal pronoun. 37 The Marcador panel text at position H1a provides a hieroglyphic sign that seems to be the glyphic rendition of the Marcador itself, of which it is difficult to ascertain if it is a Maya invention or a sign based on a foreign sign, and, if the last is applicable, its source would be Teotihuacan. As Taube (2000; also see Browder 2005) has shown, there was a Teotihuacan writing system, examples of which can be found at Teotihuacan itself (e.g., Tetitla) as well as in the southeastern part of Mesoamerica. 38 The Marcador (E3–F3) provides a phonetically transparent spelling that can be transcribed ja-tz’o?-ma ku, in which the value tz’o recently was proposed by Albert Davletshin. Testing this value in other contexts has produced interesting results, but the decipherment is not yet generally accepted. The query is added to express a certain degree of doubt. The logogographic value JATZ’? is based on the ja-tz’o? spelling, and as such also carries a query. The transliteration of the phrase Jatz’om Kuh is thus only tentative. The verb root jatz’-, which also occurs in another non-related context spelled ja-tz’a, can be translated as “to wound, to split” (Boot 2002: 33, item hatz’-).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

159

a

b

c

Figure 7. Foreign signs at Tikal, a) Tikal Marcador: E8–F9, b) Tikal Marcador: G7, c) Tikal Marcador: H9b (drawings by Linda Schele).

for chan “serpent.”39 Another composite sign (which occurs twice) only employs foreign signs, one sign represents a hand holding a spear thrower, the other sign provides a frontal depiction of a human face in Teotihuacan style (Figure 7c). Tikal Stela 31, dedicated in 445 ce, was already mentioned before as possibly recording the Náhuatl word cozcatl “jewel” spelled ko-sa-ka. That same collocation contains a foreign sign unique to this particular inscription. It is the depiction of a throne or altar, onto which a Maya sign chi has been placed (Figure 8a). This chi-throne or altar occurs more frequently in Maya inscriptions, specifically in references to dynastic founders. The glyphic sign that represents a throne or altar can at best be compared to the depiction of perishable thrones in central Mexican manuscripts of the late Postclassic (ca. 1250–1525 ce) and even early Colonial period (ca. 1525–1700) (Figure 8b). The “throne” is a seat made of woven reed or grass, a pattern also discernable in the glyphic The SERPENT-na collocation occurs in a sequence 18-’u-BAH SERPENT-na for Waxaklajun Ubah Chan (Marcador: H6–G7), “Eighteen are the Heads of the Serpent.” This phrase occurs more frequently in which scribes employed the regular signs for chan “serpent” (e.g., Copan Stela 6). 39

160

erik boot

sign on Tikal Stela 31. The glyphic sign has no phonetic complement, as I take the chi-“hand” sign to be an integral part of the logographic sign. This “central Mexican” chi-throne also has its Classic Maya counterpart, which is connected to dynastic founders, as is clear at Yaxchilan (Lintel 21: D1–C1), and which may refer to some mythological place of origin (Grube 2004b: 36), as probably is meant in the main text of Tikal Stela 31 (C6–C7).40 The “central Mexican” chi-throne is part of a sequence related to Nun Yax Ahin, the new Tikal king who acceded in 379 ce and who may be envisioned as a kind of “founder.”41 Nun Yax Ahin was probably an intrusive ruler (usurper?) who continued the Tikal (dynastic) line of rulers a year after the death of Chak Tok Ich’ak the First in 378 ce (e.g., Boot 2005b: 225–238). At the end of the Classic period there is a series of monuments that includes hieroglyphic signs of non-Maya origin. These monuments include stelae erected at the archaeological sites of Seibal, Jimbal, and Ucanal. Also some late Classic thin walled ceramic vessels, so-called Pabellon Molded-Carved ceramics of the Y Fine Orange Group (Smith 1971: 19; Werness 2003: 2, note 4), contain signs of non-Maya origin. In previous research these glyphic signs, as well as certain new iconographic characteristics in the depiction of the human body, were seen as evidence for non-Maya influences from an area to the west of the Maya area (e.g., Proskouriakoff 1950: 153; Thompson 1970: 9, 41–42). The short texts on several stelae at Seibal contain calendrical information in which the presumed day signs are not common Maya signs, but signs foreign to Maya writing (Figure 9a–b).42 At Jimbal (a site

40 The more common Maya [chi]THRONE sign may actually have been adjusted to appear central-Mexican/Teotihuacan-like. It may thus be no original Teotihuacan sign (or the sign was shared by both scripts, referring to the same object, a throne). At Copan, at the superstructure of Temple 16, a Late Classic unique hieroglyphic bi-script inscription can be found. The regular Maya inscription obtained a parallel Teotihuacan inscription, a one-on-one transcription of one script into the other script, but the “foreign” signs are generally considered to be a “Maya” (re-)invention, an approximation of the original Teotihuacan script (although intriguing substitutions take place). 41 The text on Tikal Stela 31 opens with the phrase u-bah “(it is) the image of,” after which the name and titles of Nun Yax Ahin follow. After this name and titles one can find the relationship statement y-ajaw “(he is) the lord of,” a phrase which places Nun Yax Ahin in a subordinate position to the person to be named next. This person carries in his nominal and titular phrase the ko-sa-ka-[chi]THONE collocation. The text ends with the expression u-mijin(?) “(he is) the son of,” referring back to Nun Yax Ahin as the son of the person named in the last collocation of the text, Jatz’om Kuh. 42 The numbered signs on Seibal Stela 3 are identical, but open with “seven” and “five.” Most probably these are day signs from a non-Mayan calendar. If these day signs

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

161

a

b

c

Figure 8. The [chi]THRONE sign, a) Tikal Stela 31, Left Side: L2, ko-sa-ka[chi]THRONE (drawing by John Montgomery), b) Detail of THRONE sign (drawing by John Montgomery), c) Example of a woven fiber throne from the central Mexican colonial “Manuscrito Tovar” (drawing by the author).

close to Tikal), on two stelae (dated to 878–889 ce) the three signs with prefixed numerals “12,” “13,” and “1” may be calendrical (in order “serpent,” “death,” and “deer”); alternatively, but less likely, they are epithets (Figure 9c–d). The foreign signs are placed within square cartouches with 90 degree corners, while the Maya generally preferred oval cartouches or square cartouches with rounded corners. These square cartouches are prefixed with numerals. Most of the signs employed in these non-Maya square cartouches can not be identified with certainty. On Pabellon Molded-Carved ceramics the square cartouches with postfixed numerals (a non-Maya characteristic) may identify one of the individuals depicted or the day on which the event illustrated took place

were in the order of the 260 day calendar, they would be 180 days apart (it takes 180 days to start at any 7 “day name” and subsequently to arrive at 5 “day name” (of the same day name). The numbered sign on Seibal 13 represents a large vessel. This sign may represent the day name “water,” the ninth day. Not necessarily this is a non-Mayan day sign. Note that in the now lost mural at Uaxactun (Structure B-XIII, Room 7) at least two of the Muluk day signs, the ninth day in the Maya calendar following the early Colonial Yucatec Maya conventional names, are upturned vessels.

162

erik boot

a

b

d

c

e

Figure 9. Foreigns signs from Seibal and Jimbal, a) Seibal Stela 3 (drawing by Ian Graham), b) Seibal Stela 13 (drawing by Ian Graham), c) Jimbal Stela 1 (drawing by Linda Schele), d) Jimbal Stela 2 (drawing by Linda Schele).

(e.g., Werness 2003: Figure 1.48).43 Comparable square and rectangular cartouches containing distinctive signs with postfixed numerals can be found within complex visual narratives on mold-made late Classic ceramics from the Río Blanco area in the Mexican state of Veracruz (e.g., Von Winning & Gutiérrez Solana 1996) to the far west of the Maya area, while a variety of nominal glyph tags at El Tajín in the Mexican state of Veracruz have signs outside of a cartouche but with postfixed numerals (Columns 1 and 2; e.g., Kampen 1972) (compare to Werness 2003: 58–59; Wyllie 2002: 163–164, 170). During the late Classic period (ca. 750–900 ce) and early Postclassic period (ca. 900–1250 ce) Chichen Itza was the most important site in Yucatan. In the former, the central plaza as well as residential compounds to the (far) south of this plaza were enlarged and greatly

43 Also note Kerr No. 6437, a polychrome painted vessel. In the primary rim text two foreign signs can be identified, each prefixed with a numeral (here “11” and “12”; is the first sign the sign for “dog,” the eleventh day name?). Based on the calligraphic style of the hieroglyphic texts recorded on this vessel, the employed sign inventory, and the contents of the visual narrative, this vessel probably has an origin in the eastern Maya area (eastern Peten/western Belize).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

163

a

b Figure 10. Foreign signs at Chichen Itza, a) Selection of graphic signs, Temple of the Warriors and Northwest Colonnade (after Morris et al. 1931: Figs. 231–233), b) Selection of graphic signs, Northwest Colonnade (after Morris et al. 1931: Figs. 234 and 236).

extended. The architects and sculptors who designed these new building phases employed large polychrome painted sculpted visual narratives in which numerous human and non-human actors interacted. To identify these various actors the sculptors employed a set of graphic signs which in most cases seem to be of non-Mayan origin. Alternatively, these graphic signs are so far removed from their Maya glyphic origins that

164

erik boot

is difficult to establish if these signs are truly foreign. However, some signs are certainly foreign and have no Maya origin. Placing glyphic and graphic signs to identify actors within complex visual narratives is characteristic of many Mesoamerican cultures. The sculpted murals at the Great Ballcourt, the sculpted columns at this building (South Building, Upper Temple of the Jaguar), and the sculpted columns at the Temple of the Warriors Complex (specifically the North West Colonnade) contain a multitude of human portraits. A great number of these portraits is identified with graphic signs that provide the personal name, title, or perhaps family to which the individual depicted belonged (compare Kristan-Graham n.d.) (Figure 10a–b). Certain signs can be identified with ease, such as SERPENT-STAR or KAN-’EK’ for Kanek’ (Pillar Six, South Building, Great Ballcourt), an important name among the Itza’, the putative founders of Chichen Itza (Boot 2005b) (Figure 11a). These particular signs as well as others may be derived from Maya signs (the signs probably were less abstracted, more recognizable to a non-Maya audience, and thus in most cases removed from their original hieroglyphic referents), but others are more difficult to identify and may have a foreign origin.44 Many individuals that participate in the elaborate ceremonial dance pageant portrayed in the mural program at the Lower Temple of the Jaguar at the Great Ballcourt are associated with graphic signs. Some signs may be derived from original Maya glyphic signs, other graphic signs are abstract renditions of animals and plants. One of the signs used is very close to signs known from the Zapotec script as employed in a large area in the Mexican state of Oaxaca, for instance at the archaeological site of Monte Alban (Figure 11b). South of the Great Plaza in Chichen Itza, located beyond the Las Monjas Complex, one can find the Initial Series Complex. During the period 1999–2002 the upper façades of various buildings at this group were excavated, consolidated, and restored (Schmidt 2003). In one of these façades the human individuals portrayed are identified with numerals and graphic signs, which may be of non-Maya origin. In the upper façade at the back of the House of the Monkeys one can identify two seated male individuals. Above the heads of these a series of dots

44 Space in this essay is limited and a full discussion of all graphic signs and their possible origin in either Maya writing or a foreign writing system has to wait for a future occasion.

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

a

165

b

Figure 11. Native and foreign abstract signs at Chichen Itza, a) Sign combination SERPENT-STAR for KAN-’EK’, Great Ballcourt, South Building, Pillar 6 (drawing by the author), b) “Zapotec” sign, Great Ballcourt, Lower Temple of the Jaguar (drawing by Annie Hunter).

can be found, positioned to the left and right of an animal head, probably a dog and a deer (Figure 12). One person may be named 10(?) Dog, the other 11 Deer(?).45 This recording method of numerals is uncharacteristic of Maya writing, which preferred a combination of bars and dots to express numerals (“ten,” if this the correct number, would have been represented by two bars, a bar standing for “five”; “eleven” would have been two bars for “ten” and one dot for “one”). The use of dots only to express numerals in names (numeral + sign) is typical for writing traditions in the Mixteca-Puebla style as well as among the Azteca-Mexica (e.g., Anders & Jansen 1988), both in central Mexico. As such, in the tentative transcription 10?-DOG for “10(?) Dog,” the item “dog” is a well-known day name, as is “deer” in the tentative transcription 11-DEER? for “11 Deer.” In many of the Mesoamerican cultures people were named after the day on which they were born, so “10(?) Dog” and “11 Deer(?)” may be names that are indicative of birth dates.46

45 These upper façade narratives were constructed with carved limestone blocks, placed close to each other. The narratives were intricately painted (many traces of which have survived, as most stones fell face down). The numerals and graphic sign span several blocks and some detail has been lost due to breakage and erosion. The numeral that accompanies the DOG sign seems to be 10, but 9 is also a possibility (if two fragmented dots indeed should join). 46 The birth day name was based on a naming system in which an individual was named after the day on which (s)he was born. This day was one of the 260 days of the so-called ritual Mesoamerican calendar (as it was shared by most if not all cultures within Mesoamerica), a calendar based on the combination of the numerals 1–13 combined with 20 distinctive day signs (“alligator,” “wind,” “house,” “lizard,” “serpent,”

166

erik boot

Figure 12. Possible birthday names at Chichen Itza, House of the Monkeys, 10?-DOG (top), 11-DEER? (bottom) (line tracing by the author).

Loanwords, “Foreign Words,” and Foreign Signs: Origin and Timing In three sections I presented examples of loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs. Normally these three phenomena are not treated together in Maya studies, but these three phenomena simply cannot be seen independent of each other. They are expressions of intense, longterm sociocultural contact between the Maya area and important regions close to the Maya area as well as areas located in central Mexico. Here follows a descriptive and tentative reconstruction on the origin and timing of the loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs discussed in the previous three sections. During the Preclassic period, from circa 1500–500 bce the inhabitants of the Maya area (who, in the early phase, were speakers of the first four languages that descended from proto-Mayan; in the later phase they were speakers of some ten different languages) were in contact with the Olmec civilization, the heart of which was located in the Mexican state of Veracruz. Important Olmec sites were located at La Venta, San Lorenzo, and Tres Zapotes. Probably the Olmecs were speakers of a Mixe-Zoquean language (Campbell & Kaufman 1976; note Wichmann 1998 & Wichmann et al. n.d.) and contact-induced Olmec influence spread towards central Mexico, Oaxaca, the Maya area, and as far as western Honduras and El

etc.) leading to 260 unique combinations (e.g., “1 Alligator,” “7 Serpent,” “10 Dog,” “13 Flower”). Each individual also received a personal name, and so the famous Mixtec usurper and lord “8 Deer” is known as “8 Deer Jaguar Claw.”

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

167

Salvador (e.g., Sharer & Grove 1989). Late Preclassic Maya iconography shows several characteristics which may have Olmec origins. These characteristics specifically can be found in the portrayal of god heads, for instance, in early iconographic programs at Calakmul, Holmul, and San Bartolo (e.g., Saturno et al. 2005). The movement of Olmec people was probably based on trade relationships that reached far beyond the Veracruz heartland (for instance, Guatemalan jade sources; e.g., Seitz et al. 2001). It is from this period in the Preclassic that probably all of the Mixe-Zoquean loans stem, judging from their ancestry in Mayan languages: yum “boss, father,” unen “child,” chik “coati,” patah “guave,” tzima’ “calabash,” ul “cornmeal,” pom “incense,” and aw “mouth.” These loanwords fall within common lexical fields as recognized in loanword studies, which sometimes employ broadly defined lexical fields (e.g., Campbell and Kaufman 1976) or in other cases employ more specified and restricted lexical fields (e.g., Haspelmath 2003). The possible borrowing of the item aw “mouth” with a meaning shifted to “shout” deserves some additional attention. If correctly identified, this item was integrated in the composite noun ajaw “king, lord,” which literally means “he who shouts.” The very fact that this title came into being for an institution that lies at the heart of Classic Maya socio-political organization may mean that the actual concept of king- or lordship, as expressed through the title ajaw, may have been borrowed from Olmec civilization as well. As several earlier and recent iconographic studies have suggested, the iconographic complex that represents Classic Maya kingship and its socio-religious context in visual art has an ancestry that goes back to the Olmec period (e.g., Reilly 1991, 1995, 2005; Taube 2004). The Maya institution of ajaw already was established by the early phase of the late Preclassic period (ca. 500 bce–250 ce),47 as the currently oldest known hieroglyphic text, from the fourth to second century bce as discovered at San Bartolo, contains this item. Even writing itself and the first basic syllabic inventory may have been adopted from a Mixe-Zoquean speaking and script community (see Lacadena 2005).

47 A complex social structure with at the heart the institution of ajaw was probably established already centuries earlier (compare to Hansen 2005). Between ca. 400–200 ce the largest structures ever built by the Maya were constructed at the Guatemalan sites of El Mirador and Nakbe (Sharer 1994: 108–117), some 40–50 km. to the north to northwest of Tikal.

168

erik boot

As current research shows, beginning in circa the first to second century ce, the Maya area came into contact with the central Mexican site of Teotihuacan. This contact phase became apparent through the incorporation of Teotihuacan-derived iconography and architecture, for instance at the site of Tikal (e.g., Laporte 1987; Laporte & Fialko 1995). It is at this site that contact between central Mexico and the Maya area specifically intensified. Tikal Stela 31 records a specific date in 378 ce on which the contemporary king of Tikal named Chak Tok Ich’ak the First died and on which a certain Siyaj K’ak’ arrived at Tikal from Teotihuacan. In 379 ce the new king, Nun Yax Ahin, acceded to the throne. Inscriptions from the period of circa 416–445 ce report on these and other events retrospectively. The inscriptions that report on these events and the iconography associated with these inscriptions show a high level of Teotihuacan influence. One of the words recorded on Tikal Stela 31 may be koska, a Mayan approximation of the Náhuatl word cozcatl “jewel.” That same inscription provides a collocation that contains a hieroglyphic rendition of a central Mexican throne or altar. The Tikal Marcador text describes the planting of the Marcador monument itself; the monument is named by a Teotihuacan name through a Maya rendition of a Teotihuacan script sign. The name of the owner of the object is even rendered in hieroglyphic signs which have a nonMaya origin, although the name can be transliterated into Classic Maya based on syllabic complementation and substitution.48 The presence of loanwords with a Náhuatl origin may stem from this period in Maya history, probably beginning in the first to second century ce: kakaw “cacao,” patan “service, tribute,” and ko’haw “helmet.” These words were recorded from the early to the late Classic period (circa 750–900 ce), a period in which also the Náhuatl suffix -co with the meaning “place” can be found recorded at the site of Uaxactun. As several researchers recently have suggested, the combination of Teotihuacan derived architecture, iconography, glyphic signs, and the presence of Náhuatl loanwords and “foreign words” of Náhuatl origin may be an indication

48 It is possible that through syllabic complementation and substitution the Classic Maya name (or title) Jatz’om Kuh actually should be identified as a loan translation, the original being in the language of Teotihuacan (probably Náhuatl). Also the Maya name (or title) Siyaj K’ak’ “Fire (k’ak’) Born (siyaj),” the one person actually arriving from Teotihuacan at Tikal (e.g., Boot 2005b: 225–238; Martin & Grube 2000: 28–36; Stuart 2000), may be a loan translation.

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

169

that the language of Teotihuacan was (in part) Náhuatl (e.g., Dakin & Wichmann 2000; Macri & Looper 2003; but note Kaufman 2001:29, no nawa [Náhua] before 500 ce in central Mexico). Representatives of several contemporary cultures in Mesoamerica had residency in Teotihuacan (e.g., Zapotec quarter), as did the Maya (most probably at Tetitla). This language affiliation with the city of Teotihuacan may also influence the identity, origin, and ancestry of the Náhua speaking groups that came to live in the Maya area, even as far as El Salvador (e.g., Macri & Looper 2003) (see Figure 1). In the Terminal Classic phase (ca. 750–900 ce) a number of monuments erected at the sites of Seibal, Ucanal, and Jimbal employed day signs placed within square cartouches which (mostly) were of nonMayan origin. Similar designs were employed in the visual narratives on Pabellon Molded-Carved Y Fine Orange ceramics. Although there are no direct clues for a linguistic affiliation of these non-Mayan signs, tentatively they can be correlated with an area to the west of the Maya area, in eastern Mexico, i.e., the state of Veracruz, in which the Río Blanco area and the site of El Tajin figure prominently (El Tajin is located in an area in northern Veracruz which was Totonac speaking at the time of the conquest, see Figure 1a). During the Terminal Classic period and the first part of the early Postclassic period (ca. 900–1250 ce) at the site of Chichen Itza, complex visual narrative programs were developed in which the human actors were identified through graphic signs mostly unknown to Maya writing in any previous period. It was suggested that perhaps a large number of these signs could well be of Maya origin, but that these signs were abstracted in a different manner and thus far removed from their original (possibly glyphic) referents. Many of these graphic signs and what they depict are recognizable, even to us, but the correct readings may never be known. One sign identifying a human actor was of Zapotec origin, while others were comparable to the MixtecaPuebla style and central Mexico. The use of these graphic signs in elaborate visual narratives may reflect that the city of Chichen Itza was visited by people from all over Mesoamerica, with many different linguistic backgrounds. There is no indication yet that representatives of contemporary cultures in Mesoamerica had residency at Chichen Itza comparable to Teotihuacan. In the early Colonial period (ca. 1525–1700 ce), centuries after the apogee of Chichen Itza, this visitation was still known among the local Maya population and communicated to the

170

erik boot

Spaniards. As early Spanish sources reveal, people came to Chichen Itza as far away as Mexico, Guatemala, Chiapas, and other remote provinces (Boot 2005b: 436). During the late Postclassic period (circa 1250–1525 ce) the Maya produced many screenfold books, only four of which have survived to the present day. One is the Dresden Codex and it is here that three collocations were identified spelling Náhuatl names and/or epithets. During the late Postclassic period in central Mexico the Azteca-Mexica had founded their capital at Mexico-Tenochtitlan (now the location of Mexico City). The language they spoke was Náhuatl. The Azteca-Mexica had intense socio-cultural and possibly also religious contacts with northern Yucatan and it is probably from that period that the inclusion of the Náhuatl god names and/or epithets is derived. This overview, albeit very descriptive in nature, may provide the background on the origin of loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs in Maya writing.49 Final Remarks In this essay I discussed loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs in Maya writing. The particular loanwords discussed in this essay (only a fraction of a larger number of possible loanwords) were of MixeZoquean and Náhuatl origin, while the “foreign words” that have been identified were only of Náhuatl origin. The foreign signs employed in the central Maya area were of central Mexican and possible eastern Mexican (Veracruz) origin, while some of the foreign signs employed at Chichen Itza may have their origin in Oaxaca, the Mixteca-Puebla area, and/or central Mexico. I distinguished five different but largely subsequent phases in which loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs entered Maya writing. In each phase there was a shift in the area from which words or signs were borrowed. These shifts are parallel to the waxing and waning of other

49 Additionally I note that, next to the voluntary movement of population, involuntary dispersal of population can also lead to language change and the adoption of loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs. Next to the “natural” waxing and waning of indigenous cultures, drastic climatic change may have contributed to the descriptive scenario presented here, in which intense language contact leading to adoption of linguistic elements as well as language divergence due to linguistic isolation took place (see Dahlin, Quizar, & Dahlin 1987).

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

171

prominent civilizations in Mesoamerica: From the Olmec (Preclassic period), to Teotihuacan (early Classic to late Classic), to the MixtecaPuebla area, to El Tajin (late Classic), to the Azteca-Mexica of central Mexico (late Postclassic). It should be specifically noted that this was no one-way process. Maya writing and iconography was included in elaborate visual narratives at Teotihuacan in the early Classic period (e.g., Taube 2003), while during the late Classic period (when “Maya civilization” reached its apogee) complex visual narratives at the site of Cacaxtla close to central Mexico were executed in pure Maya style, while within these foreign visual narratives the writing examples were in a local tradition. To a lesser extent this also happened at the site of Xochicalco, also close to central Mexico (e.g., Boot 2005b: 269). Maya writing, as any writing system, cannot been seen out of the context of the civilization that invented (or adopted), developed, and used it. Within Maya iconography and architecture, from the earliest to the latest phases, one can recognize a variety of non-Maya characteristics. To fully understand the underlying principles that led to the adoption of the loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs discussed in this essay we also need to study and integrate those nonMaya characteristics. To conclude, the loanwords and “foreign words” discussed here were of Mixe-Zoquean and Uto-Aztecan origin, both languages spoken by cultures with which the Maya were in prolonged and intense contact. The loanwords that were incorporated into writing can be categorized to common and well-known lexical fields as “religion and belief ” (pom “incense”), “food and drink” (ul “cornmeal”), “animals” (chik “coati”), “commerce” (patan “service, tribute”), “war, hunting” (ko’haw “helmet”), “agriculture, vegitation” (kakaw “cacao,” tzima’ “calabash,” patah “guave”), “vocal utterance” (aw “mouth/shout”), and “family relationships” (yum “boss; father,” unen “child”). In most cases Mayan languages retained their indigenous words, which probably means that loanwords received from the donor language held greater prestige and as such were recorded in writing by the elite. The two rare “foreign words” of Uto-Aztecan origin (koska “jewel,” -ko “place”) were probably recorded only as they carried prestige, as these words never came to function parallel to or replace the indigenous words (uh “jewel,” -nal, -il, -al “place”). The early Classic examples of “foreign signs” of central Mexican origin coincide with the presence of Uto-Aztecan (Náhuatl) loanwords and “foreign signs,” an indication of the intensity of cultural and linguistic contact at that time. Future research may substantiate the

172

erik boot

suggestions made in this essay. This future research may also identify more loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs as well as their respective origins. Acknowledgments In the first place I thank Alex de Voogt for his kind invitation to participate in the third “The Idea of Writing” seminar held at Leiden University and his patience in regard to receiving the final written version. I thank Lucero Meléndez and Carlos Pallan who made the manuscript version of their paper available, which they presented at the 10th European Maya Conference, December 2005, at Leiden University, the Netherlands. I also thank Alfonso Lacadena, who made the manuscript versions available of papers he presented at the 10th European Maya Conference, December 2005, Leiden University, the Netherlands, and at the 52nd International Congress of Americanists, July 2006, Seville, Spain. For correcting awkward “English” phrasings I thank Irving Finkel and an anonymous reviewer. Additionally I thank Nick Hopkins and David Mora-Marín for suggestions in regard to an earlier version of this essay. Any remaining mistakes or fallacies are the sole responsibility of the author. As always, unless noted otherwise, the opinions expressed in this essay are mine. References Aikhenvald, A. Y. & R. M. W. Dixon. 2001. Introduction. In A. Y. Aikhenvald & R. M. W. Dixon (eds.), Areal Diffusion and Genetic Inheritance: Problems in Comparative Linguistics, pp. 1–26. Oxford University Press: Oxford. Akkeren, R. van 2005. Ixil: Lugar del Jaguar. Historia y Cosmivisión Ixil. Cooperación Alemana para el Desarollo/Serviprensa S.A.: Guatemala. Anders, F. & M. Jansen. 1988. Schrift und Buch im alten Mexiko. Akademische Druckund Verlagsanstalt: Graz. Barrera Vásquez, A. et al. 1980. Diccionario Maya Cordemex: maya-español, españolmaya. Ediciones Cordemex: Mérida, Yucatan. Barrois, R. R. 2006. Les Sculptures Associées aux Jeux de Ball dans l’Aire MésoAméricaine. Three volumes. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. U.F.R. Histoire de l’Art et Archéologie, Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne: Paris. Barthel, T. S. 1952. Der Morgensternkult in den Darstellungen der Dresdener Mayahandschrift. Ethnos, 17:73–112. Boot, E. 2000a. B’utz’aj Sak Chi’ik, “Smoking Lark/Calandria Humeante,” the Third Palenque Ruler. Mesoweb. URL: .

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

173

——. 2000b. Mat and Throne in the Maya Area. The “Jaguar Statuette” in the SubCastillo at Chich’én Itsá and a Re-evaluation of the Hieroglyphic Superfix T168. Paper presented at the Symposium “Mat and Throne: Cosmovision and Society in Mesoamerica,” May 10–12, 2000, Leiden University, Leiden. ——. 2002. A Preliminary Classic Maya-English, English-Maya Vocabulary of Hieroglyphic Readings. Mesoweb resources. URL: . ——. 2004. Suffix Formation on Verb Stems and Epigraphic Classic Maya Spelling Conventions: The Employment and Function of Final Ca Syllabic Signs. Manuscript dated July 5, 2004. Rijswijk, the Netherlands. Circulated among fellow epigraphers. ——. 2005a. Classic Maya Words, Word Classes, Contexts, and Spelling Variations. Manuscript dated July 4, 2005. Rijswijk, the Netherlands. Circulated among fellow epigraphers. ——. 2005b. Continuity and Change in Text and Image at Chichén Itzá, Yucatán, Mexico: A Study of the Inscriptions, Iconography, and Architecture at a Late Classic to Early Postclassic Maya Site. CNWS Publications Volume 135. CNWS Publications, Research School CNWS, Leiden University: Leiden, The Netherlands. ——. 2005c. The Fenton Vase Group. A Preliminary Epigraphic Analysis of the Texts on the Core Vessels. Manuscript, date April 3, 2005. Prepared for educational purposes (Proyecto Historia y Cosmovisión Ixil, Guatemala). Boremanse, D. 1998. Hach Winik: The Lacandon Maya of Chiapas, Southern Mexico. Institute for Mesoamerican Studies Monograph 11. Institute of Mesoamerican Studies, State University of New York: Albany. Bricker, V. R. 2000 Bilingualism in the Maya codices and the Books of Chilam Balam. Written Language and Literacy, 3 (1):77–115. ——. 2004. Mayan. In R. D. Woodard (ed.), The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages, pp. 1041–1070. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Browder, J. K. 2005. Place of the High Painted Walls: The Tepantitla Murals and the Teotihuacan Writing System. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. Department of Anthropology, University of California: Riverside. Brown, C. H. & S. Wichmann. 2004. Proto-Mayan Syllable Nueclei. International Journal of American Linguistics, 70 (2):128–186. Bruce, R. D. 1979. Lacandon Dream Symbolism. Ediciones Euroamericans: México, D.F. Campbell, L. 2004. Historical Linguistics: An Introduction. Second Edition. Edinburgh University Press: Edinburgh. Campbell, L. & T. Kaufmann. 1976. A Linguistic Look at the Olmecs. American Antiquity, 41:80–89. Choi, Y.-H. 2001. Borrowing as a semantic fact. Marges linguistiques, 1:114–123. Curnow, T. J. 2001. What Language Features Can Be ‘Borrowed’?. In A. Y. Aikhenvald & R. M. W. Dixon (eds.), Areal Diffusion and Genetic Inheritance: Problems in Comparative Linguistics, pp. 412–436. Oxford University Press: Oxford. Dahlin, B. H., R. Quizar & A. Dahlin. 1987. Linguistic divergence and the collapse of Preclassic civilization in Southern Mesoamerica. American Antiquity, 52 (2):367–382. Dakin, K. & S. Wichmann. 2000. Cacao and chocolate. An Uto-Aztecan perspective. Ancient Mesoamerica, 11 (1):55–75. Dienhart, J. M. The Mayan Languages: A Comparative Vocabulary. Three Volumes. Odense University Press: Odense, Denmark. Evans, S. T. 2001. Aztec Noble Courts: Men, Women, and Children of the Palace. In T. Inomata & S. D. Houston (eds.), Royal Courts of the Ancient Maya, Volume 1: Theory, Comparison, and Synthesis, pp. 282–273. Westview Press: Boulder.

174

erik boot

Fialko, V. 1988. El marcador de juego de pelota de Tikal: Nuevas referencias epigráficas para el Clásico Temprano. Mesoamérica, 15:117–135. Förstemann, E. W. 1880. Die Mayahandschrift der Königlichen öffentlichen Bibliothek zu Dresden. Leipzig. Graham, I. & E. von Euw. 1992. Corpus of Maya Hieroglyphic Inscriptions, Volume 4, Part 3: Uxmal, Xcalumkin. Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University: Cambridge. Grube, N. 1986. Die Göttergestalten der Handschriften und Ihre Hieroglyphen. In Chr. Rätsch (ed.), Chactun: Die Götter der Maya. Quellentexte, Darstellung und Wörterbuch, pp. 29–106. Eugen Diedrichs Verlag: Köln, Germany. —— 1990a. Die Entwicklung der Mayaschrift. Grundlagen zur Erforschung des Wandels der Mayaschrift von der Protoklassik bis zur spanischen Eroberung. Acta Mesoamericana 3. Verlag Von Flemming: Berlin, Germany. —— 1990b. Die Errichtung von Stelen: Entzifferung einer Verbhieroglyphe auf Monumenten der klassischen Mayakultur. In B. Illius & M. Lambscher (eds.), Circumpacifica: Festschrift für Thomas S. Barthel, pp. 189–215. Verlag Peter Lang: Frankfurt am Main, Germany. —— 2004a. The Orthographic Distinction Between Velar and Glottal Spirants in Maya Hieroglyphic Writing. In S. Wichmann (ed.), The Linguistics of Maya Writing, pp. 61–81. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. —— 2004b. Ciudades perdidas Mayas. Arqueología mexicana, 12 (67):32–37. Hansen, R. D. 2005. Early Social Complexity and Kingship in the Mirador Basin. In D. Reents-Budet & V. M. Fields (eds.), Lords of Creation: The Origins of Sacred Maya Kingship, pp. 60–61. Los Angeles County Museum of Arts & Scala Publishers, Ltd: Los Angeles. Haspelmath, M. 2003. Loanword Typology: Steps toward a systematic cross-linguistic study of lexical borrowability. Manuscript, dated June 2003. Copy in possession of the author. Haugen, E. 1950. The analysis of linguistic borrowing. Language, 26:210–231. Hellmuth, N. M. 1987. Monster und Menschen in der Maya-Kunst. Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt: Graz. Hoogshagen, S. & H. Halloran de Hoogshagen. 1993. Diccionario mixe de Coatlán, Oaxaca. Serie de Vocabularios y Diccionarios “Mariano Silva y Aceves,” Núm. 32. Summer Institute of Linguistics: México, D.F. Hopkins, N. A. 1991. Classic and modern relationship terms and the “child of mother” glyph (T I:606:23). In M. Greene Robertson (ed.), Sixth Palenque Round Table, 1986, pp. 255–265. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. Houston, S. D. & Z. Nelson. 2006. In the Shadow of Giants: The Classic Maya City of El Zotz’, Guatemala. Paper presented at the 2006 Texas Maya Meetings, March 17, 2006, University of Texas, Austin. Houston, S. D. & D. Stuart. 1996. Of gods, glyphs, and kings: divinity and rulership among the Classic Maya. Antiquity, 70:289–312. ——. 2001. Peopling the Classic Maya Court. In T. Inomata & S. D. Houston (eds.), Royal Courts of the Ancient Maya. Volume 1: Theory, Comparison, and Synthesis, pp. 54–83. Westview Press: Boulder. Houston, S. D., D. Stuart & J. Robertson. 1998. Disharmony in Maya Hieroglyphic Writing: Linguistic Change and Continuity in Classic Society. In A. Ciudad Ruiz et al. (eds.), Anatomía de una civilización: Aproximaciones interdisciplinarias a la cultura maya, pp. 275–296. Sociedad Española de Estudios Mayas: Madrid (Publicaciones de la SEEM 4). Republished in: S. Wichmann (ed.), 2004, The Linguistics of Maya Writing, pp. 83–101. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Jones, G. D. 1994. Appendix: European Writing in the Paris Codex. In B. Love, The Paris Codex: Handbook for a Maya Priest, pp. 106–107. University of Texas Press: Austin.

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

175

Justeson, J. S. 1986. The origin of writing systems: Preclassic Mesoamerica. World Archaeology, 17 (3):437–458. Justeson, J. S., W. M. Norman, L. Campbell & T. Kaufman. 1985. The Foreign Impact on Lowland Mayan Language and Script. Middle American Research Institute Publication 53. Tulane University: New Orleans. Kampen, M. E. 1972. The Sculptures of El Tajin, Veracruz, Mexico. University of Florida Press: Gainesville. Karttunen, F. 1992. An Analytical Dictionary of Nahuatl. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. Original edition: 1983 (University of Texas Press: Austin). Kaufman, T. S. 1976. Archaeological and linguistic correlations in Mayaland and associated areas of Meso-America. World Archaeology, 8 (1):101–118. ——. 2001. The history of the Nawa language group, from the earliest times to the sixteenth century: some initial results. Manuscript, dated March 2001. ——. 2003. A Preliminary Mayan Etymological Dictionary (with the assistance of John Justeson). FAMSI Grantee Report. URL: . Kaufman, T. S. & W. M. Norman. 1984. An outline of proto-Cholan phonology, morphology, and vocabulary. In J. S. Justeson & L. Campbell, Phoneticism in Mayan Hieroglyphic Writing, edited by pp. 77–166. Institute of Mesoamerican Studies, Publication No. 9. Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, University of New York: Albany. Kerr, J. 1989. The Maya Vase Book, Volume 1. Kerr Associates: New York. ——. 1994. The Maya Vase Book, Volume 4. Kerr Associates: New York. Kristan-Graham, C. n.d. Name Signs at the Temple of the Warriors Complex, Chichen Itza, Yucatan, Mexico. Unpublished manuscript, in possession of the author. Lacadena, A. 2005. Los primeros vecinos letrados de los mayas: Implicaciones históricas de la presencia de rasgos lingüísticos no-mayas en la escritura maya. Paper presented at the 10th European Maya Conference, December 9–19, 2005, entitled “The Maya and Their Neighbours,” Leiden University & Wayeb, Leiden, the Netherlands. ——. 2006. El título lakam: Evidencia epigráfica sobre la organizacion tributaria y militar interna de los reinas mayas clásicos. Paper presented at the 52nd International Congress of Americanistes, July 17–21, 2006, Seville, Spain. Lacadena, A. & S. Wichmann. 2004. On the Representation of the Glottal Stop in Maya Writing. In S. Wichmann (ed.), The Linguistics of Maya Writing, pp. 103–162. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. ——. n.d. Harmony Rules and the Suffix Domain: A Study of Maya Scribal Conventions. URL: Laporte, J. P. 1987. El grupo 6C-XVI, Tikal, Petén: un centro habitacional del Clásico Temprano. In Memorias del Primer Coloquio Internacional de Mayistas (5–10 de agosto de 1985), pp. 221–243. México, D.F.: Instituto de Investigaciones Filológicas, Centro de Estudios Mayas, Universidad Autónoma de México. Laporte, J. P. & V. Fialko. 1995. Un reencuentro con Mundo Perido, Tikal, Guatemala. In Ancient Mesoamerica, 6 (1):41–94. Lehiste, Ilse 1988. Lectures on Language Contact. MIT Press: Cambridge. Lounsbury, F. 1982. Astronomical Knowledge and Its Uses at Bonampak, Mexico. In A. F. Aveni (ed.), Archaeoastronomy in the New World: American Primitive Astronomy, pp. 143–168. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Macri, M. & M. Looper. 2003. Nahua in ancient Mesoamerica. Ancient Mesoamerica, 14 (2):285–297. Martin, S. & N. Grube. 2000. Chronicle of the Maya Kings and Queens. Deciphering the Dynasties of the Ancient Maya. Thames & Hudson, Ltd: London & New York. McGee, R. J. 1990. Life, Ritual, and Religion among the Lacandon Maya. Wadsworth Publishing Company: Belmont. Meléndez, L. & C. Pallan. 2005. Foreign Influences on the Maya Script. Paper presented

176

erik boot

at the 10th European Maya Conference, December 9–19, 2005, entitled “The Maya and Their Neighbours,” Leiden University & Wayeb, Leiden, the Netherlands. Miller, M. & S. Martin. 2004. Courtly Art of the Ancient Maya. Thames & Hudson, Ltd.: London & New York. Morris, E. H., J. Charlot & A. A. Morris. 1931. The Temple of the Warriors at Chichen Itza, Yucatan. Two volumes. Carnegie Institution of Washington Publication No. 406. Carnegie Institution of Washington: Washington, D.C. Pollock, H. E. D. 1980. The Puuc: An Architectural Survey of the Hill Country of Yucatan and Northern Campeche, Mexico. Memoirs of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Volume 19. Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University: Cambridge. Proskouriakoff, T. 1950. A Study of Classic Maya Sculpture. Carnegie Institute of Washington Publication No. 593. Carnegie Institution of Washington: Washington, D.C. Reents-Budet, D. 1994. Painting the Maya Universe: Royal Ceramics of the Classic Period. Duke University Press: Durham & London. Reilly, K. F. 1991. Olmec Iconographic Influences on the Symbols of Maya Rulership: An Examination of Possible Sources. In V. M. Fields (ed.), Sixth Palenque Round Table, 1986, pp. 151–166. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. ——. 1995. Art, Ritual, and Rulership in the Olmec World. In The Olmec World: Ritual and Rulership, pp. 27–46. Art Museum, Princeton University: Princeton. ——. 2005. Olmec Ideological, Ritual, and Symbolic Contributions to the Institution of Classic Maya Kingship. In D. Reents-Budet & V. M. Fields (eds.), Lords of Creation: The Origins of Sacred Maya Kingship, pp. 30–36. Los Angeles County Museum of Arts & Scala Publishers, Ltd: Los Angeles. Riese, B. 1982. Eine mexikanische Gottheit im Venus Kapitel der Mayahandschrift Codex Dresdensis. Bulletin de la Société Suisse des Américanistes, 46:37–39. Saturno, W. A., D. Stuart & B. Beltrán. 2006. Early Maya Writing at San Bartolo, Guatemala. Science Magazine: Science Express: 1–6. Online version available at URL and . Saturno, W. A., K. A. Taube & D. Stuart. 2005. The Murals of San Bartolo, El Petén, Guatemala. Part 1: The North Wall. Ancient America, No. 7. Center for Ancient American Studies: Barnardsville. Schele, L. & D. Freidel. 1990. A Forest of Kings. The Untold Story of the Ancient Maya. William Morrow, Inc.: New York. Schmidt, P. J. 2003. Proyecto Chichen Itza: Informe de actividades julio de 1999 a diciembre de 2002. 3 Volumes. Centro INAH Yucatán: Mérida. Seitz, R., G. E. Harlow, V. B. Sisson & K. A. Taube. 2001. ‘Olmec Blue’ and Formative jade sources: new discoveries in Guatemala. Antiquity, 75:687–688. Sharer, R. J. 1994. The Ancient Maya. Stanford University Press: Stanford. Sharer, R. J. & D. C. Grove. 1989. Regional Perspectives on the Olmec. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Siméon, R. 1988. Diccionario de la lengua náhuatl o mexicana. Siglo veintiuno XXI: México, D.F. Original edition in French: 1885 (Imprimérie nationale, Paris). Smith, R. E. 1971. The Pottery of Mayapan, Including Studies of Ceramic Material from Uxmal, Kabah, and Chichen Itza. Papers of the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Volume 66, Nos. 1 & 2. Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University: Cambridge. Stairs, G. A. & E. F. Scharfe de Stairs. 1981. Diccionario Huave de San Mateo del Mar. Serie de Vocabularios y Diccionarios “Mariano Silva y Aceves,” Núm. 24. Summer Institute of Linguistics: México, D.F. Stuart, D. 1988. The Río Azul Cacao Pot: Epigraphic Observations on the Function of a Maya Ceramic Vessel. American Antiquity, 62:153–157. ——. 1997. Kinship Terms in Maya Inscriptions. In M. J. Macri & A. Ford (eds.), The Language of Maya Hieroglyphs, pp. 1–11. Pre-Columbian Art Research Institute: San Francisco.

loanwords, “foreign words,” and foreign signs

177

——. 2000. “The Arrival of Strangers”: Teotihuacan and Tollan in Classic Maya History. In D. Carrasco, L. Jones & S. Sessions (eds.), Mesoamerica’s Classic Heritage: From Teotihuacan to the Aztecs, pp. 465–513. University Press of Colorado: Boulder. Stuart, D. & S. D. Houston. 1994. Classic Maya Place Names. Studies in Pre-Columbian Art & Archaeology, No. 33. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection: Washington, D.C. Stuart, D., S. D. Houston & J. Robertson. 1999. Recovering the Past: Classic Maya Language. In Notebook for the XXIIIrd Maya Hieroglyphic Forum at Texas, March 1999, Part II, pp. 1–39. Department of Art and Art History, College of Fine Arts, Institute of Latin American Studies, University of Texas: Austin. Taube, K. A. 1992. The Major Gods of Ancient Yucatan. Studies in Pre-Columbian Art & Archaeology, No. 32. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection: Washington, D.C. ——. 2000. The Writing System of Ancient Teotihuacan. Ancient America, No. 1. Center for Ancient American Studies: Barnardsville. ——. 2003. Tetitla and the Maya Presence at Teotihuacan. In G. Braswell (ed.), The Maya and Teotihuacan: Reinterpreting Early Classic Interaction, pp. 273–314. University of Texas Press: Austin. ——. 2004. Olmec Art at Dumbarton Oaks. Pre-Columbian Art at Dumbarton Oaks, No. 2. Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection: Washington, D.C. Taube, K. A. & B. L. Bade 1991. An Appearance of Xiuhtecuhtli in the Dresden Venus Pages. Research Reports on Ancient Maya Writing, No. 34. Center for Maya Research: Washington, D.C. Thomasson, S. G. & T. Kaufman. 1988. Language Contact, Creolization, and Genetic Linguistics. University of California Press: Berkeley. Thompson, J. E. S. 1962. A Catalog of Maya Hieroglyphs. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. Sign list available online at URL: <www.famsi.org/mayawriting/ thompson/index.html>. ——. 1970. Maya History and Religion. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. Von Winning, H. 1981. An iconographic link between Teotihuacan and Palenque. Mexicon, 3 (1):30–32. Von Winning, H. & N. Gutiérrez Solana 1996. La iconografía de la cerámica de Río Blanco, Veracruz. Instituto de Investigaciones Estéticas, Universidad Autónoma Nacional de México: México, D.F. Werness, M. D. 2003. Pabellon Molded-Carved Ceramics: A Consideration in Light of the Terminal Classic Collapse of Classic Maya Civilization. Unpublished MA thesis. Department of Art and Art History, University of Texas: Austin. Whittaker, G. 1986. The Mexican Names of Three Venus Gods in the Dresden Codex. Mexicon, 8 (3):56–60. Wichmann, S. 1995. The Relationship among the Mixe-Zoquean Languages of Mexico. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. ——. 1998. A conservative look at diffusion involving Mixe-Zoquean languages. In R. Blench & M. Spriggs (eds.), Archaeology and Language II: Correlating Archaeological and Linguistic Hypotheses, pp. 297–323. Routledge: New York & London. ——. 2006. A Mixe-Zoquean Loanword in the Late Preclassic Murals of San Bartolo? Mesoweb. URL: . Wichmann, S., A. Davletshin & D. Beliaev n.d. Posibles correlaciones lingüísticas y arqueológicas involucrando a los olmecas. Manuscript, available at URL: . Wyllie, C. E. 2002. Signs, Symbols, and Hieroglyphs of Ancient Veracruz: Classic to Postclassic Transition. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. Department of Anthropology, Yale University: New Haven. Zender, M. U. 1999. Diacritical Marks and Underspelling in the Classic Maya Script: Implications for Decipherment. Unpublished MA thesis. Department of Archaeology, University of Calgary: Calgary.

ON LOANS AND ADDITIONS TO THE FIDÄL (ETHIOPIC) WRITING SYSTEM1 Azeb Amha Introduction Fidäl is the local name of the writing system widely used in Ethiopia and Eritrea. Both countries make use of other scripts as well, but fidäl is undoubtedly the major script used for adminstrative and educational purposes. Fidäl is known by various names among scholars: the Ethiopic, Ge’ez, Abyssinian, Ethiopian or Amharic writing system. It was originally used for writing the classic Ethio-Semitic language, Ge’ez.2 A rich heritage of inscriptions in stelaes, old parchment manuscripts, numerous religious and secular books as well as annotations on icons and scrolls has been preserved with this writing system. Currently fidäl is used for writing a number of Ethiopian languages from the Semitic, Cushitic, Omotic and Nilo-Saharan language families. A number of scholars claim that fidäl is the result of the gradual transformation of the Sabaean/Minean script (Coulmas 1989, Diringer 1968, Getachew Haile 1996, Jensen 1970). The two writing systems are indeed strikingly similar (see examples below). The contrasting view that fidäl originated in Ethiopia has also been proposed (Asres 1959, Bernal 1990, Wossene 1990, Ayele Bekerie 1997).3 Hudson (2002: 1767) suggests a middle position, i.e., that there was a common South Semitic writing from which the Sabean writing system and fidäl further developed independently. As justification for his view, Hudson refers to the dating of inscriptions from Ethiopia/Eritrea and Yemen, which point at the contemporaneousness of the two writing systems (cf. also Drewes 1962, Ricci 1994, among others). Thus, the question of origin is still

1 I am grateful to Alex de Voogt, Baye Yimam and a reviewer for helpful comments on earlier versions of the paper. 2 Ge’ez ceased to be used as a mother tongue language since the ninth century. However, it is still used in religious services in the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahido Church. 3 See a review of Ayyele Bekerie’s book by T. Daniels posted at: http://www3.aa.tufs. ac.jp/~aflang/TEXTS/review/Daniels.html

180

azeb amha

open. In Section 2 we compare the Sabean writing system to the Ge’ez writing system in order to demonstrate the qualitative and quantitative differences and similarities between the two scripts. When Ge’ez ceased to be a spoken language, the script was employed for writing Amharic and later other Ethio-Semitic languages such as Tigrigna. This brought about a number of additions and modifications in the script, as we show in Section 3. The first written Amharic text dates back to the fourteenth century (cf. Richter 1997), but broader use of written Amharic for educational purpose is relatively recent. Use in education necessitated yet more adaptations and additions to the script. These developments will also be discussed in Section 4. The third stage of modifications and additions can be observed from recent times when fidäl was used for writing certain Ethiopian Semitic (other than Amharic and Tigrigna), Cushitic and Nilotic languages, the consequences of which will be discussed in Section 5. Fidäl I: The Script of Ge’ez Compared to Sabean The oldest form of fidäl, used for writing Ge’ez, appeared around the year 350 (cf. Jensen 1970: 243). Ge’ez-fidäl contained twenty-six basic graphemes (cf. Table 2). Twenty-four of these graphemes have strikingly similar parallels in the Sabaean script (see some examples in Table 1). The differences include orientation (straight vs, tilting), direction, length and presence or absence of part of a grapheme. In a few cases e.g., ሰ (sä) and ዘ (zä), the graphemes are significantly different from that of the Sabaean writing. Table 1 includes examples of Ge’ez graphemes (indicated by the arrow) and their corresponding Sabean forms to the left (See Asher 1994: 1149). There are other substantial differences between the two systems. An important innovation in the initial stage of writing Ge’ez involved the addition of two graphemes to represent the bilabial ejective (p’), represented in Ge’ez by ጰ and the voiceless bilabial stop (p) written as ፐ. The consonant segments represented by these graphemes came into the EthioSemitic languages through Greek and Latin loans such as: p’ap’p’as (ጳጳስ) ‘bishop’, t’äräp’p’eza (ጠረጴዛ) ‘table’ and police (ፖሊስ), posta (ፖስታ). In Amharic, some speakers still replace, p (ፐ) with b pronouncing the words police and posta as bolis and bosta. Initially, the Ge’ez writing system was non-vocalized just like Sabean. Until about 350 ad the graphemes represented only consonants and

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system

181

Table 1: Sabean and Ge’ez graphemes compared

no vowels (Jensen 1970: 346). Ge’ez-fidäl is unique among the Semitic scripts because of the systematic indication of vowels. There are indications that vocalized Ge’ez was present in the sixthseventh centuries, but in this period, side by side with the vocalized Ge’ez, the non-vocalized form was also used. Elias (1997) reports that among twelve inscriptions discovered in 1830 by Rüppel (with texts dated to fourth-seventh centuries), three inscriptions employed unvocalized Ge’ez, while five were written with vocalized Ge’ez. There is a trilingual stele (written in Greek, Old South Arabian (OSA) and Ge’ez languages), excavated by the same team, which revealed inscriptions written in the scripts of OSA and unvocalized Ge’ez. The chronology of these inscriptions does not match the chronological order of the script’s development. That is, “although OSA is attested earliest in other inscriptional contexts, the Aksumite inscriptions with OSA are not the earliest of the inscriptions found from the area. Likewise, unvocalized Ge’ez is used both before and concurrent with vocalized Ge’ez” (Elias 1997: 425). The motivation for indicating vocalization could be to facilitate learning for the increasing number of students who spoke Ge’ez as their second language (Getachew 1996: 571). Some scholars argue that Greek was the model for vocalization (cf. Diringer 1968), while others claim that Indian scripts such as Brahmi and Kharoshti are more probable inspirations (Friedrich 1966, Coulmans 1989). When vocalization took place, each grapheme was made to represent a combination of a consonant and a vowel. The basic twenty six graphemes in the first column represent a consonant plus the vowel ä or in a few cases the vowel a (cf. Table 2). Combinations with the remaining six vowels, u, i, a, e, ï and o are derived through systematic modifications on the basic form. Each of the six vowels has a characteristic diacritic mark. For example, to derive the combination with the

182

azeb amha Table 2. The Ge’ez fidäl

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system

183

vowel u, one needs to add a small horizontal line at the middle-right side of the basic form. With very few exceptions, the combination with the vowel i is derived by adding a horizontal line at the bottom-right part of the basic form, whereas the combination with the vowel e is characterised by a small circle at the bottom-right of the basic form. These derivations can be observed from the Ge’ez-fidäl in Table 2 (see Asher 1994: 1150). Some scholars consider both the Ge’ez and Amharic-fidäl as syllabary (Bender et al. 1976). Others argue against this by pointing out that: (a) there is no one-to-one correspondence between the number of syllables in a word and the graphemes used to represent it. Thus, words with one syllable may be written with two or more graphemes. For example, ና na ‘come’ has one grapheme and represents one syllable. On the other hand the monosyllabic words ሰው (säw) ‘a man/person’ and ሰርግ (särg) ‘wedding’ respectively contain two and three graphemes because final consonants and consonant clusters are pronounced and written without the vowels (cf. Getachew Haile, Baye Yimam 1997). (b) unlike a syllabic system, in fidäl, there is a largely consistent similarity among the family of graphemes (cf. Taddese Beyene 1994). Sampson (1985: 64–66) writes “. . . in essence the Ethiopic writing system is a segmental script in which segments are encoded as features of graphs rather than as independent, spatially-disconnected marks.” Similarly, Baye Yimam (1997) states that fidäl is alphabetic but its representation is one that coordinates the vowels and consonants in one. Coulmas (2003: 155) uses the term “alphasyllabic” to refer to the Ethiopian writing system. Interestingly, abugida, one of the two ways of ordering the fidäl graphemes, has now become a generalized term to refer to writing systems that represent consonant and vowel combinations in one grapheme. The other difference between the Sabaean and Ge’ez-fidäl involved the direction of writing. Originally, Ge’ez, like Sabaean, had right-to-left writing. This was first changed to the so called būstrophēdón pattern in Ge’ez, i.e., texts were written and read from right-to-left, continued in the second line from left-to-right and in the third again from rightto-left (Asher 1994: 1149). But later, around the fourth century, a fixed left-to-right writing developed. The names and order of graphemes were also different in the Ge’ezfidäl and in the Sabaean and other Semitic writing systems. According to Jensen (1970: 281) the divergences in the naming “. . . are to be explained

184

azeb amha

partly by the fact that Ethiopic names of like meaning were substituted for the north-Semitic ones (hence maj for mēm ‘water’, rəʔəs for rēš (rōš) ‘head’), and partly by the fact that we have to do with very old variations”. Ge’ez-fidäl also differs from related scripts in the order of letters. Some graphemes that are represented far apart in the North Semitic list are brought together in close sequence in Geʾez-fidäl due to resemblance of outward form or sound. In addition to the above characteristic developments, paleographical studies show that the Ge’ez-fidäl has undergone a number of changes in length, thickness, and shape during the various centuries it was written on parchment (cf. Uhlig 1984: 45). Ge’ez ceased to exist as a spoken language after the ninth century, but is still used as a liturgical language by the Ethiopian Orthodox Church and spoken marginally among priests. The diminishing role of Ge’ez opened opportunities for Amharic as a written language. Writing Amharic introduced a number of additions to the Ge’ez-fidäl, as discussed in the next section. Fidäl II: From Writing Ge’ez to Writing Amharic The first written testimonies of Amharic date back to the fourteenth century. These include texts with riddles, proverbs, folktales, royal songs, manuscripts on medicine, on historical events, and documents on problems of everyday life (cf. Richter 1997: 543). However, Ge’ez remained the only literary language used in education until 1617 when the Portuguese Jesuits started employing Amharic (next to Portuguese) to teach reading and writing. With the expulsion of the Jesuits in 1632, the development of Amharic was stranded for about two centuries (Pankhurst 1976: 310). The next significant chances for written Amharic came in the 1830s, when Protestant and Roman missionaries used this language for teaching and, some twenty-five years after the missionary effort, when Emperor Tewodros II ordered the Ethiopian royal chronicles to be written in Amharic (Cooper 1976: 290). Even after these developments, it took another century before Amharic was fully used in education and in other literary capacities (see Section 3 for more discussion). Amharic inherited all the twenty-six graphemes of Ge’ez and innovated symbols for writing palatal consonants: ቸ (č), ጀ (j), ሸ (š), ዠ (ž), and ኘ (ň) by adding a horizontal line above the graphemes representing the alveolar consonants ተ (t), ደ (d), ሰ (s), ዘ (z), and ነ (n); and in the

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system

185

case of ጨ (č’), by adding circles at the bottom of the corresponding alveolar ejective ጠ (t’). Another addition to the Amharic-fidäl is the grapheme for v, written as ቨ, by adding a horizontal line to the grapheme for b (በ). ቨ is exclusively found in recently borrowed foreign words (all of them nouns) such as ቪዛ ‘visa’ and ቫይረስ ‘virus’. Earlier loans with this sound are pronounced as b and written with the grapheme for b, for example, the word varanda is pronounced and written as bärända. In the standard list of Amharic graphemes, ቨ is treated as marginal by listing in a separate box, as the last of graphemes representing a simple consonant plus a vowel combination (see below). The entire set of fidäl graphemes, comprising 299 symbols is referred to as fidäl gäbäta ‘plate of letters’. There are standard ways of listing the fidäl graphemes in a fidäl gäbäta. In earlier times the list was made in a roll of parchment, later, a cardboard with the printed graphemes was used. An example of fidäl gäbäta is given in Table 3; it consists of the following five sub-parts: 1. The first and main part consists of 224 graphemes which are represented in seven columns. The first column contains thirty-three basic graphemes, which depict the combination of a consonant and the vowel ä, and in a few cases a. The remaining six columns represent modification of each of the basic graphemes to represent the combination with u, i, a, e, ï and o. These graphemes are represented in the list in two different orders: the ‘ha-hu’ order and the abugida order (in Table 3, top left and right respectively). Discussion on the formal and functional difference between the two orders is given in Section 4.) 2. A separate row contains seven graphemes for the combination of the consonant v and the seven vowels (with first order form: ቨ). As mentioned earlier, v is used only in loan words. Its marginal use is shown by listing it separately. Moreover, this grapheme does not feature in the abugida order (see top-right in Table 3). 3. Then there are forty graphemes which represent complex segments or sequences. Like the grapheme for v, these also are not included in the abugida-order. They are divided into two sub-types, which are kept separately in the list.

186

azeb amha

a. In the first group we find labio-velar consonants (kw, k’w, gw) and the glottal fricative (hw) which are sometimes referred to as ‘defective’ (cf. Bender 1976), because, out of the seven vowels of the language, the symbols for these complex consonants depict only combinations with the vowels ä, i, a, e and ï (e.g., ኰ (kwä), ኲ (kwi), ኳ (kwa), ኴ (kwe) and ኵ (kwï). Among the labio-velar set, the distinction between ኲ (kwi) and ኵ (kwï) is almost lost since, in most contemporary writings, ኵ is used to represent both kwi and kwï combinations (Baye Yimam, pc). b. The second group comprises twenty symbols depicting what are alternatively described as representations of a complex labialized consonant and the vowel a, or as a simple consonant followed by a complex vowel (diphthong) ua, e.g., ሏ (for lwa or lua). In this group, all consonants but one are coronal; the exception is ዃ for hwa). 4. Twenty symbols representing numerals also have a special slot in the fidäl gäbäta (For our purpose here, these are shown separately in Table 4.) 5. Finally, fidäl gäbäta depicts eight punctuation marks in a separate box. The eight symbols, their names and functions are listed below. Symbol ፡ ፡፡ ፣ ፤

Name of symbol in Geʔez/Amharic hulat nät’ïb “two dots” arat nät’ïb “four dots” nät’äla säräz “single stroke” dïrrïb säräz “double stroke”

፧

t’ïyyak’e mïlïkkït “symbol of question” tïmïʔïrtä tïk’s “symbol of quotes” quotation mark tïmïʔïrtä ankïro “symbol of exclamation mark emphasis” tïmïʔïrtä sïllak’ “symbol of sarcasm” utterance is sarcasm

“__” ! !

Function of symbol basic word-divider sentence-divider a comma, word-list divider a semi-colon, phrase/clause sequence divider a question mark

Currently the symbol (?) is widely used for the question mark in place of ፧. It is now also common to leave out the word-divider (፡) in print. Consequently, word boundaries are signaled by space. In hand-writings the word-divider is still widely used. The following is an example of fidäl gäbäta, the list of all of the Amharic graphemes mentioned above (excluding the symbols for numerals, for which see Table 4). It is typed by the present author

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system Table 3. The Amharic fidäl-gäbäta

187

188

azeb amha Table 4. Ethiopic numeral graphemes Ethiopic digits ፩ ፪ ፫ ፬ ፭ ፮ ፯ ፰ ፱ ፲

Ethiopic digits 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

፳ ፴ ፵ ፶ ፷ ፸ ፹ ፺ ፻ ፼

20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 1000

following the standard model published and distributed by the Berhan and Selam printing press. Fidäl has twenty special graphemes for numerals. This is in contrast to other Semitic languages, e.g., Hebrew, where the symbols for writing numerals are based on graphemes used for writing words. Each of the fidäl numerals has a horizonal stroke above and below. There is no grapheme for zero. In modern Amharic, the Hindu-Arabic numerals (1, 2, 3, etc.) are used in schools for teaching arithmetic and also for business purposes. This could be attributed to the absence of a grapheme for zero, which makes writing larger numerals difficult. Some Ethiopian scholars, among whom Kidanewold Kifle (1956) and Amdework (2000), attempted to introduce a grapheme for zero but this and other reform initiatives did not acquire wider usage due to lack of Church and government support (cf. Meheretu Adnew 2006: 30). According to Diringer (1968: 231) the symbols for numerals are borrowed from Greek. Getachew (1996: 574) states that this borrowing might have been channeled through Coptic. As can be seen from Table 3 above, some consonant-vowel combinations are represented more than once. Thus, there are four symbols for representing h (ሀ፣ ሐ፣ ኀ፣ ኻ), two for s (ሰ፣ ሠ), ʔ/a (አ፣ ዐ) and s’ (ጸ፣ ፀ). These graphemes represented distinct sounds in Ge’ez as some of these still do in Tigrigna. The phonological distinction among some of these is lost in present-day Amharic, or the sounds are merged into one in the spoken language, but the graphemes are not abandoned. Consequently, Amharic speakers use ሀ, ሃ, ሐ, ሓ, ኀ, ኃ and ኻ alternatively to write ha. So far, reform suggestions for getting rid of the redundant graphemes in Amharic have not found support.

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system

189

Sometimes fidäl is described as a difficult system for learning and teaching. The background for this view seems to be the presence of redundant symbols and the large amount of graphemes in the writing system. There are not many publications that focus on the teachinglearning process itself for a general reader. However, issues related to this process are discussed in studies on language use and history of education. Below we mention some general observations based mainly on these studies and secondarily on the author’s own experience as a pupil in a Church-administered primary school. Teaching and Learning Fidäl: Expansion of Education The Ethiopian Orthodox Church schools have existed for more than a thousand years, giving primarily religious education. These are still important institutions for teaching reading and writing skills, especially in the countryside where formal schools are not available. Church education consists of three stages: 1) nebab bet, aimed at training the child for two years in reading, writing, and oral learning until the Psalms of David can be read. 2) qeddase bet, training in basic/elementary religious songs (qum-zema) and advanced singing (mäwasïʔït zema). This training lasts four to five years. 3) zema bet (poetry school) and mes’ihaf bet (school of commentaries) for “commentaries and interpretation of the Old and New Testament.” (Cf. Pankhurst 1976, Yalew Ingidayeh 1997: 401–2). As Haile-Gabriel Dagne (1976:340) states “. . . [i]nstruction in the nibab bet is limited almost exclusively to reading. Children master the 231 letters of the Giiz syllabary [sic] and are drilled in the art of good reading. Traditionally writing is not taught, since this was not needed in everyday life as reading is for daily prayers and participating in the church service.” In church schools, learning relies heavily on memory. Two methods of representation are important in facilitating the initial stage of learning the symbols. Of these, the so-called ha-hu-order4 is taught first. In this pattern, the thirty-three basic symbols (i.e., a consonant plus the vowel ä and in a few cases a) are listed vertically and the six derivative

4

In dictionaries word entries are made following the ha-hu order.

190

azeb amha

forms of each of these are listed horizontally. The vertically listed basic-forms follow the fixed order of ሀ (ha), ለ (lä), ሐ (ha), መ (mä), ሠ (sä), etc. (see column one of Table 3.) For example, for the first basic grapheme ሀ (ha), the horizontally listed derivative forms comprise: ሁ (hu), ሂ (hi), ሃ (ha), ሄ (he), ህ (hï) and ሆ (ho), in this linear sequence. The pupils learn these through rhythmic repetitions with a leading pupil or the teacher pointing at each grapheme, starting from the leftmost grapheme of each row. Once they have mastered the ha-hu-order, they move on to learning through the second method of representing the graphemes, i.e., the abugida order. In this pattern, the number of the letters and the modification of the forms according to the seven vowels remain the same as in the ha-hu system, but the place of the basic graphemes and their derivative forms is mixed up. The vertical list does not follow the ha, lä, ha, mä order mentioned above; rather, here we find the order ʔa, bä, gä, dä, ha, wä, zä, etc. And, instead of systematically showing the different shapes of a single basic form, one finds consonant and vowel combinations for different basic forms listed horizontally. Thus, the name abugida, reflecting the first four horizontal graphemes which correspond to the Semitic grapheme names: aleph, beth, gimel and daleth. The reason for the introduction of this system seems to have been didactic: “so that the child cannot depend only on his memory” in learning the fidäl (Haile Gabriel Dagne 1976: 341). The abugida system is designed in such a way that the complete list of the seven values of any basic grapheme is to be found by looking at the diagonal line (see the highlighted forms in Table 3 for the values of the graphemes ለ and ዠ). In recent years, government schools teach fidäl mainly using the ha-hu pattern and by regrouping the graphemes according to formal correspondences between the basic graphemes, e.g., one-legged letters such as ኀ (ha), ነ (nä), ኘ (ňä); two-legged graphemes አ (a), ከ (kä), ኸ (hä); and graphemes with no legs such as መ (mä), ሠ (sä) and ረ (rä). With few exceptions, graphemes belonging to the same set are modified in a similar manner to derive the symbols for the remaining consonantvowel combinations. For example, for one-legged basic graphemes, to derive the combination with the vowel u, one has to add a small horizontal line in the middle-right hand side of the basic grapheme. Thus, ኀ (ha), ነ (nä), ኘ (ňä) become ኁ (hu), ኑ (nu), ኙ (ňu). To derive the combination with the vowel i, the same horizontal line will be added at the bottom-right side of the basic form, e.g., ኂ (hi) ኒ (ni) ኚ (ňi).

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system

191

The first government school was École Imperiale Menelik II, which was opened in 1908 in Addis Ababa. The school was staffed by Egyptian teachers and the medium of instruction was French; Amharic was given as subject. The same year another school was opened in Harar (in eastern Ethiopia). The curriculum included French, English, Italian, Amharic, mathematics, and science. In spite of a fully developed writing system, centuries old literary tradition and use in administration, Amharic was not chosen as a medium of instruction in these schools. As McNab (1988: 716) writes “[E]ven by the end of the nineteenth c. it was not self-evident that Amharic should be used as a medium of instruction.” With the active support of the administration, about one hundred mission schools/‘stations’ were operating by the year 1935 and the choice of medium of instruction was left for the schools: most used French, some Amharic and Oromo (cf. Pankhurst 1974, McNab 1988). During the Italian occupation 1935–1941, a new language policy was introduced: five local languages namely Amharic, Tigrigna, Oromo, Harari and Somali were to be used as languages of education in their respective regions. McNab (1988: 717) writes this was based on “. . . the enshrined colonial principle of “divide and rule” . . . not as a pedagogically sound step in education”. In the post-war years much stricter regulations were made on the use of language in education; perhaps it was felt that equal promotion of diverse languages is a risk for the country’s unity. Consequently, a decree in 1944 laid restrictions on language use and missionary activities. This decree, as quoted in Cooper (1976: 189), ruled Amharic as the general language of instruction but it allowed teaching via other local languages “in the early stage of missionary work, until such time as pupils and missionaries shall have a working knowledge of the Amharic language”. The Revised Constitution of Ethiopia, proclaimed in 1955, declared Amharic as ‘the official language of the Empire’ and in 1958 Amharic was first instituted as a medium of instruction in primary schools (cf. McNab 1988). Out side of the domain of formal education, the regulations were not imposed and a number of Ethiopian languages, e.g., Tigrigna, Oromo, Harari, Kunama, Tigre and Wolaitta were written by missionaries using fidäl, Roman or Arabic script. Translations of parts of the Bible or the Koran and texts such as songs and poetry were written in these languages.

192

azeb amha

Fidäl III: Loaning Fidäl for Writing Other Ethiopian Languages In 1974 a new (military) government replaced the Imperial system and one of its planned reforms was to allow each nationality to use its own language. However, Amharic remained the national official language and the only medium of instruction for primary education (for secondary and higher education the medium of instruction was English). Between 1979 and 1989, that government allowed fifteen of the over seventy Ethiopian languages to be written in fidäl and used in a national literacy campaign. For writing these languages some additions and modifications were made to the Amharic-fidäl. For example, a grapheme was designed for writing the alveolar implosive consonant. This was made by adding a horizontal stroke inside the ‘head’ of the grapheme ደ (dä). These languages were not further promoted as the medium of instruction in formal education. The literacy program was partly ideologically driven and, once it was discontinued, official efforts for writing the Ethiopian languages using fidäl were disrupted. The present government of Ethiopia came to power almost twenty years later, in 1991. It declared radical reforms in educational and language policy. A clause recognizing equal linguistic and ethnic rights was included in the new constitution drawn up in 1995 (cf. article 39.2). Amharic was declared to be the official (not national) language of the federal state. Regional states were allowed to choose their own official language(s) and medium(s) of instruction(s). Depending on the linguistic diversity of regions, two to twelve different languages are used in the curriculum (the latter is the case of the so-called Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples’ Regional State [SNNPRS]). Similarly, the choice of script was not restricted. Some political groups associated fidäl with Amharic and what they perceived as ‘Amhara-domination’ and declined using fidäl for writing certain Ethiopian languages. Their arguments included ‘technical deficiencies’ of fidäl for writing one or the other language: it was argued that an alphabetic system with fewer symbols and distinct forms for vowels is easier to learn and it can better represent geminate consonants and long vowels. Ideas for solving these shortcomings were proposed and the advantages of writing Ethiopian languages in fidäl were pointed out (cf. Baye Yimam 1994, 1997, among others), but authorities in certain regional states insisted on developing “Roman-based” script (generally known in Ethiopia as the “Latin script”) for writing languages in their respective regions.

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system

193

Table 5. Medium(s) of instruction and script used in the nine regional states in Ethiopia. Language

Linguistic family

Writing system (Parts of) regional state where the language is spoken

1

Amharic

Ethio-Semitic

Fidäl

2 3 4 5

Tigrigna Silte Harari Oromiffa

Ethio-Semitic Ethio-Semitic Ethio-Semitic Cushitic

Fidäl Fidäl fidäl5 Latin

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Somali Hadiyya Kambata Gedeo Sidama Afar Awngi Xamtanga Kebena Wolaitta Keficho Dawro Koorete Agnwa Nuer Majangir Suri

Cushitic Cushitic Cushitic Cushitic Cushitic Cushitic Cushitic Cushitic Cushitic Omotic Omotic Omotic Omotic Nilo-Saharan Nilo-Saharan Nilo-Saharan Nilo-Saharan

Latin Latin Latin Latin Latin Latin Fidäl Fidäl Fidäl Latin Latin Latin Fidäl Fidäl Latin Fidäl Fidäl

Afar, Amhara, Oromia, BenishangulGumuz, Harari, SNNPRS Tigray SNNPRS Harari Oromia, Amhara, Harari, Somali, Harari, SNNPRS SNNPRS SNNPRS SNNPRS Afar Amhara Amhara SNNPRS SNNPRS SNNPRS SNNPRS SNNPRS Gambella Gambella Gambella SNNPRS

A 2002 report by the Ethiopian Ministry of Education, as quoted in Mehiretu Adnew 2006, shows that currently twenty-two Ethiopian languages from different language families are used as a medium of instruction. Eleven of these are written using the fidäl; the remaining eleven languages are written using the “Latin-script”. The written languages are listed in Table 5, adopted from Mehiretu Adnew (2006: 38–39). 5 5 Mehiretu Adnew (2006: 53) mentions that this language was written earlier in two other scripts: in Arabic script for religious purposes and in “Latin-script” by (Christian) missionaries in the 1990’s.

194

azeb amha

It seems that other languages are written after the 2002 report mentioned above (Baye Yimam, pc). Anyua (Nilotic) is written in the “Latin script” whereas Kebena (Cushitic) is written in fidäl. An orthography is in preparation for Marek’o (Cushitic), on the basis of fidäl. For writing some of the above languages, fidäl was revised again. Some of the graphemes that were redundant when fidäl is used for Amharic, were re-interpreted to represent related sounds that are attested in the newly written languages. For example, to represent the meaningful contrast between x, ħ and h in Harari, respectively, ኸ, ሐ and ሀ are used. All of these three graphemes designate (ha) in Amharic. The potential of fidäl for writing any other Ethiopian language is demonstrated in the excellent study by Miheretu Adinew (2006). However, because of ideological and historical reasons, its importance as a cultural heritage is ignored, while its potential is being undermined by advocating the incorrect idea that the Roman script is technically ‘better’ for writing the non-Semitic languages of Ethiopia. Conclusion Fidäl is one of the oldest writing systems that is widely used only in Ethiopia and Eritrea. Technically, it is impressively advanced when compared to related ancient writing systems such as the Sabean script. In Ethiopia fidäl is now used side by side with a recently-adopted writing system, i.e., the so-called “Latin script”. Nevertheless, it is still vital and very much alive as it is used for writing numerous languages from the Semitic, Cushitic, Omotic and Nilosaharan language families. Eleven of the languages that are written in fidäl are now a medium of instruction. Fidäl also has great potential for writing other Ethiopian languages. References Amdework Mitiku 2000. Creating zero in the Amharic/Geez numeric system. Journal of Society of Ethiopian Electrical and Electronic Engineers. Online: www.yebbo.com/ zero. Asher, R. E. and J. M. Y. Simpson 1994. The Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics. Oxford / New York: Pergamon Press. Asres Yenesew 1951. The Kam Memorial: The Foundation of Ethiopian Syllabary. Asmara: Kokebe Tsibah Printing Press (in Amharic). Ayele Bekerie 1997. Ethiopic, an African Writing System: its History and Principles. Lawrenceville, NJ / Asmara: Red Sea Press.

on loans and additions to the fidäl writing system

195

Baye Yimam 1994. Writing Systems. Wïyïyyït: Newsletter of Addis Ababa University Teachers 1(1): 17–41 (in Amharic). Baye Yimam and TEAM-89. 1997. Fidäl revisited. Journal of Ethiopian Languages and Literature 7: 1–32 (in Amharic). Bernal, M. 1990. Cadmean Letters. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Bender, M. Lionel, Sydney W. Head and Roger Cowley 1976. The Ethiopian writing system. In Bender, M. Lionel et al. (eds.) Language in Ethiopia, pp. 120–129. London: Oxford University Press. Cooper, Robert L. 1976. Government language policy. In Bender, M. Lionel et al. (eds.), Language in Ethiopia, pp. 187–190. London: Oxford University Press. Coulmas, Florian 1989. The Writing Systems of the World. Oxford – New York: Basil Blackwell. —— 2003. Writing Systems: An Introduction to their Linguistic Analysis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Diringer, David 1968. The Alphabet: A Key to the History of Mankind. London: Hutchinson’s Scientific and Technical Publications. Drewes, A. J. 1962. Inscriptions de L’Ėthiopie Antique. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Elias, David L. 1997. Ge’ez consonantal alternation in the royal Aksumite inscriptions. In Fukui, Katsuyoshi et al. (eds.), Ethiopia in Broader Perspective: Papers of the X111th International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, Vol. I, pp. 423–430. Kyoto: Shokado. Getachew Haile 1996. Ethiopic writing system. In Daniels, P. T. and Bright, W. (eds.) The World’s Writing Systems. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Haile-Gabriel Dagne 1976. Non-government schools in Ethiopia. In Bender, M. L. et al. (eds.), Language in Ethiopia, pp. 339–370. London: Oxford University Press. Hudson, Grover 2002. Ethiopian Semitic archaic heterogeneity. In Proceedings of the fifteenth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, November 6–11, 2000, Addis Ababa University, Vol. 3, pp. 1765–1776. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies. Jensen, Hans 1970. Sign, Grapheme and Script: An Account of Man’s Efforts to Write. London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd. McNab, Christine 1988. From traditional practice to current policy: the changing pattern of language use in Ethiopian education. In Proceedings of the Eighth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, ed. by Taddese Beyene, Vol. 1, pp. 715–727. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies. Meheretu Adnew 2006. Ethiopic script: Its current status and future potential for Ethiopian languages. Addis Ababa: Addis Ababa University (MA thesis). Ricci, Lanfranco 1994. On both sides al-Madab. In Harold Marcus and Grover Hudson (eds.), New Trends in Ethiopian Studies. pp. 409–417. Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press. Richter, Renate 1997. Some linguistic peculiarities of old Amharic texts. Ethiopia in Broader Perspective: Papers from the XIIIth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, ed. by Fukui, Katsuyoshi, Eisei Hurimoto and Masayoshi Shigeta. Vol. II, pp. 543–551. Kyoto: Shokado. Sampson, Geoffrey 1985. Writing Systems: a Linguistic Introduction. London, Melbourne, etc.: Hutchinson. Taddese Beyene 1994. The Ethiopian writing system. Paper presented at the Twelfth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, Michigan State University. Uhlig, Siebert 1984. Some problems of Ge’ez paleography. In Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, Sven Rubenson (ed.), pp. 45–47. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies; Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies; East Lansing: African Studies Centre, Michigan State University. Wossene Yifru 1990. An inquiry into the Ethiopic book of Henok. Journal of Historical and Philosophical Thought, pp. 57–76.

196

azeb amha

Yalew Ingidayehu 1997. Historical development and trends of modern education in Ethiopia. In Ethiopia in Broader Perspective: Papers from the XIIIth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies, ed. by Fukui, Katsuyoshi, Eisei Hurimoto and Masayoshi Shigeta. Vol. II, pp. 401–423. Kyoto: Shokado.

LANGUAGES AND SCRIPTS IN THE MALDIVE ISLANDS: CODING AND ENCODING Alex de Voogt The Maldivian language, better known as Dhivehi, is an Indo-European language closely related to Singhalese spoken in nearby Sri Lanka and other languages found on the Indian subcontinent. Until the eighteenth century, Dhivehi was written in a script characterized by Vitharana (1997) as old-Singhalese of which the early form is called Eveyla Akuru. It is found in twelfth and thirteenth century inscriptions and underwent a number of changes towards the later form generally known as Dhivehi Akuru or Dives Akuru. A full account of this script, its closest neighbors and its history has been published by Naseema Mohamed (1999). Eveyla Akuru is a syllabic script written from left to right and was replaced in the eighteenth century by Thaana or Taana, which is considered an alphabet and written from right to left. The adequacy of this latter script for the Dhivehi language has been studied at length by Sugathapala DeSilva (1969), who concluded that it was most adequate from a phonological point of view. Since the 1970s, the Maldive Islands have become an increasingly popular tourist destination and, despite this foreign influence, the status of Taana has improved. The script is used nationwide and a secondary use of Roman letters seems to be limited to texts for tourist purposes. The Maldivians choose a language, Dhivehi or English, and a writing system, Taana or Roman letters, to publish their messages. The possible basis of these choices is explored in the following examples that were collected on the Maldives in 2003. Taana Taana is characterized by DeSilva as “a mixture of both Indic and Semitic (Perso-Arabic) traditions”. By this he means that it has the characteristics of an alpha-syllabary and of the Arabic writing system. The signs of Taana are derived from Arabic numerals and also other numeral signs most likely from an earlier system used on the islands.

198

alex de voogt

A Taana sign consists of a consonant symbol with a diacritic symbol indicating a vowel. One neutral sign with vowel diacritic is used to indicate a single vowel. Contrary to most alphabets, the consonant signs are not used without a diacritic; for these there is a neutral diacritic known as sukun, which consists of a little circle placed above the base sign. In contrast with the alpha-syllabary, the consonant or base signs do not have an inherent vowel, such as a, when no diacritic is present. They are simply not used without one. Even the neutral sign used for word-initial vowels is not used without a diacritic. The creative use of the sukun has been described in detail by DeSilva and has made Taana both a phonemically adequate and a generally flexible system that can distinguish long vowels (placing two diacritics), double sonants as well as geminates in recent loanwords (repeating the sign but placing a sukun on the first sign) and geminates in Dhivehi (neutral sign plus sukun followed by the consonant sign with vowel). This flexibility and originality of the writing system is further exemplified by the developments since 1970 when Taana was introduced into all parts of modern Maldivian society and when the English language continued to invade the islands as part of the tourist trade. The syllabic characteristics of the system are illustrated by a card game known as Akuru Thaasbe in which the script is represented as a syllabary. This language game is based on Scrabble and was developed by Abdulla Sadiq. He had this idea in the 1970s and developed it in the 1980s. A thousand games were printed in the 1990s and it is now readily available in stationary stores. The game has playing cards each printed with a different syllable of the language. A number of possible but highly unusual syllables were excluded. Although Taana is not formally a syllabary, the use of the script in a language game made syllabic cards most convenient. The use of Taana extends to Maldivian dialects. Dialects are not officially recognized in the Maldives but a convincing example of the versatility of Taana script is illustrated by the Fuamulaku dialect that has significant differences compared to the dialect spoken on Malé (Fritz 2002). It is said that Fuamulaku is written the same as Dhivehi but simply pronounced differently. A visit to this island revealed that at least two street names were found written in the Fuamulaku dialect rather than Dhivehi and that a local poet also used and wrote the dialect. One restaurant featured a name that is written and pronounced in Fuamulaku dialect as Bilhifeyshe Hotaa, the expression meaning “hook box”. However, the first word of this name is pronounced and

languages and scripts in the maldive islands

Photos 1 and 2. Fuamulaku dialect street signs.

199

200

alex de voogt

written in Dhivehi as Bolhifoshi elsewhere in the Maldives. These examples demonstrate the use of Taana in representing dialect variation in public signs. The Dhivehi writing system Taana survived the introduction of typewriters and computers. A presidential decision was most likely at the core of this success, when Taana became the official writing system for the government. The first handmade Dhivehi typewriter was constructed in the 1950s for the island administration and is still present on the island of Addhoo. In 1988, the government ordered 2,000 typewriters that could type from right to left and allowed for a large number of diacritics. Only in 1995 did the first computer programs allow for the Taana script to be used by the general public. The computer age has made possible a broader application of the Taana script and today fonts are readily available for Windows and Windows XP. Now Taana is widely used by commercial, governmental and private individuals when printing or writing by hand.

Photo 3. Typewriter still in use in the island office of Iguraidoo (Raa Atoll).

languages and scripts in the maldive islands

201

Two Scripts Each This success of Taana has resulted in a blend of Taana and Roman writing. English words may be given in Taana or Roman script while Dhivehi words may be given in Roman or Taana script. English words are phonetically represented when Taana is used and Dhivehi follows a well-accepted orthography of its own when Roman script is used. Often both Taana and Roman letters may be found on one sign or document. This may be a bilingual message, though, in some cases the Roman and Taana script provide different messages. This apparent complexity in the use of Taana and Roman writing illustrates a phenomenon known in linguistics as code switching, but this time the script is part of the switch. The use of English or Dhivehi, Roman or Taana is expected to be clearly separated or codified. Societies where two languages with two writings systems are used show such a clear codification (Scribner & Cole 1981, de Voogt 1993, Backhaus 2005), i.e., it is clear when and why people choose to use a particular language, a language that is only represented by one writing system. In the Maldives, however, not only a language but also a writing system can be chosen. Taana is used on Coca-Cola bottles, for books and magazines including school supplies, official papers and chequebooks. Local television sometimes uses Taana credits and titles at the beginning and end of the program. Imported items, such as stationary or food produce, commonly have English in Roman letters. One may find either or both Roman and Taana lettering for boat names, street names and street signs, banknotes, T-shirts, restaurant names and telephone cards. The Maldives attract many international tourists and it is necessary for tourists to understand street names and signs, restaurant names and telephone cards, and they often buy T-shirt with slogans they can read. Tourism is then a possible motivation for the alternate use of Taana and Roman writing. The Maldives host at least two airlines, one of which has the largest seaplane fleet operating from a single base. Their aircraft are provided with local and English language instructions for the passengers— Dhivehi using Taana and English using Roman script. Most signs are bilingual, including exit and life vest under your seat a well as the safety card, the boarding pass and the in-flight magazine. The airsickness-bag is only in English, use seat cushion for floatation did not have a Dhivehi

202

alex de voogt

translation and stow meal tray during take off and landing was not translated although a similar text in Dhivehi could be found on the safety card. These examples point at blending rather than a codification of language. The airline messages are in two languages, in this case using only the common writing system for each language, and the Maldivian reader is expected to understand some messages in English while most messages are translated. Tourists appear better served. Restaurants and stores often boast an English name, which they sometimes translate or transcribe into Dhivehi and Taana. On Addhoo, one finds two signs in one picture. The first reads danger, first in Taana and Dhivehi language, then in Roman letters and using the English word. The second sign is on the store in the background. This sign only has Taana lettering even though it is not Dhivehi but English, since it states Island Grocery. Equally curious is the use of English store names such as: Six-x (Malé clothing store) and Hierarchy (Huvarafushi store, its name transcribed as /hairaakee/ in Taana) which are presented in Roman letters but have a Taana transcription. This is not a translation but instead is a phonetic representation of the English word in Taana writing. The Island Grocery and Hierarchy store are located on islands where tourists are not allowed without special permits; as a consequence tourism cannot fully explain the presence of Roman lettering. English words are perhaps more attractive as names, but the intended market is Maldivian therefore the script is Taana. Six-x is located in the main shopping street of Malé and, although not a tourist place, it certainly serves the more cosmopolitan crowd. In this context the blending process is more prominent as in the example of a shoe-store, clearly serving the Maldivians, that has a bilingual sign in two scripts but each with different content. The Dhivehi/Taana text reads: “Black & white shoes are available for wholesale and retail”. This part is meant for the school going consumer, since b/w shoes are used for school uniforms. The English part (see photo) is addressing a wider audience, apparently, but still appeals to the Maldivian crowd, this time excluding the schoolchildren. The language changed depending on the topic. The examples above illustrate that code switching in the sense of choosing a language is not sufficient to describe the choices of the Maldivian authors. It is not just the code but also the encoding that has become part of their decision-making.

languages and scripts in the maldive islands

203

Photo 4. Store sign in English.

Photo 5. ‘Island grocery’ written in Taana behind a danger sign in two languages.

204

alex de voogt

Photo 6. Bilingual texts in the window of a shoe store.

Double Coding It is not unusual for two scripts to co-exist for the same language. When a language changes orthography, this situation is common. Also, the presence of as many as three languages, each with a different script, has been attested and without negative effects on the literacy of the users (Scribner & Cole 1981). In the Republic of the Maldives, with Islam as state religion, the Arabic script is taught for the Arabic language in the Koranschools resulting in three different scripts in use by the inhabitants. However, it is remarkable to find two languages with two scripts each in the same country. It is not yet clear whether this situation will continue in the Maldives and if this use is limited to public signs. As far as the few examples presented above indicate, the versatility of the writing systems allows for this situation. In the Maldives, the Taana writing system competes successfully with the Roman alphabet. It is suggested that this is due not only to a governmental decree but also, and mostly, because of Taana’s proven possibilities beyond the confines of the Dhivehi language.

languages and scripts in the maldive islands

205

Acknowledgements Research on the Maldives was made possible with the generous support of the Society of the Advancement of Research in the Tropics, the Netherlands, as well as the permission and assistance of the National Centre for Linguistic and Historical Research in Malé, Republic of Maldives. The author wishes to thank Abdullah Saeed and Ali Misbah for their assistance in the collection and translation of the used data. References Backhaus, Peter 2005. Signs of multilingualism in Tokyo—a linguistic landscape approach. Dissertation Universität Duisburg-Essen, Germany. DeSilva, M. W. Sugathapala 1969. The phonological efficiency of the Maldivian writing system. Anthropological Linguistics 11 (7): 199–208. Fritz, Sonja 2002. The Dhivehi language: a descriptive and historical grammar of Maldivian and its dialects. Heidelberg: Beiträge zur Südasienforschung, Ergon Verlag. Naseema Mohamed 1999. Dhivehi writing systems. National Centre for Linguistic and Historical Research, Malé, Republic of Maldives. Scribner, Sylvia and Michael Cole 1981. The Psychology of Literacy. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Vitharana, V. 1997. Sri Lankan-Maldivian Cultural affinities. Buddhist Cultural Centre, Sri Lanka.

FOREIGN TERMS IN SANSKRIT PERTAINING TO WRITING Harry Falk Prehistory Writing has an old history in India. Allegedly, there are sign-systems used by potters appearing at the beginning of the third millennium bc, i.e., more or less contemporaneous with the first script in Sumer. However, this system of marks did not lead to a proper script in India. The first writing appears suddenly and fully fledged with the mature Harappan phase in the middle of the third millenium bc. With regard to the shape of its graphemes, only the proto-Elamite script can be regarded as a precursor (Parpola 1994: 53). A rather long text, still unread, occurs on a sacred object from Afghanistan (Francfort 2003), dated to the third, second millennium bc. Despite these apparent crossrelations, we cannot read any of these scripts, neither proto-Elamite, nor the Afghan variety, nor Harappan. Presently, there is an ongoing discussion about the nature of the Harappan script: some regard it as logosyllabic, others as logographic. Without any evidence at hand we can at least state that terms for writing must have been used in the third millennium, all of which have left no trace in the languages of the region.1 We are on safer ground when the Achaemenid empire spread into what is now Pakistan. In Iran, writing was in full swing; Elamite and Akkadian alike were written in the Sumero-Akkadian system, and the language of Western Iran in a newly designed type of simplified cuneiform writing. The eastern-most discovery place of a truly cuneiform inscription is somewhere in eastern Afghanistan or northern Pakistan, dating from the twelfth century bc (Michaud 2000). Apparently, a cuneiform script was never used on imperishable material in Gandhara. From the start, or from a certain point onwards, writing for administrative purposes in Gandhara was in the hands of clerks belonging to the Aramaic

1 The arguments brought forward by Farmer, Sproat & Witzel (2004) against the nature of the Harappan signs as ‘script’ are not convincing, individually or as a whole. I concur with the counter-arguments amassed by Parpola (2008).

208

harry falk

community. The earliest testimony of their Aramaic script in South Asia dates from the time after the collapse of the Achaemenid empire, i.e., from the time of Alexander. The fact is well-known and some pertinent words have been mentioned recently by Witzel (2006: 460f); however, the following attempt at a chronological stratigraphy is new. The Achaemenid Period Dipi/libi/lipi The first loanword we encounter in South-Asia is lipi, “script”. This term is a clear Iranian loanword probably imported by Achaemenid clerks. Its ultimate roots are found in Sumerian dub, turned to dipi/ dipī in early Iranian. In Gandhara we first learn about this term in the grammar of Pāṇini (3.2.21) which dates from the middle of the fourth century bc (Falk 1994: 327). Pāṇini presents it in two forms, lipi and libi, without hinting at which he preferred. This means that he regarded this word as outside his own science, i.e., the science of word- and sentence-formation. Where Pāṇini was prepared to accept the soft labial of the original second syllable, Aśokan scribes in the Northwest used this import in the form of dipi, i.e., his local scribes in Gandhara preserved the original dental initial. So, writing in a new way returned to South-Asia in the first millennium bc during the Achaemenid occupation at the beginning of the fifth century bc. Pāṇini, living around the middle of the fourth century, did not use writing for his grammar, which was based solely on memory and the human faculty to associate related rules. His grammar presupposes an elaborate and absolutely encompassing system of sound analysis, with names for each sound and precise rules for the changes sounds undergo when juxtaposed in a word or sentence. Aramaic writing was in the hands of clerks of Aramaic stock throughout Iran and into the confines of Taxila, east of the Indus. We find Aramaic – not Greek – on the coins of Alexander’s father-in-law, Oxyartes, who was relegated to rule the area of Kabul, at Kapiśī (Mitchiner 1975: 194; Sear 1979: 576 nos. 6227–8). The same applies to three lithic records from Taxila and Jalalabad from the time of Aśoka. We find Aramaic plus Greek on a lithic record of Aśoka himself from Kandahar. The term lipikara, “scribe” was not used for long. We find it as a self-designation by a scribe of Aśoka in southern India (von Hinüber

foreign terms in sanskrit pertaining to writing

209

1989b: 56, Falk 1993: 257f), himself hailing from the north-west. This term soon falls into oblivion. Nipista/nipesita Another remnant of the Achaemenid period is nipista, found in Aśoka’s Rock Edict 4 (sentence J) and nipesita in Rock Edict 4 (sentence K), used for “written” and “made to be written”. It can be directly compared to nipištā, perfect participle from the root paiθ, found, e.g., on the so-called daiva-inscription of Xerxes at Persepolis, meaning “written, inscribed”. Both forms are only found in the version at Shāhbāzgarhī of the Aśokan edicts in Gandhāra. All other parallels in Northern, Central and Southern India have preserved the Indic terms likhita and likhāpita/ lekhāpita, originating from Aśoka’s own language. Shāhbāzgarhī is the westernmost site for the Rock edicts; it is situated west of the Indus in an area that certainly was once under Achaemenid rule. It is also the westernmost site for Aśokan texts written in Kharoṣt ̣hī. All other Aśokan texts to the west of Shāhbāhgarhī are written in Aramaic and Greek. The Hellenistic Period Alexander’s campaign in Sogdiana, and in modern Afghanistan and Pakistan, changed the world also in the ancient East. The Aramaic monopoly on administrative writing was slowly superseded by Greek, and soon also by Kharoṣt ̣hī, a script designed for the local Prakrit. From Alexander to the time of Aśoka we have occasional evidence of the continuation of Aramaic. About ninety years after the conquest of Alexander, and about twenty years after the accession of Aśoka in Northern India, Aramaic ceases to be used. About twenty years after Alexander, Kharoṣt ̣hī was designed and brought into common use (Falk 1993: 103f, 1996); about 60 years after Alexander, Aśoka had Brāhmī designed and spread all over the sub-continent. Before that time, writing was not practiced in what is now northern India. All terms referring to writing needed to be coined, the most important being “to write” itself. Likh/lekh Writing needs at least two utensils, one to outline the characters and one to receive them. In the case of the cuneiform characters pressed

210

harry falk

into clay, or in the case of the classical wax tablets, a stylo or wooden pen is sufficient. In South Asia, something comparable seems to have been designed rather soon: the medium was incised with a pointed instrument into its naturally soft surface. We have no direct evidence for this technique, only the root likh used for writing, meaning originally “to scratch, scrape, furrow”. Only this meaning, and not “to write”, is present in the grammar of Pāṇini,2 composed a few decades before Alexander. That means that “scratching” was a first way to outline characters. How did this idea originate in India? Do we have to assume the use of palm-leaves at the beginning of writing? I have often expressed the idea that Greek influence on Mauryan culture cannot be underestimated.3 There were Greek ambassadors and a Greek community in the capital of the Mauryas, and there were Greek relatives in the ruling family of Candragupta, including a daughter of Seleukos Nikator. The Greeks used to write with a pen (graphis, grapheion) on tablets (pinax) usually made from wood, although bronze tablets are not unknown.4 Waxed tablets (deltos) served daily needs. In both cases “scratching” is sufficient, and likh would have expressed just that. In Homer, where pinax means just a wooden tablet, graphein is used in the sense of “to penetrate (with a pointed instrument)”.5 The use of root likh is therefore no proof for an indigenous origin of this technique of writing. It seems to describe the action of the penetrating pen of the Greek writing stile just as graphein did when wooden tablets and waxed tablets were introduced in the ancient Greek world. Kalama There are various terms for those items with which the Greek inscribed their tablets. According to Aristophanes (448–385 bc; Thesmophoriazusai ed. Hall & Geldart line 779) it was some sort of knife (smīlē).6

2 For yavanānī cf. Falk 1993: 259f; avilikha, “unable to write”, is only found in much later commentaries on Pāṇini 6.2.157. 3 I prefer being counted among those holding “excessively colonialist” ideas (Asher 2006: 52) over withholding reasonable thinking only because some are offended by the mere idea of a foreign influence on ancient India. 4 Herodotus 5.49, where a map is drawn on a chalkeon pinaka. 5 Ilias 17.599 aichmō grapsen hoi osteon achris. 6 age dē pinakōn xestōn deltoi, dexasthe smilēs holkous, kērukas emōn mochtōn, “Come, my beautiful tablets, receive the traces of my stylus and be the messengers of my sorry fate.” (Eugene O’Neill, Jr.).

foreign terms in sanskrit pertaining to writing

211

Another term is grapheion, also used for a graving tool and an embroidery needle. Plato (Prōtagoras 326d) uses it for incising letters in school. The term stylos denotes a “pillar” in Greek, exclusive of any other meaning, whereas the morphological equivalent stilus is common in Latin as the writing pen. The term kalamos is rather frequent in Greek, denoting a sort of reed, its stem and all sorts of items made from reeds. It is used by Plato in his Phaidrus, written around 365 bc, and he refers to ideas fixed with ink and reed, melan and kalamos. Sanskrit knows the writing pen as kalama, obviously related to kalamos. Here we have a typical loan word. However, though it is found in all dictionaries, it is difficult to find it in the early Sanskrit literature. The Uṇādisūtra 8,84 is an exception, difficult to date. In any other case in which a pen is referenced, the neutral term lekhanī prevails.7 Although a later or additional loan from Arabic qalam cannot be excluded, an early loan of melan without kalamos seems rather unlikely. Melā, “ink” No term shows more conclusively the early Greek influence than melā, “ink”, being a direct loan from Greek mélan n. “ink”. Even melandóxion, “ink pot”, found its way into Sanskrit in the forms melanduka (Mahāvyūha 273,18), melāndu(ka) or melāndhu(ka), according to the standard dictionaries. In the distorted form meraṇḍu, it occurs in the Kāraṇḍavyūha. Ink is a watery liquid color applied with a pen or brush on the surface of the medium. Often it is made from soot or metal oxides. The term melā itself does not give us any clue about the substances used in Hellenistic times. There is no early literary evidence for this term in the Sanskrit literature available, but we do find inkpots in excavations in the North-West, e.g., at Taxila.

7 (apaśyam) kāyasthaṃ sa-maṣī-pātraṃ lekhanī-karṇapūrakam, Bṛhatkathāślokasaṃgraha 10,45, where karṇapūraṇa might be cotton for drying up ink.

212

harry falk The Post-Hellenistic Period

Pustaka, “book” The prime medium in India seems to have been the palm-leaf, tālapatra. Inscribed specimens are found in northern India and as far as Chinese Turkestan.8 The secondmost frequent material and prominent in Gandhara comes from the birch tree, bhūrjatvac, “birch-bark”. Books were known in South Asia from Hellenistic times onwards, usually called byblos or similar by the Greek. However, Indians only started to produce books much later, using two terms: Grantha originally denoted nothing but a certain amount of text collected in one composition; soon, this term was also applied to collections of inscribed leaves. The second term is pustaka, of Iranian, but not Achaemenid, stock. In the second and third centuries ad, in the times of the Arsacid and Sasanian dynasties, a multitude of Iranian terms came to India, mostly denoting officials. Probably this move brought Middle-Iranian posht as well. Posht denotes leather or skin. Documents written on leather have been rather common in Bactria and Khotan, where leafpalms are not indigenous. Up to now, we do not have Buddhist texts written on leather; but Bactrian legal documents on leather are wellknown now through the edition of N. Sims-Williams (2000); even Greek documents have survived from that area.9 The earliest preserved testimony for pusta or pustaka dates from the first centuries ad. Examples are Nāradīyaśikṣā 2.8,30, where the reading from books (pustakavādya) is counted as one of six impediments to ̣ dharmaśāstra 18,44, a book (pustaka) learning.10 According to the Viṣnu is not to be separated into parts when an heritage is divided; the same author (23,56) prescribes sprinkling, wiping or scraping for the cleaning of polluted books. The Arthaśāstra, with its notorious late parts, knows of a place for lists and books (nibandha-pustaka-sthāna) in the care of an audit officer (KA 2.7.1), and these books can be sealed (samudra, KA 2.7.17).

8 For examples cf. the volumes of Buddhist Manuscripts, ed. by Jens Braarvig in the Series Manuscripts in the Schøyen Collection; Oslo: Hermes Publishing 2000 onwards. 9 For two recent finds cf. Clarysee & Thompson 2007. 10 dyūtaṃ pustakavādyaṃ ca nāṭakeṣu ca saktikā, striyas tandrā ca nidrā ca vidyāvighnakarāṇi ṣaḍ. NarS 2.8,30.

foreign terms in sanskrit pertaining to writing

213

These examples certainly predate those cited by Sen (1957: 57), who wanted to derive pusta from Vedic pavasta, “covering, cloth”, doing away with the use of leather for Indian books. Divīra, “clerk” Witzel (2006: 461) mentions the “writer”, Skt. divira, as an Iranian loan. According to the Encyclopaedia Iranica (s.v.) the oldest attestation is Achaemenid, written tup-pi-ra in Elamite, leading to Middle Persian dibīr and New Persian dabīr. In India, this term occurs only after the scribes were made one of the four classes of Sasanian society under Ardashir (ca. 224–241). A superior clerk is called dabīrbad, “chief secretary” (EIr as above), a term found in inscriptions as divīrapati, e.g., along the upper Indus at Hodar (O. von Hinüber in BandiniKönig 1999, 4: 5, 6: 9). The other volumes of the series Materialien zur Archäologie der Nordgebiete Pakistans contain ample evidence of the widespread use of the title divīra in the North-West during the first centuries ad. However, it has to be stressed that this title is used outside inscriptions only sparingly (cf. v. Hinüber 1989a: 46). The idea of Mayrhofer (2001: 560), that dipīra was Sanskritized into dipikara in Aśokan times, remains noteworthy. Indigenous Terms Apart from the imports, India was rather productive in coining new terms. We get golā, kālī, patrāñjana, rañjanī, malināmbu, śephalika for “ink”, most of them descriptive terms. Terms for the diverse pens and brushes are varṇaka, varṇikā, iṣīkā, vartikā, varṇavartikā, tūlī and śalāka (Janert 1955/56: 87). A Dravidian loan into the Indo-European languages of the North might be maṣī, “ink”, since it is related to Kannada masi, “soot, lamp soot”, cf. DED2 462a, nr. 5101, CDIAL no. 9920. It first occurs in the Lalitavistara 9: 139 (masi), Suśrutasaṃhitā (masī) and the Arthaśāstra (4.4,20; 13.4,20; 14.2,20+22) in the sense of soot and ink. This derivation might be connected with the practice of rubbing soot dissolved in oil into the grooves produced by the writing pen called maṣipatha (m.). The blackened grooves are called maṣīlipta, “smeared with ink” (Kathasaritsāgara). This practice is common in South India, where Dravidian languages are frequent. In the North, however, palmleaves have always also been inscribed by ink with a pen.

214

harry falk Conclusion

We have seen that there are several phases of imports: from the time of the Achaemenid occupation the basic terms lipi/libi/dipi and nipista have been preserved, attested in the fourth and third centuries bc, but only where this occupation had taken place, i.e., in the extreme north-west. During Hellenistic times the terms for the utensils pen and ink were added, kalama and melā. During this time writing was promoted and spread particularly by king Aśoka in the middle of the third century bc. The indigenous term for “writing” is nothing but a semantical enlargement of the existent term for scratching, likh. The same enlargement happened once in pre-Hellenistic Greek, for the same reason. During the latest phase of Hellenistic kings in the north-west, the Iranian term for “document on leather”, posht, was adapted to mean “large manuscript” or “book”, pusta and pustaka. The long process of adopting foreign terms thus reflects the political development of about five hundred years, localized exactly where foreign influence was strongest: in the north-west. This process shows again that writing as an art was an import to Mauryan South Asia. Although this fact is not disputed in the West, there are constant attempts at negating it in India, simply to ward off any sort of Western influence, be it ancient or modern. Most interesting are those ideas that were never expressed by loaned foreign terms, specifically, the terms relating to the parts of speech put into writing. This independence arose because the indigenous phoneticists and grammarians could describe the elements of spoken words long before they would have thought of writing them down. There is a long tradition of linguistic analysis. Accompanying the transmission of the sacred lore, called the Veda, the student had to learn a series of subsidiary sciences, called the Vedāṅgas. One of them is vyākaraṇa, grammatical analysis, another one is śikṣā, phonetics, another one is nirukta, associative etymology. These sciences most likely have their roots in the second millennium bc, several millennia before similar sciences came up in Europe. All terms needed to describe parts of speech can also be used for describing parts of writings: vowel, consonant, syllable, word, prefix, inflectional ending, sentence; all these terms can refer to both actions. The Indian grammarians dealt intensively with what happens when one sound at the end of one unit meets the same or another sound at the

foreign terms in sanskrit pertaining to writing

215

beginning of the next word. They observed, regulated and named such sound-changes, which they put under the heading sandhi, “merger”. There was also the correct idea that while speaking, we pronounce a series of words in one breath, stop, and then continue with another batch until the sentence is done. That means, we do not pronounce all words of a sentence in one breath, and do not separate all words of a sentence, but we keep units together, regulated by semantic cohesion. These units have been termed varga, “group” (Scharfe 1967). Some scribes of Aśoka separated the vargas by spaces (Janert 1972). Another important feature of classical India is the fact that incredible masses of texts have been handed down over the millennia solely through oral means. Knowing these texts made a man a scholar. Their knowledge was required for the participation in rituals, in those times, a respected way to make a living. When writing became known in India during Achaemenid times, it did not attract the attention of the Brahmin scholars. Writing would have lessened the importance of the spoken word. Their reluctance towards writing may be compared to what Socrates said about writing: ‘it is only useful when trying to remember what one already knows, but the language it preserves is dead and without life.’11 When writing was promoted in the times of Aśoka, these Brahmin scholars still refrained from making use of it. The Buddhist monks, however, unimpeded by family conventions, readily took up this art and soon used it for all sorts of purposes, including writing for state offices. This political activity gave them a useful influence at the court. It was this political side of writing which finally convinced the Brahmin scholars that they also needed to revert to this “soft skill”, if they wanted to get a firm grasp on power, on which they depended even more than the Buddhists. We see this happen around the beginning of our era. Suddenly the language becomes more refined and, in the first century ad, manuscripts appear with a script representing all the details of Brahmin sciences: all kinds of vowel shades are expressed, as are the sandhivarieties, consonant gemination; new letters needed to be designed, as

11

“Then he will not seriously incline to ‘write’ his thoughts ‘in water’ with pen and ink, sowing words which can neither speak for themselves nor teach the truth adequately to others?” Phaedrus by Plato, translated by B. Jowett. February 1999; The Project Gutenberg, Etext #1636.

216

harry falk

the one for the velar nasal. This script of the first/second century ad is more elaborate than any we use today for Sanskrit. After this script was adjusted to their needs, it was later also made more comfortable to write, dropping some superfluous conventions such as writing the upadhmanīya and jihvamūlīya or writing the class nasal in all cases. This sudden appearance of a fully fledged script for Sanskrit has to be viewed from the perspective of what was customary until the latter part of the first century bc: both scripts in use, Kharoṣt ̣hī and Brāhmī, showed remarkable deficiencies without being misleading, because they were used for the rather simple popular languages, collectively called Prakrit. However, they would not faithfully represent the series of sounds uttered, in that Kharoṣt ̣hī ignored the difference between long and short vowels and in that Brāhmī started in Magadha with only one sibilant (instead of three) and no means to represent pre- or postconsontal r. Within Brāhmī, these two deficiencies were healed in only a decade or so in Aśoka’s lifetime. However, the idea of geminatae remained alien to both groups of scribes. The first geminata was written 350 years after Aśoka in Brāhmī, and never in Kharoṣt ̣hī, although an overstroke was used as a geminata marker from the first century onwards. This deficiency was not really a hindrance to a full understanding of what was written since the languages for which the early Brāhmī was used was devoid of complicated consonant clusters. So, what we observe with regard to foreign and loan words in Indian writing systems is a merger of a popular branch and a scientific branch around the beginning of our era. All imports were made on the popular side, in three steps starting in Achaemenid times. During the time of these imports orthography was deficient, but sufficiently clear to avoid misunderstandings. When the merger took place all tools for writing were already there, together with their partly imported terms. Suddenly the system was expanded by terms and graphs for sounds which previously were regarded as dispensable. Thus, the Indian way of writing in their most complex language, Sanskrit, arose from a combination of sources, one foreign and popular and one indigenous and elitist. Without foreigners, oral means might have been regarded as ultima ratio for many more centuries to come; without the Brahmin elite, the Brāhmī script would never have reached the perfection that allows Indians to use it – with some formal developments – to this very day.

foreign terms in sanskrit pertaining to writing

217

References Asher, Frederick M. 2006. Early Indian Art Reconsidered. In Patrick Olivelle (ed.), Between the Empires – Society in India 300 bce to 400 ce, pp. 51–66. New York: Oxford University Press. Bandini-König, Ditte e.a. 1999. Die Felsbildstation Hodar. Materialien zur Archäologie der Nordgebiete Pakistans, 3. Mainz. Clarysee, Willy & Dorothy J. Thompson 2007. Two Greek Texts on Skin from Hellenistic Bactria. Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphie 159: 273–279. Falk, Harry 1993. Schrift im alten Indien – Ein Forschungsbericht mit Anmerkungen. ScriptOralia, 56. Tübingen. –—— 1994. Von Götterfiguren und menschlichen Göttern. In Nalini Balbir & Joachim K. Bautze (eds.), Festschrift Klaus Bruhn zur Vollendung des 65 Lebensjahren dargebracht, pp. 313–331. Reinbek. –—— 1996. Aramaic script and the Kharoṣtḥ ī: a comparison. Berliner Indologische Studien 9/10: 151–156. Farmer, Steve, Richard Sproat & Michael Witzel 2004. The collapse of the Indus script thesis: The myth of a literrate Harappan Civilization. Electronic Journal of Vedic Studiess 11(2):19–57. Francfort, Henri-Paul 2003. Flacon orné de deux serpents dragons. In O. Bopearachchi, Chr. Landes and Chr. Sachs (eds.), De l’Indus à l’Oxus – Archéologie de l’Asie Centrale, pp. 38–39, 54. Lattes. Hinüber, Oskar v. 1989a. Brāhmī inscriptions on the history and culture of the upper Indus valley. Antiquities of Northern Pakistan – Reports and Studies, 1: Rock Inscriptions in the Indus Valley, pp. 41–71. Mainz. –—— 1989b. Der Beginn der Schrift und frühe Schriftlichkeit in Indien. Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, 11. Mainz. Janert, Klaus Ludwig 1955/56. Von der Art und den Mitteln der indischen Textweitergabe: Bericht über mündliche und schriftliche Tradierungsmethoden sowie die Schreibmaterialien in Indien. Jahresarbeit zur Diplomprüfung für den Höheren Dienst an wissenschaftlichen Bibliotheken. Köln. –—— 1972. Abstände und Schlussvokalverzeichnungen in Aśoka-Inschriften. VOHD Supplementband, 10. Wiesbaden. Mayrhofer, Manfred 2001. Etymologisches Wörterbuch des Altindoarischen, III. Heidelberg. Michaud, Ewan 2000. Le culte du dieu Kamul en Elam: une nouvelle brique de Šutruk Nahhunte (1190–1155). Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires 1: 14–15. Mitchiner, M. 1975. Indo-Greek and Indo-Scythian Coinage. Sanderstead. Parpola, Asko 1994. Deciphering the Indus Script. Cambridge. –—— 2008. Is the Indus script indeed not a writing system? Airāvati – Felicitation volume in honour of Iravatham Mahadevan, pp. 111–131. Chennai (Varalaaru.com). Scharfe, Hartmut 1967. Satzphrasen (varga) in einigen Inschriften Aśokas. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 117: 146–147. Sear, David R. 1979. Greek Coins and their Values, II: Asia and Africa. London: Seaby. Sen, Sukumar 1957. Three etymologies. Our Heritage 5: 55–59. Sims-Williams, Nicolas 2000. Bactrian documents from Northern Afghanistan, Vol. I: Legal and economic documents. Studies in the Khalili Collection, 3; Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum II, 6: Bactrian. Oxford. Witzel, Michael 2006. Brahmanical Reactions to Foreign Influences and to Social and Religious Change. In Patrick Olivelle (ed.), Between the Empires – Society in India 3000 bce to 400 ce, pp. 457–499. Oxford/New York.

POLYSEMY

REDUCING POLYVALENCY IN WRITING SYSTEMS: FROM EGYPTIAN TO MEROITIC Claude Rilly Polyvalency in Phonemic Writing Systems The concept of polysemy is originally used in lexical semantics, where it “refers to the situation in which a lexical item has more than one meaning” (Asher 1994: VI, 3227). How far this concept can be extended to the study of writing systems is debatable. In any event, polysemy is not a simple concept, even in the field of semantics, where it includes different levels of lexical ambiguity, from mere vagueness to homonymy. The concept of polysemy in writing systems can only be used in a metaphorical sense and its definition must be, of course, adapted. Even in the case of ideographic scripts, “polysemy” would refer to the situation where a sign or a sequence of signs has more than one reading. In the case of phonemic writing, it would however be far-fetched to speak of “polysemy”. A somewhat wider-ranging term such as “polyvalency” would be more appropriate. Two subsidiary concepts are intrinsically linked to polyvalency: polygraphy and monovalency. Polyvalency

one sign or grapheme

¤

Polygraphy

several signs or graphemes

¤

Monovalency one sign or grapheme

¤

several phonemic readings one phonemic reading one phonemic reading

Monovalency is merely theoretical: it never occurs on a regular basis in any ordinary writing system. The system closest to monovalency is a purely phonemic script as used by linguists. But even if speakers of a given language adopt this system, monovalency cannot be sustained for a long time because phonetic variations will sooner or later create distortion with the transcription. In addition, this system will not account for dialectal or idiolectal particularities.

222

claude rilly

Polyvalency in phonemic writing systems results from different factors. The most significant are the following: Insufficient original graphemic stock ex. Early Epigraphic Arabic ‫ ٮ‬¤ /b/, /t/ or /…/ (later ‫ب‬, ‫ت‬, ‫)ث‬ Phonemic split ex. Latin e ¤ French /e/ in et (< Lat. et) /ε/ in est (< Lat. est) /ǝ/ in devoir (< Lat. debere) Traditional retention of foreign spellings (etymological orthography) ex. English ch ¤ /tʃ/ in chatter /ʃ/ in chagrin (< French) /k/ in chaos (< Latin < Greek) Polygraphy in phonemic writing systems usually results from the following phenomena: Phonemic merging ex. Old Egyptian

sS

ś z

} Middle Egyptian /s/

Retention of inherited signs ex. English i ~ y (< Old Greek I and Y corresponding to different phonemes) However, polyvalency is solved in most writing systems by a process of differentiation which includes several levels: Level 1. Sign: ex. c ≠ t Level 2. Grapheme: ex. ch ≠ c Level 3. Phonemic Environment: ex. ci ≠ ca Level 4. Word: ex. charge ≠ character What is polyvalent at Level 1 and 2 is not necessarily polyvalent at a higher level. English c is polyvalent: it can be used either for /s/ or for /k/. However, at Level 3, for instance in cinnamon and carry, polyvalency vanishes as c + i is /si/ and c + a is /kæ/. Similarly, ch is a grapheme which can be pronounced /tʃ/ or /k/ in any phonemic environment, but this polyvalency is solved at Level 4, for example between charisma /kæ/ and chariot /tʃæ/. Graphic polyvalency at Level 4 is exceedingly rare and results mostly from ambiguities in writing systems where accent or tone are unmarked:

reducing polyvalency in writing systems

223

English present / ‘prez(ǝ)nt/ “existing now” ≠ present /pri’zent/ “give” Old Nubian our /úr/ “your (pl.)” ≠ our /ùr/ “head” The case of homographs (Eng. like ≠ (to) like) is not taken into account here since the same graphic process results in the same pronunciation: it is a case of semantic polysemy, not graphic polyvalency. Since polyvalency at Level 1 or 2 can be solved at Level 3 or 4, polyvalent spellings can be retained in most written languages without significant problems of legibility, provided there are regular and commonly accepted spellings for each word (orthography). Nevertheless, especially in the early stages of writing systems – when orthography is not yet fully established – scribes would try to reduce polyvalency. Several methods are used: Diacritics ex. French accents: e ¤ /ǝ/, é ¤ /e/ Digraphs (or trigraphs) ex. /ʃ/ ¤ Eng. sh, French ch, German sch Modifications of signs (creation is rare) Latin V (= /u/ and /w/) ¤ English u, v, w (< VV) Specialization of homographic signs (redistribution of polygraphy) r(w) used for /l/ in Late Egyptian ex. Egyptian

6

Meroitic Language and Script: Presentation and General Issues Meroitic was the language of the successive kingdoms of Kush, the Ancient Sudan, along the Middle Nile, roughly from the first Cataract up to the region of Khartoum. The Meroitic scripts (hieroglyphic and cursive) were deciphered in 1911 by the British Egyptologist, Francis Llewellyn Griffith (Griffith 1911). But this decipherment did not provide a key to the translation of the texts, since the language proved to be very remote from any known language of the region. Although Nubian, the language that superseded Meroitic in the Middle Nile Valley seemed to share many common features with Meroitic, Griffith’s efforts to link both the languages were fruitless. Apart from some names of places, kings and gods, and from rare Egyptian loanwords and titles, such as “priest”, “envoy” or “general”, no more than three dozens of indigenous words could be translated with certainty. Some texts, especially the funeral inscriptions, are well understood, but their stereotyped content provides little information on the Meroitic

224

claude rilly

civilization since the long inscriptions of the kings of Meroe, that might tell us so much on the history of the kingdom, remain impenetrable. The situation changed somewhat in the last years, although it is still impossible to know to what extent these changes will allow further understanding of the texts. It has been recently proved that Meroitic belonged to a specific linguistic family inside the Nilo-Saharan phylum, Northern East Sudanic, grouping several languages extending from the Chad border to Western Eritrea and including Nubian dialects (Rilly 2003b). The next step is the reconstruction of a proto-language, since the linguistic distance within this family is presently no less than between remote Indo-European languages. But this undertaking is a heavy task: it implies a long and difficult work on some living African languages that are very little known. The first results are however encouraging since it has been possible to clarify some aspects of Meroitic morphology. Meroitic, although the language of the indigenous elite during the two kingdoms of Kerma (ca. 2400–1450 bc) and Napata (ca. 800–300 bc), was not written before the third century bc. Evidence of its existence and status before this time can altogether be traced through the transcriptions in Egyptian hieroglyphs of the native names of kings, queens and important officials (Priese 1965). Approximately 1000 Meroitic documents, many of them including short or fragmentary texts, were found, so far, in the excavations in Egyptian Nubia and in Northern Sudan (Leclant et al. 2000). Ninety percent are written in cursive. The first traces of this cursive Meroitic script, used for pilgrims’ graffiti in the temples of Dukki Gel and Kawa, can be dated to the beginning of the second century (Rilly 2003a), but it is likely that the script was invented some decades earlier. Hieroglyphic script was used exclusively in captions of scenes depicting the rulers in state temples, particularly in Naga, or engraved on some royal funerary items, offering-tables, inscribed bowls, etc. The writing system is the same in both scripts (an alphasyllabary of 23 signs plus a word-divider), and one could compare more or less this double set of Meroitic signs with our small and capital letters, although both scripts as a rule never occur together in the same texts. A double cartouche from Naga with the name of Queen Shanakdakhete, dated to the last decades of the second century bc (FHN II: 661–662), is traditionally regarded as the earliest inscription in Meroitic hieroglyphic.1 1 Though generally accepted, this assumption is far from certain. The hieroglyphic signs of Queen Shanakdakhete’s cartouche display a “classical” aspect which is not yet

reducing polyvalency in writing systems

225

There is no reason to believe that Meroitic hieroglyphic script antedated the cursive script, as has been assumed from an erroneous parallel with the development of the Egyptian scripts. At the time Meroitic writing system was elaborated, demotic, the late cursive form of Egyptian hieroglyphs, was the common script in Egypt and was not unknown in the Kingdom of Meroe.2 It is therefore absurd to assume that the Meroites chose to resume on their side the millenia-long development that led from early Egyptian hieroglyphs to demotic. On the contrary, it seems highly plausible that the cursive script appeared first for everyday life necessities, whereas the hieroglyphic script was later elaborated for prestige texts. However, the following overview will focus on the hieroglyphic script because the link with Egyptian script is obvious, whereas the development of the cursive script from demotic still remain unclear. Nevertheless, Meroites did not copy the complex writing system of their prestigious neighbours, but elaborated a purely phonetic system, originating in the transcriptions of native names into Egyptian hieroglyphs as used in the kingdom of Napata (“Napatan transcriptions”). Since the work of the German Egyptologist, Fritz Hintze, it has been proved on sound bases that this script was not alphabetical or consonantal as formerly suggested, but constituted an « alphasyllabary » similar in its principles to the Indian scripts (Hintze 1973). However, scholarly sign-for-sign transliteration from Meroitic in Latin letters, as much for convenience as for respect of the traditions, obscure the very nature of the Meroitic script. Each basic sign represents a syllable dm- “receive” was realized whose vowel is /a/ and accordingly, /dama/.3 If the vowel is different, a special sign, more a vocalic modifier

‘Î

established in Taneyidamani’s cartouche from the Barkal Stele (REM 1044), although Taneyidamani is considered as her successor. Shanakdakhete is usually equated with the queen whose pyramid in Meroe (Beg. N. 11) is next to Taneyidamani’s, even though evidence for such an equation is lacking. If the owner of Beg. N. 11 and Shanakdakhete were two different queens, the latter could be ascribed to a later period in accordance with her cartouche, and Taneyidamani’s name in REM 1044 (end of the second century bc) should be considered as the earliest Meroitic hieroglyphic inscription. 2 Some demotic inscriptions, though later than the appearance of the Meroitic scripts, were found on Meroitic sites as far south as Musawwarat, in the surroundings of the sixth Cataract. 3 Throughout this paper, italics are used for scholarly sign-for-sign transliteration, slashes for phonemic transcription, square brackets for detailed phonetic transcription. Ex: “Isis” = Wos = /uːsa/ = [uːʂa]. Meroitic hieroglyphic script can be written either from left to right (as in this paper) or from right to left, by contrast with cursive script which was always written from right to left.

19Q

226

claude rilly

than a true vowel-sign, shall accompany the basic sign: for instance, ◊ nob “Nubian, slave” was realized /nuba/. Contrary to the Indian scripts, this modifier is not written above or under the basic sign, but just follows it. If a nude consonant is needed, particularly in consonant clusters, the basic sign is followed by the modifier “e” also NN ∫ Qoreti “Qurta” (a placeused for /e/ or schwa: so name) was realized /kwurti/, cf. Greek transcription Κορτφ. A somewhat fluctuant system was created for the initial vowels (see below). Some phonetic features like geminate consonants were left unrecorded (haplography). In spite of these defects, Meroitic script can be seen as a remarkable achievement, especially now that a foreign influence on its elaboration can be ruled out: the syllabic nature of the system does not support the hypothesis of a Greek influence, and the chronology rules out the hypothesis of a Persian influence.

93

«9CßÇ

°

From Egyptian to Meroitic Script The development of Meroitic script from the Egyptian writing system cannot yet be thoroughly explained. Several steps of this development remain obscure because archaeological evidence is missing. For example, no extant document in demotic has been found so far in Sudan for the period preceding the emergence of the cursive Meroitic script, so that the link between both the scripts is mostly inferred from the resemblance between the southern forms of Ptolemaic demotic and the earliest forms of Meroitic cursive. Fortunately, the transcription of Napatan/Meroitic royal names in Egyptian hieroglyphs, continuously attested, gives an insight into the formation of the Meroitic writing system. The following observations are mainly drawn from this source. Suppression of Determinatives Generic determinative signs play a major role in the Egyptian script. They were used to solve ambiguity in homographic spellings, such as mr “pyramid”, specified by the pyramid-sign, and mr “ill”, specified by the sparrow-sign, commonly called “the bird of evil”:

çÎ= mr “pyramid” ®

çÎ  mr “ill” ®

reducing polyvalency in writing systems

227

It is consequently a key device in a fundamentally polyvalent writing system. At first, the names of the Kushite kings did not include such signs, probably because they were transcribed by Egyptian scribes accustomed to render foreign names with purely phonetic signs. Later on, from the reign of king Aspelta (ca. 593–568 bc), generic determinatives appeared in Napatan names to specify some Meroitic elements included in personal names:

Y ≈ %

Eg. ideogram nfr “good”, used as determinative for Mer. /malu/ “good” Eg. ideogram ntr “god”, used as determinative for Mer. /maka/ “god” Eg. determinative for “child”, used as determinative for Mer. /mate/ “child”

It is significant that the first sign is not properly used in Egyptian as a generic determinative, but only as an ideogram for nfr “good”. Similarly, the use of the divine standard as a determinative for “god” is rare in Egyptian. These details tend to show that the use of such signs in Napatan names probably was due to local scribes. Significantly, it appeared after the sack of Napata by Egyptian troops led by Psammetichus II in 591 bc and the withdrawal of the administrative capital of the kingdom from Napata to Meroe, two events that resulted in a rupture with Egypt and may have favoured the rise of a local caste replacing Egyptians scribes (Rilly 2001: 363). These scribes, being themselves Meroitic speakers, were probably eager to specify the meaning of elements that made sense for them, but were confusedly rendered in Egyptian transcriptions. The following spellings are for instance alternative transcriptions for Meroitic /malu/ “good” (Fléchelle 2004: 44):

D P® 6 F H P A

H P®Y h G 6 B

C

ÎY

® M H ®

hY 6 I H6Y D

ÎrY 6 J HY P E

In A, F, G, H, the rendering is purely phonetic and uses variant Egyptian signs for /m/ and /l/ (actually /r/ since there was no regular sign for /l/, whose phonological status in Egyptian is unclear. See Loprieno 1995: 31). In B, D, E, I and J, the Egyptian logogram nfr is added as a determinative sign, although it is not used as such in “pure” Egyptian.

228

claude rilly

So, the role of the determinative was not, as in Egyptian, to disambiguate polyvalency, but to unify polygraphy. However, this experiment, which is known only for rare Meroitic elements, was abandoned in the course of the fifth century bc. No significant attempt to introduce ideographic elements in the rendering of Meroitic words is later attested. Specialization of the Plural Determinative as Word Boundary Sign The only Egyptian determinative sign that made its way into Meroitic script is the plural sign | | |. In the Egyptian inscriptions of the late Napatan kings such as Harsiotef and Nastasen (end of the fourth century bc), it appears unduly at the end of many singular words. Priese, and more recently Carsten Peust (Priese 1973: 282–283, Peust 1999: 124), consider rightly that the sign was then losing its original value as a plural marker and was used rather as “Wortgrenzsignal” (word boundary sign). This is probably the origin of the word divider ˚˚ ˚ in Meroitic hieroglyphic script and ⁝ in early cursive (later simplified in ⁚). Determinatives had in Egyptian, beside their generic role, a word boundary value. The word divider enabled Meroitic scribes to compensate the absence of such signs in their phonetic script.

P

Specialization of Signs Used for Apical Consonants The Egyptian and Napatan scribes had some difficulties in transcribing into Egyptian script the apical phonemes /d/, /r/, /l/ that occur in Meroitic personal names. It resulted in ambiguities in the values of two Egyptian signs: Eg. signs

6 r

Late Eg. values /r/, /l/ (esp. in foreign words)

Values in transcribed Meroitic names /r/, /l/

/r/

/d/, /r/, /l/

These difficulties originated in the fundamental difference between the phonemic systems of Egyptian and Meroitic. It seems /l/ had in Egyptian a questionable phonemic status (Loprieno 1995: 31). It had anyway no single and clear hieroglyphic rendering. By contrast, /l/ and /r/ were in Meroitic two clearly distinct phonemes. On the other hand, Meroitic /d/ was a retroflex consonant [ɖ ], i.e., pronounced with the tip of the tongue curved against the hard palate, a position which produces

reducing polyvalency in writing systems

229

a sound very similar to a trilled /r/ (Macadam 1966: 52 and n. 26). Egyptian scribes were accustomed to render graphically this Meroitic retroflex /d/ as /r/, even in the earliest transcriptions of Meroitic personal names that can be dated from the second millenary bc. Later on, the name of Meroe, Medewi in Meroitic, was again transcribed in Egyptian as Mrwj, and in Greek as Μερόη. The Napatan scribes kept on using these ambiguous notations, but they proved quite inconvenient, as shown by their attempt to introduce determinatives for the element /malu/ “good”. In Meroitic scripts, the was three phonemes were clearly distinguished. The lion-sign underretained with the single value /l/. The Egyptian mouth-sign or went some modifications, becoming on one hand Meroitic (the latter from Eg. ) used for /r/, and, on the other hand, , later , used for /d/. These modifications obviously Meroitic affected the iconic content of the hieroglyphs. However, most important for the Meroites was apparently to stay within the limits of the Egyptian hieroglyphic stock, probably because hieroglyphs were vested with magical power. The new signs used for /r/ and /d/ existed in š and wd频.t. The fact that they had different values Egyptian: in Egyptian did not really matter. Polyvalency of the original Egyptian hieroglyphs used by Napatan scribes for apical consonants was solved this way by specializing polygraphic signs and modifying an original sign. The solution was convenient as proved by the fact that no variant spelling involving these signs is known in Meroitic.

Cß

6 r

p

ß

‘

Òr

¡

‘

Notation of Vowels Notation of vowels is absent from the ordinary Egyptian scripts (hieroglyphs, hieratic, demotic). This feature is common among the different writing systems used for Afro-Asiatic languages and is of course due to the consonantal nature of lexical stems in this linguistic group. By contrast, Meroitic was a Nilo-Saharan language where vowels were relevant in lexical stems: for instance /ked/- “kill” and /kadi/ “woman” are not derived from the same stem. The scribes of Kush had therefore to find a way to transcribe the vocalic sounds of their language. Fortunately, Egyptians had worked out a special system to record vowels, known as “syllabic orthography” and chiefly used it for writing the names of foreign places and persons. In this system, different groups of signs are used for each syllable, for (b频 + stroke) for bi, (b + w) for bu, etc. However, this example

˙Æ

bW

230

claude rilly

system, which flourished during the Middle and the New Kingdoms, had fallen into decline at the end of the second millenium bc. In addition, it was not very precise and regular and left much room for ambiguity. It is no wonder that Napatan scribes used it erratically. They mixed pure consonantal writing and syllabic orthography with a special revival of the latter during certain periods (Fléchelle 2004: 58–78). Significantly, for the same personal names, many variant spellings included either consonantal signs or syllabic groups whose value is Consonant + /a/. This was probably the origin of the Meroitic system where the unmarked vowel is necessarily /a/. The Meroitic notation of vowels was doubtlessly a step forward to monovalency. Apart from the vowel /a/, special signs were adapted to note the vowels /e/, /i/ and /u/. The differentiation between /i/ and /e/ is particularly striking since the Egyptian scribes never attempted to distinguish both vowels, even in “syllabic orthography” or in the transcription of Greek names such as Cleopatra or Berenice. For e, Meroitic scribes used as a basis the Egyptian reed-sign whose value was j (glide) or in foreign transcriptions /e/ and /i/. The sign was however modified as or This particular form existed in Egyptian in the feather-sign šw . So the “magical aspect” mentioned above was safe. For i, the rare Egyptian sign for j “oh” (Coptic hi) was preferred y, to , perhaps to avoid confusion with or with the digraph adapted from Egyptian y. In that way, Meroitic system could have become a plain alphasyllabary, as it happened for instance for Indian scripts. However, for some syllables including /n/, /s/ and /t/, a different system was adopted, involving “compact signs”, i.e., syllabic signs with a permanent vocalic value, as can be found in full syllabaries. For this purpose, Meroitic scribes used Egyptian signs that had the same values in the ancient Napatan transcriptions of Meroitic names, assigning special values to some of them. In the Napatan transcriptions, /s/ could be either (the papyrus thicket-sign, (the bolt-sign reading s in Egyptian) or reading š频 in Egyptian).4 In the “syllabic orthography”, the papyrus

i

i

°

Ç i Ç

°

ii

i

Q

ii

t

4 The confusion between Egyptian s and š in the Napatan transcriptions is due to the laminal nature of Meroitic sibilant /s/.

reducing polyvalency in writing systems

231

thicket had the value ša, so that it was retained in Meroitic as the main in the form sign for s (= /sa/ with inherent vowel /a/). The bolt-sign , derived from the digraph , specialized in the value se, a syl+ . By contrast, lable which could consequently never be written and .A the syllables /si/ and /su/ are regularly written ne, from Egyptian similar specialization occurred for the sign nn, used occasionally for /n/ in the Napatan transcriptions. The n, more common in Napatan transcriptions, was Egyptian sign retained in Meroitic in a reduplicated form ◊ as the main sign for n (= /na/ with inherent vowel /a/). Consequently, /ni/ and /nu/ are written in Meroitic ◊ and ◊ , but the group ◊ ne is incorrect since must be used in that case. the special sign , Similarly, /t/ in Napatan transcriptions was indifferently ‹ , , or . In the Meroitic hieroglyphic script, apart from the first sign which was abandoned, each one specialized in a different N N N syllable including /t/: ‹ became‹ ∫ – – N in ∫ – – N /ta/ and ∫ – – N /ti/ , /tu/, became /te/. These “compact signs” give an became excellent example of the way polygraphy can be used to solve polyvalency, by subsequent specialization of signs originally of same values.5

t≠

t Q i Q° Q9 yy YY

√

° yy

9

Ç

t

¸) h

Î

h

›

h

°

)

New Polyvalency: Acquired and Inherent Ambiguities in Meroitic Script Meroitic writing system, although better tailored to the indigenous language than the old Napatan system used for the transcription of personal names with Egyptian signs, was, however, far from monovalency. The transcription of initial vowels is problematical in all alphasyllabaries because vocalic signs cannot be used independently in these writing systems. The Indian scripts, such as Tibetan, resort to a special dummy sign (initial a) which can support any vocalic appendix. Unfortunately, the historic development of the Meroitic script was such

5 The retention of these particular syllabic signs in the Meroitic system, which is essentially an alphasyllabary, seems rather odd. Actually, these special syllables correspond to very common suffixes in Meroitic morphology: -se is for example the genitival postposition, -te is the locative postposition, and so on. This retention can consequently be interpreted as a form of shorthand writing.

232

claude rilly

that this simple method found its way only progressively and not for all vowels. A first sign , derived from Egyptian “syllabic orthogra/a/, was used for initial /a/ and /u/, and sometimes other phy” vowels in variant spellings. The vocalic signs e and i could be used independently at the beginning of a word in the early stage of the Meroitic script. But this exception to the general principles of an alphasyllabary was later straightened out by introducing a dummy ye for initial /e/ and yi for initial /i/. The same y, resulting in process, which is not so far from the Indian method, was used for long initial /u/ which was written with a dummy w w. Diphthongs were defectively noted by the second element (Rilly in print: 294–296). So Isis is Wos = /uːsa/. If the vocative suffix -i was added, the resulting form /uːsai/ was written Wosi “oh Isis”. This is a very common source of ambiguity in Meroitic script. For instance, the name of God Amun was probably pronounced /amanai/, from Middle Egyptian /ʔamána/ followed by the Meroitic anthroponymic suffixe /i/. But since it was simply written ◊ amni, evidence for the actual pronunciation cannot be found in the Meroitic texts. These ambiguities are inherent to the Meroitic writing system. However, new ambiguities arose from phonemic changes, leading to acquired polyvalency. In the course of the first century ad, some vowels in weak positions were reduced to a neutral vowel /ә/. No sign was created for this new phoneme. It was written with the same sign as e which was also used in consonant clusters to notate the absence of vowel. Consequently, the sign e can be used in Late Meroitic for /e/, /ә/ or zero vowel. For instance, the Meroitic name of “Qasr Ibrim”, a . Meroitic town in the neighbourhood of Abu Simbel, is [___[ The scholarly sign-for-sign transcription Pedeme equates the different -signs. However, the Old Nubian name prim /brim/6 directly inherited from Meroitic and reflected in the second element Ibrim of the modern name, shows that the name was pronounced [b(ә)ɖem] with different values for each of the three -signs. It is yet impossible to know at what level (see above) this polyvalency was resolved: orthographic rules

⁄

i⁄

Ç

yÇ

°

y

y°

1

19Q

19Q°

⁄{ °

Ç

Ç‘Ç{Ç

Ç

Ç

6 Old Nubian p, like Meroitic [___[ p, was pronounced [b]. In all the Northern East Sudanic languages, /p/ has no phonemic status (as in Arabic).

reducing polyvalency in writing systems

233

might have existed, but are out of reach in the current state of research. Inherent and acquired ambiguities in Meroitic writing system are of course a hindrance to the comparative study of Meroitic, which requires detailed phonetic renderings for comparison with related languages (Hofmann 1980). For that reason, future progress in the translation of Meroitic texts cannot be envisaged without further research on Meroitic writing system. Conclusion The development of the Meroitic script displays many common features with its counterparts in other civilizations. In that respect, polyvalency in Meroitic writing system is a particularly significant approach. It shows that Meroitic scribes, faced with the same problems, used more or less the same solutions. They resorted to modifications of signs and redistribution of polygraphy in particular because they had inherited the rich Egyptian stock from which they could pick up all the signs they needed. It is not the least of their achievements to have adapted the rigid writing system of the Pharaohs to a language that had nothing in common with Egyptian. Experiments were carried out and later abandoned, as obvious in the way determinatives were tentatively adapted to Meroitic words. As Bruce Trigger wrote some thirty years ago: “Meroitic script cannot be described any longer, as repeatedly suggested in secondary literature, as the haphazard creation of a simplified writing system among a people no longer able to manage with the complicated Egyptian script” (Trigger, 1973b:339–340). By comparison, in the Proto-Sinaitic alphabet, the adaptation of the Egyptian writing to a language that was still linguistically related involved a complete disintegration of the Egyptian system where only a few consonantal signs and the principle of acrophony were retained. On the African side of the Egyptian sphere of influence, the Egyptian script was adapted more carefully, probably because it was chiefly an affair of state. The rulers of Kush considered themselves as the legitimate heirs of the glorious Egyptian Pharaohs at a time when Egypt itself was in the hands of foreigners such as the Macedonians or the Romans.

234

claude rilly References

Asher, R. E. and J. M. Y. Simpson 1994. The Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics, Pergamon Press: Oxford. FHN II: Eide, T., T. Hägg, R. H. Pierce and L. Török 1996. Fontes Historiae Nubiorum II. From the Mid-Fifth to the First Century bc Textual Sources for the History of the Middle Nile Between the 8th Century bc and the 6th ad. University of Bergen: Bergen. Fléchelle, C. 2004. Transcription des anthroponymes koushites en écriture hiéroglyphique égyptienne de la XXVe dynastie au début du royaume de Méroé. Apports chronologiques de l’évolution orthographique. Mémoire de DEA de l’Université Paris IV-Sorbonne. Vol. I–II. [unpublished thesis] Griffith F. Ll. 1911. The Meroitic Inscriptions of Shablûl and Karanog. E. B. Coxe Jr. Expedition to Nubia. VI, Philadelphia. Hintze F. 1973. Some Problems of Meroitic Philology. 1. Internationale Tagung für meroitistische Forschungen in Berlin 1971, Meroitica 1: 321–336. –—— 1987. Zur Interpretation des meroitischen Schriftsystems. Beiträge zur Sudanforschung 2: 41–50. Hofmann, I. 1980. Zum Problem der gesprochenen und geschriebenen Sprache im Meroitischen. Afrika und Übersee 63: 269–280. Leclant, J., A. Heyler, C. Berger-El Naggar, C. Carrier and C. Rilly 2000. Répertoire d’Épigraphie Méroïtique. Corpus des Inscriptions publiées. Vol. I–III. Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres: Paris. Loprieno, A. 1995. Ancient Egyptian. A linguistic Introduction. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Macadam, M. F. L. 1966. Queen Nawidemak. Allen Memorial Art Museum. Oberlin Ohio: pp. 42–71. Peust, C. 1999. Das Napatanische. Ein ägyptischer Dialekt aus dem Nubien des späten ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtausends. Texte, Glossar, Grammatik. Peust & Gutschmidt: Göttingen. Priese K.-H. 1965. Das meroitische Sprachmaterial in den ägyptischen Inschriften des Reiches von Kusch. Dissertation, Humboldt-Universität, Berlin. [unpublished thesis] –—— 1973. Zur Entstehung der meroitischen Schrift. 1. Internationale Tagung für meroitistische Forschungen in Berlin 1971, Meroitica 1: 273–306. Rilly, C. 1999. Une nouvelle lecture du signe méroïtique Q. Göttinger Miszellen 169: 101–110. –—— 2001. Une nouvelle interprétation du nom royal Piankhy. Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale 101: 351–368. –—— 2003a. Les graffiti archaïques de Doukki Gel et l’apparition de l’écriture méroïtique. Meroitic Newsletter 30: 41–55, pl. IX–XIII (fig. 1–8). –—— 2003b. Récents progrès dans le domaine de la philologie méroïtique. Meroitic Newsletter 30: 73–77. –—— in print. La langue du Royaume de Méroé. Un panorama de la plus ancienne culture écrite d’Afrique subsaharienne. Champion, Collections de l’École Pratique des Hautes Études: Paris. Trigger, B. G. 1973. Internationale Tagung für meroitische Forschungen in Berlin 1971. Summary of Discussion and Final Comments. 1. Internationale Tagung für meroitistische Forschungen in Berlin 1971, Meroitica 1: 337–349.

DIFFICULT HIEROGLYPHS AND UNREADABLE DEMOTIC? HOW THE ANCIENT EGYPTIANS DEALT WITH THE COMPLEXITIES OF THEIR SCRIPT Joachim Friedrich Quack Whenever Ancient Egypt is evoked, people associate it, among other things, with the hieroglyphic writing system. By its visual impression, it has a strong allure mixed, however, with some sort of reluctance. ‘Can you really read this?’ is a typical question posed to an egyptologist – as if this was far from self-evident. The very nature of the hieroglyphic signs fosters a common misconception. The writing is taken to be pictographic, and more specifically to be based on the direct pictorial value of the depicted objects. This is hardly an adequate model, even if there is a logical nexus between the depicted object and its value as a sign. Cursive Writing I certainly cannot evade the hieroglyphs, but I would like not to limit myself to the monumental writing system. Instead, I will also bring the cursive writing systems of Egypt to the fore, for several reasons. The first is that people tend to forget about the true proportions of use. Monumental inscriptions in stone were meant to perpetuate their content for future times. They only represent, however, a limited sample of the writing that actually was used in Egypt, and hardly a representative one at that. Their importance for the culture is likely to be overestimated nowadays since, in accordance with the intentions of their makers, they were particularly good at bridging the centuries and millennia. But it was the cursive writing systems normally transmitted on papyrus, which represented the vast majority of the actual writing occurring in Egypt, and those very texts, which were of immediate concern for the Egyptians, be it administrative records specifying revenues and obligations or liturgical manuscripts with rituals to be performed by the priests. Scholars distinguish two different sorts of cursive writing in Egypt, namely hieratic and demotic. Hieratic evolved out of a simplification of hieroglyphic writing, which came about easily when writing with a rush

236

joachim friedrich quack

pen and using ink.1 It soon developed into forms of its own, although the connection to hieroglyphs was never really severed. Perhaps this can be seen in one obvious fact: Hieratic is normal for everyday supports, papyrus or leather as well as ostraca, but hardly ever encountered on stone. There was one phase in Egypt, the Third Intermediate Period, about 1070–700 bc, when hieratic was sometimes incised on stone for official inscriptions (Meeks 1979: 661–687), but otherwise, when texts were transferred from papyri to monumental surfaces, they were transposed from hieratic to hieroglyphs. That very fact shows how the Egyptians considered those writing systems to be two faces of the same coin, not as distinct systems (although, as a matter of fact, there are some differences in the orthographic preferences). The Greeks felt similarly, because most of their authors who write about Egyptian script do not distinguish between hieroglyphic and hieratic (Marestaing 1913), and the Egyptians designated both with the same term as mṭw-nčr “words of the god”.2 The second cursive writing used in Egypt is demotic.3 It evolved by about the seventh century bc out of hieratic, by a serious further simplification of the sign forms. In this case, it was considered more as an entity of its own. It was, from the Ptolemaic period onwards, quite often engraved as a sort of monumental script of its own,4 and received a specific term. It was called ‘popular writing’ or ‘indigenous writing’ in Greek, and sẖ 频-š 颓.t ‘letter-writing’ in Egyptian. Still, it is theoretically possible to transpose even demotic into hieroglyphic writing; there never was a complete break. Since there are some cases of texts written in demotic language but hieroglyphic script (Quack 1995, Quack 1998), it is possible that models in demotic writing were actually put into hieroglyphs – but it cannot be excluded that in those cases, the basic written document was in hieratic script (which could, at least during some periods, be used also for compositions in demotic language). In my contribution, I will focus on demotic when considering the cursive writing for several reasons. Firstly, in normal descriptions of Egyptian writing systems, demotic is rather relegated to a sort of foot1 For hieratic, the standard paleography is Möller (1909–1912); additional works on selected periods are Goedicke (1988) and Verhoeven (2001). 2 Here and in the following, I am using for Ancient Egyptian the specific transliteration system used, e.g., in Schenkel (2005). 3 For demotic writing in general, there is no really thorough treatment. See, e.g., the notes and sign-list in Bresciani & Menchetti (2002). 4 Many of the smaller ones are collected in Vleeming (2001).

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

237

note or appendix, not considered on a par with hieroglyphs, so there is much less information about it that is easily accessible. Secondly, it has a more distinct character than hieratic, so any differences between monumental and cursive writing should be more accentuated in demotic. Most especially, demotic illustrates the very subject of this chapter, namely polysemy, as I will show later on. First, however, a few words about the hieroglyphic writing system and how it functioned in general. Hieroglyphs, as a medium of communication, occur on objects as early as the late fourth millennium bc.5 Thus they are among the oldest known writing systems of the world, rivalled only by Mesopotamian cuneiform writing. The question of precedence, as well as possible Mesopotamian influence on the development in Egypt, have been debated several times (e.g., Daniels 1996: 2). Without entering into any details, I would simply stress that in their actual functioning, the writing systems are too different to make a close dependence feasible. At most, some general conception of ‘writing’ as a cultural technique might have been transmitted, Egyptian writing combines signs of two different functions.6 On the one hand, there are signs in a phonetic function, i.e., expressing sounds. There is one specific point to be noted: In Egyptian writing, traditionally only consonants are expressed, not vowels. Among the signs of phonetic function, there are specific signs for each consonantal sound of the Ancient Egyptian language, although with one probable exception. Generally, the system is fairly economic for one-consonant signs; there are only few cases where more than one sign is in current use for any particular sound. The sound-values were typically derived from the Egyptian words for the object depicted. In order to arrive at one single consonant, sounds of weaker pronunciation were disregarded, but it seems that as soon as one satisfactory sign for a consonant was devised, the process was finished and no further experiments along those lines encouraged. Furthermore, there are signs for sequences of two or three consonants. The first group is fairly extensive and covers about 80–90 signs 5 Dreyer (1998); for different interpretations, see Vernus (2001), Breyer (2002) and Kahl (2003). For early Egyptian writing in general, see Kahl (1994, 2001) and Morenz (2004). 6 For good overviews on the functioning of Egyptian writing, see Schenkel (1971, 2005: 41–72), Depuydt (1999: 7–62) and Altenmüller (2005). A fairly different systematic has now been proposed by Schweitzer (1995: 23–98). Some specific theoretical problems are discussed in Schenkel (2003).

238

joachim friedrich quack

in normal use. Still, they do not represent all sequences of consonants that are tolerated within the Egyptian language. This means that for some sound combinations, a writing with one-consonantal signs is the only possibility. When there was the option, however, the Egyptians tended to use the signs with two-consonant value.7 Redundancy within this group is fairly limited; it is rare to have two or more different signs with the same two-consonant value. Whenever this occurs, one of the alternatives tends to be restricted by convention to the writing of some specific word while the other one is in free and general use. In some cases, supposed redundancies have resolved themselves when close analyses showed real differences in the sound values (Quack 2003a). Signs with the value of three consonants are relatively rare. Since most Egyptian words have a root with three consonants, this means that it is impossible, for the greater part of the Egyptian lexicon, to reduce the writing to a single sign. Furthermore, given the root structure of the Egyptian language, it is difficult on a theoretical level to distinguish between those signs that stand for a sequence of three consonants regardless of its sense and those signs which are fixed to the writing of one single root. Pluriconsonantal signs – be it two or three consonants – are, with great frequency, subject to the so-called “phonetic complements”. In normal Egyptian writing, some or even all of the consonants expressed by a pluriconsonantal sign are repeated by placing the one-consonant signs before or after it; e.g., the two-consonantal sign b频 can have b before it and the sign 频 after it, resulting in , the sign to be read b频 , not bb频频 . The actual custom, whether one has both consonants of a two-consonantal sign, only the first or only the last one expressed by a one-consonantal sign, are fixed rather arbitrarily by conventions. The usages are less rigid at the origin, e.g., the writing habits of the fourth dynasty are still relatively erratic (Schweitzer 2005: 579–604). Only later does orthography tend to become more standardized. The use of complements certainly makes it easier to read a text – even when not quite sure about the sound-value of a two- or three-consonantal sign, one gets part or all of that information by its surroundings. In general, the use of complements is more frequent in hieratic than in hieroglyphic writing, probably for the simple reason

Ù

{

˙

Ù˙{

7 Schweitzer (2005: 63–66) has tentatively established rules for the choice of twoconsonantal signs instead of a sequence of two one-consonantal signs.

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

239

that cursive writing makes it more difficult to recognize the signs and thus more measures to ensure correct understanding are necessary. Now we come to the second great category of hieroglyphs, namely the semograms. Among them, we have logograms and determinatives. A logogram (also called ideogram) is a sign serving to write the word corresponding to the object it depicts or to which it is closely related. as writing of the actual For example, we have the sign of the sun for the root word r 颓 “sun”, or the sign of the writing implements sẖ 频 “to write” and its derivations. A determinative is a sign not having any sound-value at all, but still it was an essential part of the Egyptian writing system. It is a sign placed at the end of a word and giving information about its semantic category, acting as a classifier (Goldwasser 2006). We can have deterused minatives of fairly broad use, like the sign of the striking man for words having to do with force and exertion, or the animal hide for mammals and other hairy animals. On the other hand, there are fairly specific determinatives like a man raising a column ( ), or the as a logogram or determinative for the word “cat”. sign of the cat The use of determinatives contributes significantly to the number of hieroglyphs in use; there are about a hundred of more general application (Gardiner 1957: 31–33) and a significant amount of quite specific use. However, in this case, they do not add to the complication of the system, but rather to its malleability. One highly important factor in writing is to distinguish between different derivations of a root. If, for example, you have the root sẖ 频 with the verb “to write” and a nominal derivation sẖ 频(.w) “the scribe” (with an ending reconstructed by linguistic considerations but not used in actual hieroglyphic writing), a writing purely based on the phonetic signs would not normally be able to distinguish them. By using determinatives, you can easily mark the second alternative with placing the sign of a sitting man at the end of the word to signal that this word belongs to the sphere of man and its occupations. Determinatives can even allow one to distinguish between different connotations of one single word, mainly in hieratic, but sometimes even in demotic writing (Pestman 1973), which would be impossible in a purely alphabetic writing. Using determinatives thus makes the reading of hieroglyphic texts easier. Actually, one can observe a neat tendency to increase the use of determinatives at the beginning of the twelfth dynasty which is, to all appearances, part of a conscious effort to make writing clearer while at the same time enlarging the bureaucratic staff of the government (Schenkel 1975: 70–79).

d

i

¶

R

¢

6

240

joachim friedrich quack

Regardless of their function, most hieroglyphs form one single continuous sign. In rare cases, the sign can be discontinuous. A case in for nn – two plant shoots not touching each point is the group other. Although there is also a hieroglyphic sign of a single shoot, it does have a quite different value nḫb and the group cannot be explained as a combination of the values of its constituent parts. Discontinuity is as a bit more frequent with determinatives, e.g., three water-lines determinative for water or three strokes as a marker of plurality.

YY

“

V

Numbers Several points of this factual description call for comments and are relevant for our topic. First, the number of hieroglyphs: The complexity of the writing system seems baffling at first. One can read that there are about seven hundred different hieroglyphic signs in common use during the Middle and New Kingdom, and that their number increased to about five thousand, or even seven thousand in the Graeco-Roman period. How could an ordinary human being keep such an amount of signs in memory, and why did the Egyptians need so many different signs? As a matter of fact, these numbers, although frequently referenced, are likely to be off the mark. Seven hundred hieroglyphs for the classical period is likely to be an underestimation. Even for the still relatively limited texts of the fourth dynasty, an actual count gives 719 different attested signs (Schweitzer 2005: 195f ). Conversely, five or even seven thousand for the Graeco-Roman period is a gross overestimation. Both extremes are due primarily to a count of modern printing fonts. The lower number is based on the elegant set designed for Alan Henderson Gardiner’s Egyptian grammar. While comprising all signs of any significant frequency, close study of the monuments would reveal numerous additional attested hieroglyphs. Quite ironically, this does not demonstrate that the hieroglyphs are more complicated than generally supposed. On the contrary, it shows that what we have here is an open set where everyone is free to create new signs as long as they are intuitively understandable to his readers. As a matter of fact, the additional signs are largely palaeographical variants or detailed forms of logograms and determinatives whose value was self-evident. They need no special training to learn, and if anything, they make it easier to understand the text. The seemingly enormous number of five thousand or, according to other voices, even seven thousand signs for the Graeco-Roman period

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

241

is based primarily on the font used by the French institute at Cairo and secondly on the so-called extended sign list, a computer font, which has served to replace the French lead-based letter-press in recent years. Since that institution has published many temple-inscriptions from the Graeco-Roman period, their printing font is relatively complete. However, many of these hieroglyphs are only palaeographical variants that do not really need memorizing, or are merely ligatures of two or more hieroglyphs where only the technical practicalities of modern printing demand the creating of a new sign in the font. A recent guess based on the compilation of a sign-list for teaching purposes came to the result that there are less than twelve hundred signs with a phonetic value, and, even when including determinatives, the actual number of hieroglyphs used in this time would not exceed fifteen hundred to two thousand (Leitz 2004: 10f; similar Kurth 2007: 3 note 1). Still GraecoRoman monumental epigraphy is more difficult than ordinary hieroglyphs. In order to appreciate it, one should at least note that it had relatively different aims from many of the earlier inscriptions. It was less about simply communicating verbal meaning to a circle as large as possible, and more about conveying an added layer of meaning on the graphic level for a rather closed inner circle where social separation worked towards increased complexity of the system whose understanding became also a differentiating hallmark of an elite. Second, the disregard of vowels: Imagine English (or another European language) written without any vowels. That would create an enormous complication. Many words of clearly distinct meaning would simply show up in the same graphic form. The text might still remain understandable, but its correct deciphering would take a prohibitive amount of time. With the Egyptian language, and similarly with the Semitic languages, which are genetically related to it, the concept of “roots” is important for the structure of the language. A root is a fixed sequence of consonants carrying one basic concept of meaning. As such, it is an abstraction and does not occur in the actual language. What we really have are derivations of that root. Different patterns of vocalisation, and, in some cases, affixes are used to form the inflected forms of the verb as well as nominal derivations. Thus, words having identical consonantal sequences are relatively likely not to have an unbridgeable gap of meaning between them. It makes writing actually much more convenient if one can use the same signs for the core part of the root regardless of the actual specific form, and that concerns particularly writing systems where a sign can denote sequences of more than one

242

joachim friedrich quack

consonant. I doubt that without the Egyptian precedence of disregarding the vowels in writing, the northwest-semitic writing system, and with it our modern alphabet, would ever have come about. Third, the one consonant missing from the basic graphemic inventory, namely the l, whose phonemic status in Ancient Egyptian is not completely clear. This does not have a single and unique hieroglyphic sign. Instead, it can either be noted approximately by using the similar sounds r, n and 频 or by specific combinations of several signs, in the Old Kingdom, p | in the New Kingdom – these polygraphic renderings are always facultative and more often used for foreign words and names than for indigenous Egyptian words. A true single sign for the l is only created in the demotic writing of the Ptolemaic period; it is derived from the sign for r by a diacritical mark. Peust (1999: 107–114) has proposed several more phonetic distinctions among the consonants not reflected in writing but I doubt the validity of his argumentation (Quack 2003b: 445f ). Fourth, polysemy in the sense that a sign can have more than one value. Such a phenomenon contributes quite a bit to the supposed difficulty of early writing systems like hieroglyphs or cuneiform. Actually, the number of cases where a sign can have seriously different values is rather limited in classical hieroglyph writing. It becomes much more virulent in Graeco-Roman monumental hieroglyphic epigraphy when some signs could have ten or more different phonetic values, but that topic is not dealt with in detail here. In short, the process of creating sound values that had been operative during the late predynastic and early dynastic period but rather closed down afterwards, became functioning actively again. This probably started as soon as the early first millennium bc, but it became much more pronounced beginning with the Ptolemaic period. Given that the sound system of the Egyptian language had evolved considerably by then (Peust 1999), there were numerous possibilities of words containing only one strong consonant and capable of being written with a word-sign which thus became a freely usable one-consonantal sign in this system of writing. But here I am only concerned with the polysemy in ordinary hieroglyphic writing. One fairly common, and fairly harmless instance of polysemy is that a sign serving as a determinative for a word can also be used in a kind of abbreviation for that word. For example, the callcan be used as determinative for verbs of calling, but as ing man an abbreviation, it can also be used for the specific verb 颓š “to call”. It is a bit more of a challenge when the same sign also serves as a short

° [

°

{√

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

243

writing for the interjection ı̓, but normally the context makes it easy to distinguish which value is actually used. In other cases, a word sign might be read in two different ways. For example, the sign of the head obviously serves to write the word “head”, be it as a determinative to a phonetically written word, or as a word-sign on its own. In the latter case, however, it is not always clear whether it is to be read as ṭp or č̣频č̣频. Still, that rarely affects the meaning of a phrase. Serious cases of polysemy are encountered when a sign can have phonetically different values that lead to distinctively different meaning that can serve to write two and words. A case is the sign of the star different roots: The one is ṭw频, which probably has the basic meaning of “morning”, but with a derived sense “to adore” – because Egyptians normally sung sun-hymns in the morning. The other is sb频, with such different meanings as the verb “to teach” and its derivatives, the noun “door”, and the noun “star”, which, however, can probably be attributed to one basic root (Westendorf 1984). In the distinct majority of cases, the use of an appropriate determinative makes the choice of the correct reading rather easy. Among two-consonantal signs, there is, e.g., the sign of the elephant tusk with the values bḥ and ḥ w. Normally, the use of phonetic complements resolves ambiguity in such questions. The number of cases where signs have several clearly different phonetic values is not very high in ordinary hieroglyphic writing; probably not more than ten signs at most are involved. In some cases, such phenomena are due to the formal coalescence of originally distinct sign forms, often brought about by similarity in cursive writing. In some cases, polysemy is restricted to certain categories of texts. For example, the sign of the cow-ear , besides serving as a determinative, has the value sč̣m for the verb “to hear” and its derivatives. However, specifically in medical texts, it can also serve as a short writing for the word č̣rč̣ “leaf ” (of a plant). As such, it is typically written without any phonetic complement, whereas for the root sč̣m, the one-consonantal sign for m, is usually employed as a complement at the end of the word. Perhaps these cases can illustrate one important point about the polysemy of signs in ordinary hieroglyphic writing. Not only is it a relatively rare phenomenon, but also, the context of the sign takes care of clearing the resulting ambiguities. Fifth and finally, some remarks about the relative frequency of signs: Unfortunately, no one has ever done a large-scale counting of the use of different signs, at least not in published form. I have counted part

∏

˚

„

w

244

joachim friedrich quack

of one hieroglyphic inscription as a sample in order to gauge about the use of the different categories of signs. As basis, I used a late Middle Kingdom private stela from Abydos. The amount of text I could process was limited to a bit more than four hundred signs but it should give some idea. One-consonantal signs account for a bit less than half of the inscription, 2-consonantal signs and determinatives are both a bit below twenty percent, and 3-consonantal signs and word-signs less than fifteen percent of the whole. To put it into a more global perspective: With an active knowledge of about 110 signs for the one- and two-consonantal signs plus a fairly reduced amount of determinatives of mostly intuitive value, one could already decipher 85% of the text, and probably the phonetic complements would help enough to guess most of the remaining words. More simply put, for an ordinary runof-the-mill inscription, the amount of active knowledge of the script you have to master is limited. I would of course admit that there are much more difficult texts, but in general, the difficulty of hieroglyphs is far from insurmountable. Demotic In cursive writing, some ambiguity is always created by the very process of simplification, which leads to originally different sign-forms becoming similar or even identical. There seems to have been some sort of control which kept this from going too far. The actual limits of tolerance were slightly different at different times. For example, middle hieratic ) writing tolerates that the sign for n ( ) and the plural strokes ( have facultatively identical forms (a more elaborate form of the plural strokes remains possible), and also, the more elaborate forms of the , , , sometimes even , can be assimilated arm, such as . In later periods, these simplifications are no longer usual. to Specifically important for understanding cursive writing is the late period Egyptian form, namely demotic. It came about in the seventh century bc, and it first appropriated the administrative texts to its domain, later the literary texts, and, even for religious texts, came to rival the traditional hieratic script. Nowadays, demotic is normally considered to be a highly difficult, almost unreadable script. Even within Egyptology, it is a niche for the happy few. The main reason is the cursive character of the script that seems baffling at first: lots and lots of small signs, and sometimes one cannot feel sure what is

√

k

˚Jj

¬

Ò

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

245

an accidental ink-blot, and what is a crucial sign important for understanding the whole. As a matter of fact, there are some elements which make demotic more difficult and others which make it easier. The number of signs in use in the demotic script is certainly considerably lower than in hieroglyphic writing. There has never been a good inventory. A recent palaeography of demotic (El-Aguizy 1998) counts about three hundred different signs. In spite of the problems and limitations of that publication (See Vittmann 2000), the number might be reasonably accurate; at least you would not encounter many more genuine demotic groups of any frequency in the texts. Another list, the sign list of Erichsen’s reading exercises (Erichsen 1937), contains about 360 signs, so the numbers are not too different. It might still be possible to find additional, often quasi-hieratic signs in certain types of texts, especially if they use vocabulary that has fallen out of normal use in that period. But that is hardly of importance for the sort of texts one would normally encounter when reading demotic. For that, about 300–350 signs would be sufficient, definitely less than for hieroglyphic writing. One reason for the reduced number is obvious. In a script which is based on making the signs simple for fast writing, complicated and elaborated signs or highly specific signs do not make sense. Instead, basic forms are used and along with only generic determinatives of fairly broad application, e.g., one has the general determinative for mammals derived from the animal hide, but normally would not use the determinative of a specific animal. Normally, demotists do not care much about a theoretical classification of the demotic signs. Since almost all of them have been trained first as egyptologists in hieroglyphic writing, they simply tend to project the classification system of the hieroglyphs into demotic. For example, in the only published palaeography of demotic (El-Aguizy 1998), you will find the labels of two- or three-consonantal signs liberally attached to certain demotic groups going back ultimately to signs classified as such for hieroglyphic writing. However, I would beg to disagree with such an approach because it does not seem to me to be adequate for synchronic analysis. The classification of demotic writing should be set out differently. There are only three fundamental sorts of signs, namely one-consonantal signs, determinatives, and groups. One-consonantal-signs and determinatives are, of course, familiar from the older Egyptian writing system, and they continue their functioning. The category of “groups”, however, is somewhat new. It

246

joachim friedrich quack

subsumes the earlier distinct categories of two-consonantal signs, three-consonantal signs, and word-signs. This is due to the way a new stability is achieved within the system of demotic writing. Two- as well as three-consonantal signs, and equally word-signs, together with their standard phonetic complements (and sometimes even determinatives), are fused together in a new sign which has a fixed value of its own and cannot be broken down into its original constituents. It is a readable and recognizable unit of its own. A case in point is the group for ı̓p(.t) ‘work’. Historically, it derives from a hieroglyphic group (or similar). However, it is quite impossible to dissociate the first part into anything corresponding to two separate demotic and . It works only as a fixed single group. Due to this signs for process, it is not customary in demotic to use one-consonantal signs as phonetic complements, except in a few ‘frozen’ cases like the feminine word wry.t ‘the great one’ which regularly employs the group for wr (historically speaking, an old two-consonantal sign wr followed by a phonetic complement r and a space-filling stroke) followed by the demotic one-consonantal sign r. There is, however, a totally different sort of ‘complements’ in demotic writing, which deserves more attention, because, from a theoretical point of view, it is quite remarkable. It consists of indicating either the first or the last part of a word phonetically by prefixing or suffixing to it a (short) word that serves as an indication of a syllable with fixed vocalic value. The most frequent one is probably the word ı̓yi̯ ‘to come’ that can be used to indicate a stressed final syllable with ī. Furthermore, the verb ı̓ni̯ ‘to bring’ is sometimes prefixed to a word (Zauzich 1998: 747), probably in order to indicate a beginning with a syllabic n (which corresponds to the pronunciation of the status constructus of the verb ı̓ni̯, being Ⲛ̄ in Coptic). The writing for the verb ı̓ri̯ ‘to do’ can be used in word-final position to indicate a pronunciation of a final әr, especially after derivations of the root nfr ‘to be good’ which drop the r in most, but not all cases (Zauzich 1998: 748f., Quack 1999: 28 note b). The word ı̓rı̓ ‘companion’ can serve to indicate a final syllable in ēr (which corresponds to its Coptic pronunciation as Mⲏⲣ. Such a use of complements with fixed vocalic value is unusual for the older Egyptian writing systems, although for the ‘syllabic’ writing of the New Kingdom, some scholars suppose a sub-system working with short (one-syllable) words of fixed vocalic value. The amount of one-consonantal signs is larger in demotic than in earlier times, and this is due to a specific process. In earlier times, a

= K à t¶ =

K

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

247

so-called ‘syllabic’ orthography Already evolved that was based on original two-consonantal signs with a weak second consonant. They were used, perhaps originally with a fixed vocalic value, to write single consonants, normally for foreign words or for those words which did not have a traditional established orthography. By the time of demotic, they had lost all pretension to fixed vocalic value as well as all restrictions to foreign words and were also freely used for traditional Egyptian vocabulary. But the old signs were rarely given up completely, so, for many sounds, there were two or even three one-consonantal signs possible. The choice was normally made either by considerations of traditional orthography, or by the possibilities of good optical arrangement. Additionally, from the Early Ptolemaic Period (about Ptolemy for l was clearly differentiated from the sign for r III), the sign by the addition of a diacritical marker. The percentage of demotic words written only with one-consonantal signs and determinatives, without any groups, is probably higher than the percentage of words in hieroglyphic and hieratic texts written without pluriconsonantal signs and word-signs. Unfortunately, no scholar, so far, has made a reliable count of that. The supposed difficulty of demotic is partly due to the fact that it is always set out in cursive hand-writing. It is necessary to become accustomed to the way an individual scribe writes his signs – that can be a problem even in modern times, and all the more so if the handwriting is several hundred years old. For that reason, it takes some time to get used to a demotic hand, and with a short text, things are generally much harder than with a long text. There is however a much deeper problem, namely that demotic signs of highly different function look nearly or totally alike. I will give some examples: One sign of mostly identical form can serve as one-consonantal sign for s (hieroglyphic ), as writing of the possessive article pa “he of . . .” ([), and, sometimes with a small additional dot (  ), as determinative of the man with the hand to his mouth ( ), a standard determinative for word of eating as well as of mental processes. The sign of the suffix ⸗s for the third person singular ( ) looks like ). One single sign can be the sign of the the canal-determinative (| child ( ), or the determinative of the old man ( ), or even the determinative of the builder ( ). The sign w频č̣ ( ) and the group for “cop) per” also look quite alike. Even the one-consonantal signs for b ( and č̣ ( |) look alike ( ) in many hands (most Roman-period scribes differentiate them clearly). One single group can be the group for wr

K

∞ v

væ º

t

c fl

¡

Ùà

248

joachim friedrich quack

p ’ t’¯

∆¡

t¡

“big” ( ), 颓š “to call” ( ), for the second part of the word mnḫ “be excellent” ( ), and for tš “district” ( ). Actually, these are, of course, originally quite different hieroglyphic forms, but the way of shortening them has produced identical movements of lines in demotic. All these examples – and they could be multiplied – probably look terrifying at first sight. This seems like a hopeless confusion, and every decipherment like a lot of guesswork. Luckily, things are much less disastrous. While the groups in question might look identical as far as they go, hardly ever do they constitute the word in its entirety. Determinatives would be added to the word, or phonetic parts to determinatives. For example, one of the signs mentioned can be read as the sign of the child on its own, e.g., as a writing of the word šrı̓ “son”. If, however, used as the sign of the old man, it always follows a phonetic part of the word (normally the root 颓频 ‘to be big/old’), and that part precludes any mistaken interpretation as the sign of the child. If complete words become too alike in demotic writing, there seems to be a tendency towards secondary differentiation by diacritical markers or additional strokes in one of them. A good case can be found in a group which looks almost identical, in early demotic, for the ) and the word rn “name” marker of the negative past tense bn-p ( ). But already beginning in that epoch, and almost consistently ( later on, the word rn “name” was distinguished by placing an additional line on the top of the first part ( ). Genetically, it probably derives from the frequent expression n-rn “in the name of ”,8 but then it was generalized, and for n-rn as different from simple rn, an additional n could be added. With that, we have advanced quite a bit in the question of how demotic functioned for its users. One would probably learn the oneconsonantal signs individually; at least there is one remarkable list giving only one-consonantal signs, not complete words, namely in papyrus Berlin 23861 (Zauzich 2000). Perhaps this would also work for the determinatives, although I am not sure about that. But otherwise, you would not learn individual groups, but complete words. The ‘Ganzheitsmethode’, to use a German term, is fundamental for this

√p ¡

ÙK¶ √

8 This process was misunderstood by Depuydt (2001: 9) who took the line to derive from an ancient r.

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

249

writing (Zauzich 1968: 4f ). As long as one looks at the complete word, most ambiguities are solved and there is only one possible interpretation. Actual evidence for this sort of instruction is provided by a number of preserved school exercises with individual words or simple phrases (Kaplony-Heckel 1974, Devauchelle 1984). This is, to some degree, whence our modern problems come. As long as one has the complete word in perfect preservation, reading is not so difficult in most cases. If however, the surface is partially abraded, or the ink faint, or worms have eaten up parts of the papyrus, it soon goes downhill. From my own experience, I would say that with a demotic text one tends to loose one’s way in broken contexts much easier than in hieratic texts where the decipherment of individual signs is normally not in doubt, even if the word is incomplete. This is, after all, not very different from what I have explained about polysemy in hieroglyphic writing. There, most ambiguities of the signs used are also clarified by context, and I think it is more than coincidence that demotic writing, in spite of its differences, shows fundamentally similar ways of making writing unambiguous. After all, it should not be forgotten that Egyptians were actually able to use their writing system quite successfully, to set down fairly complicated thoughts as well as to fix legally binding administrative documents. I would not want to guess how much of the population was literate but I seriously doubt that the figure of one percent written in modern scholarship (Baines & Eyre 1983, Baines 1983) is true. Especially for the later periods, where there is better documentation, the amount of different hands during a rather short period of time from even modest settlements is so immense that one should reckon on a substantially higher literate part of the population, at least among the town-dwellers. Certainly, the writing systems of Egyptian are a lot more complicated than our modern letters, and the part of the population who was able to make substantial use of them was less, although perhaps not seriously less than in the European Middle Ages. Still, the system has no inherent limitations concerning the possibility of expressing everything that can be thought in the Egyptian language. I would risk the hypothesis that the limitations of its spread might even be deliberate – the reading and writing part of the population at the time was also the ruling elite, and would not have had any interest in making writing so easy that everybody could master it (Quack 2006: 96f ).

250

joachim friedrich quack References

El-Aguizy, O. 1998. A Palaeographical Study of Demotic Papyri in the Cairo Museum from the Reign of King Taharka to the End of the Ptolemaic Period (684–30 bc). MIFAO 113. Cairo: Institut Française d’Archéologie Orientale. Altenmüller, H. 2005. Einführung in die Hieroglyphenschrift. Hamburg: Buske. Baines, J. 1983. Literacy and Ancient Egyptian Society, Man (NS) 18: 572–599. Baines, J. & C. J. Eyre, 1983. Four Notes on Literacy, Göttinger Miszellen 61: 65–96. Bresciani, E. & A. Menchetti 2002. Nozioni elementari di grammatica demotica, Ed. Pisa: ETS. Breyer, F. A. K. 2002. Die Schriftzeugnisse des prädynastischen Königsgrabes U-j in Umm el-Qaab: Versuch einer Neuinterpretation. Journal of Egptian Archaeology 88: 53–65. Daniels, P. 1996. Introduction. In Daniels, P., Bright, W. (eds.), The World’s Writing Systems, pp. 1–2. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Depuydt, L. 1999. Fundamentals of Egyptian Grammar. Frog Publications: Norton, MA. ——. 2001. Demotic Script and Demotic Grammar (II): Dummy Prepositions Preceding Infinitives. Enchoria 27: 3–35. Devauchelle, D. 1984. Remarques sur les méthodes d’enseignement du démotique (À propos d’ostraca du Centre Franco-Égyptien d’Étude des Temples de Karnak). In H.-J. Thissen, K.-Th. Zauzich (eds.), Grammata Demotica. Festschrift für Erich Lüddeckens zum 15. Juni 1983, pp. 47–59. Würzburg: Gisela Zauzich Verlag. Dreyer, G. 1998. Umm el-Qaab I. Das prädynastische Königsgrab U-j und seine frühen Schriftzeugnisse. Archäologische Veröffentlichungen 86. Mainz: Philipp v. Zabern. Erichsen, W. 1937. Demotische Lesestücke I. Literarische Texte mit Glossar und Schrifttafel, 3. Heft. Schrifttafel. Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs. Gardiner, A. H. 1957. Egyptian Grammar. Oxford: Griffith Institute. Goedicke, H. 1988. Old Hieratic Paleography. Baltimore: Halgo. Goldwasser, O. 2006. A Comparison between Classifier Languages and Classifier Scripts. The Case of Ancient Egypt. In G. Goldenberg, A. Shisha-Halevy (eds.), Egyptian, Semitic and General Grammar. Workshop in Memory of H. J. Polotsky (8–12 July 2001), pp. 16–39. Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Kahl, J. 1994. Das System der ägyptischen Hieroglyphenschrift in der 0.–3. Dynastie. Göttinger Orientforschungen IV/29. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ——. 2001. Hieroglyphic Writing during the Fourth Millenium bc: an Analysis of Systems. Archéo-Nil 11: 108–112. ——. 2003. Die frühen Schriftzeugnisse aus dem Grab U-j in Umm el-Qaab. Chronique d’Égypte 78: 112–135. Kaplony-Heckel, U. 1974. Schüler und Schulwesen in der ägyptischen Spätzeit. Studien zur altägyptischen Kultur 1: 227–246. Kurth, D. 2007. Einführung ins Ptolemäische. eine Grammatik mit Zeichenliste und Übungsstücken, Teil 1. Hützel: Backe-Verlag. Leitz, Chr. 2004. Quellentexte zur ägyptischen Religion I. Die Tempelinschriften der griechisch-römischen Zeit. Münster: Lit-Verlag. Marestaing, P. 1913. Les écritures égyptiennes et l’antiquité classique. Paris : Paul Geuthner. Meeks, D. 1979. Les donations aux temples dans l’Égypte du Ier millénaire avant J.-C. In E. Lipiński (ed.), State and Temple Economy in the Ancient Near East II. Oientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 6, pp. 605–687. Leuven: Peeters. Möller, G. 1909–1912. Hieratische Paläographie. Die aegyptische Buchschrift in ihrer Entwicklung von der Fünften Dynastie bis zur römischen Kaiserzeit. 3 Volumes. Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs. Morenz, L. 2004. Bild-Buchstaben und symbolische Zeichen. Die Herausbildung der Schrift in der hohen Kultur Altägyptens. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 205. Freiburg/ Göttingen: Paulusverlag, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

difficult hieroglyphs and unreadable demotic?

251

Pestman, P. W. 1973. Jeux de déterminatifs en Démotique. Revue d’Égyptologie 25: 21–34. Peust, C. 1999. Egyptian Phonology. An Introduction to the Phonology of a Dead Language. Monographien zur ägyptischen Sprache 2. Göttingen: Peust & Gutschmidt. Quack, J. F. 1998. Sprach- und redaktionsgeschichtliche Bemerkungen zum Choiaktext von Dendera. In C. J. Eyre (ed.). Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress of Egyptologists, Cambridge 3–9 September 1995, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 82, pp. 921–930. Leuven: Peeters. ——. 1995. Monumentaldemotisch. In L. Gestermann, H. Sternberg-el Hotabi (Hrsg.), Per aspera ad astra. Wolfgang Schenkel zum neunundfünfzigsten Geburtstag, pp. 107–121. Kassel: Louise Gestermann. ——. 1999. Balsamierung und Totengericht im Papyrus Insinger. Enchoria 25: 27–38. ——. 2003a. Zum Lautwert von Gardiner Sign-List U 23. Lingua Aegyptia 11: 113–116. ——. 2003b. Review of Peust, Egyptian Phonology. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 153: 444–448. ——. 2006. Die Rolle der Hieroglyphenschrift in der Theorie vom griechischen Vokalalphabet. In W. Ernst, F. Kittler (eds.), Zahl, Schrift und Ton im Medienverbund, pp. 75–98. Munich: Fink. Schenkel, W. 1971. Zur Struktur der Hieroglyphenschrift. Mitteilungen des Deutschen archäologischen Instituts, Abteilung Kairo 27: 85–98. ——. 1975. Zur Redaktions- und Überlieferungsgeschichte des Spruchs 335 A der Sargtexte. In W Westendorf (ed.), Göttinger Totenbuchstudien. Beiträge zum 17. Kapitel, Göttinger Orientforschungen, IV. Reihe: Ägypten, 3, pp. 37–79. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ——. 1986. Syllabische Schreibung. In W. Helck & W. Westendorf (eds.), Lexikon der Ägyptologie, Band VI. Stele-Zypresse, pp. 114–122. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ——. 2003. Die hieroglyphische Schriftlehre und die Realität der hieroglyphischen Graphien. Sitzungsberichte der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig. Leipzig: Verlag der sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. ——. 2005. Tübinger Einführung in die klassisch-ägyptische Sprache und Schrift. Tübingen. Schneider, Th. 1992. Asiatische Personennamen in ägyptischen Quellen des Neuen Reiches. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 114. Freiburg/Göttingen: Universitätsverlag Freiburg, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Schweitzer, S. D. 2005. Schrift und Sprache der 4. Dynastie, Menes 3. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Vernus, P. 2001. Les premiers attestations de l’écriture hiéroglyphique. Aegyptus 81: 13–35. Verhoeven, U. 2001. Untersuchungen zur späthieratischen Buchschrift. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 99. Leuven: Peeters. Vittmann, G. 2000. Review of El-Aguizy 1998. Enchoria 26: 189–192. Vleeming, S. 2001. Some Coins of Artaxerxes and Other Short Texts in the Demotic Script Found on Many Objects and Gathered from Many Publications. Studia Demotica 5. Leuven, Paris, Sterling: Peeters. Westendorf, W. 1984. Der Wortstamm sb频 “öffnen, bahnen”. Enchoria 12: 63–66. Zauzich, K.-Th. 1968. Die ägyptische Schreibertradition in Aufbau, Sprache und Schrift der demotischen Kaufverträge aus ptolemäischer Zeit. Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 19. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ——. 1998. Ein vieldiskutiertes Wort im Titel des Hieros Polos der Königin Kleopatra III. In W. Clarysse, A. Schoors, H. Willems (eds.), Egyptian Religion, the Last Thousand Years. Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Jan Quaegebeur, Part I. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 84: 745–750. Leuven: Peeters. ——. 2000. Die Namen der koptischen Zusatzbuchstaben und die erste ägyptische Alphabetübung. Enchoria 26: 151–157, pl. 13. Zeidler, J. 1993. A New Approach to the Late Egyptian “Syllabic Orthography”. In Sesto congresso internazionale di Egittologia, Atti, Turin, Volume II, pp. 579–590.

MAYA WRITING: SYNONYMS AND HOMONYMS, POLYVALENCY AND POLYSEMY Erik Boot Introduction The origins of Maya writing are being pushed back nearly every year, especially through archaeological discoveries at the Guatemalan site of San Bartolo. In a recent article, Saturno, Stuart, and Beltrán (2006) now date the first known example to circa the fourth century bce. Further discoveries at this site, but also at other sites in the region or close to where San Bartolo is located (i.e., large sites as Calakmul, El Mirador, and Tikal [see map in Figure 1] as well as smaller sites as Cival or La Sufricaya), ultimately may provide yet earlier examples of Maya writing and possibly the examples of the incipient stages of the writing system itself.1 The language that gave rise to Maya writing was a lowland Mayan language, probably an ancestor to (colonial) Ch’oltí’ (now extinct) and present-day Ch’ortí’ (Houston et al. 2000). Intensive and long-term interaction (circa 1,000–400 bce) between different but closely related cultural areas in the Maya lowland region, probably each speaking a distinct but related Mayan language, may have provided the ground for the invention and development of a writing system (either through independent invention and/or adaption of [an] earlier neighboring script[s] and scribal tradition[s]).2 Including extinct languages belonging 1 A recent study suggests that the earliest syllabic sign inventory hints at a nonMayan origin. Based on these syllabic signs, the origin of this inventory probably may be found in a neighboring Mixe-Zoquean speaking community (Lacadena 2005). If correct, there would be no incipient stages of “Maya writing,” but more research is necessary to substantiate a probable Mixe-Zoquean origin. The earliest now known example of Maya writing provides ancestors to well-known Classic Maya signs and pre-dates examples of the Isthmian or Epi-Olmec script (Saturno et al. 2006: 2), for which a Mixe-Zoquean language has been suggested (Justeson & Kaufman 1993, 1997 and Kaufman & Justeson 2004; but see Houston & Coe 2003 and Mesoweb 2004). 2 Currently I am investigating the possibility that several (perhaps) closely related writing systems were developed in the Maya area, of which examples can be found at for instance Kaminaljuyu, Takalik’ Abaj, Chalchuapa, and San Bartolo. These scripts

254

erik boot

Figure 1. Map of the Mesoamerica and the Maya Area, major sites indicated (by the author).

to the Mayan stock or family of languages, over 30 different languages were spoken in an area now referred to as the Maya area. In the present day some 25 Mayan languages are still spoken in southeastern Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, and western Honduras. Maya writing is best known through its monumental hieroglyphic inscriptions produced in the Classic period, a period that began at circa

(to represent a or the Maya language) may have been in competition, in which finally one script took primacy over the others and became the standard for the whole area (this does not mean that at one point one script “took over,” the other script may have existed for some time; although in China the first emperor of Qin initiated a script unification in 221 bce, other writing systems still were employed and even continued their evolutionary path). Some stylistic traits are shared by some of the scripts, but sign inventories seem to differ (although this observation is based on a database of only a small number of early texts, both monumental and portable, that is currently available). This sceneario may explain why certain early signs never are found in later texts; these did not make it into the “final” sign inventory as they came to belong to an obsolete writing tradition.

maya writing

255

250 ce and lasted to circa 900 ce, at now well-known archaeological sites such as Copán, Palenque, Quiriguá, Tikal, and Yaxchilán. Maya writing is a mixed or logosyllabic script which means that within Maya writing syllabic signs (i.e., signs that represent CV [consonant-vowel] sounds, e.g., ba, ma) and logographic signs (i.e., signs that represent CVC or CVCVC words, CHAN “serpent,” BALAM “jaguar”) were employed to form linguistic items. In total some 650 to 700 signs were developed. In the early phase of the Classic period, some 125 to 300 signs were in use; during the middle phase of the Classic period some 300 to 360 signs were in use. In the late phase of the Classic period some 200 to 300 were in use, while in the late Postclassic period (circa 1250–1500 ce) the Maya screenfold books employed close to 300 different signs (compare to Grube 1990a: 38–41 & Tabelle 1). While there is a tendency to employ more syllabic signs towards the late Postclassic period, Maya writing was and always remained a mixed script. The title of the 2005 symposium that produced this paper was “The Idea of Writing: The Use of Polysemy in Writing Systems.” The definition of polysemy, however, is not an easy one to give. As writing is based in and on language, I have chosen language as the starting point for a definition. In this paper I follow the definition given to polysemy generally followed in the study of linguistic semantics, in which polysemy refers to “multiplicity in meanings of words” (Ravin & Leacock 2000: 1) or, more strictly, “the association of two or more senses with a single linguistic form” (Taylor 1995: 99). In this paper four language and writing based phenomena will be discussed. These phenomena are synonymy, homonymy, polyvalency, and polysemy. As will become clear below, within the Classic Maya writing system in certain cases some of these phenomena overlap or merge. Synonymy In a most basic definition, synonymy refers to the existence of two or more words that can be substituted in a certain context and which are considered to be equivalent relative to that context. While these two or more words have the same (or a very similar) meaning, their lexical origin or etymology may differ substantially.

256

erik boot

For this essay I have chosen the words and signs in Maya writing3 that refer to the concept of “first.” In Mayan languages there are three words that convey the concept of “first”:4 nah “first, in front, forward” *nah yax “first” bah “front, first” *bah (Kaufman 2003: 279, 596; Brown & Wichmann 2004: 167, *bAh “first”)

How could Maya scribes and sculptors employ the concept “first” in writing? To arrive at the signs referring to the above words for “first,” these scribes and sculptors employed the phenomenon of homonymy: words that are spelled or pronounced the same way, but which differ in meaning (see below).5 The list of words is as follows:

3 In this note the following orthography will be employed: ’, a, b, ch, ch’, e, h, j, i, k, k’, l, m, n, o, p, p’, s, t, t’, tz, tz’, u, w, x, and y. In this orthography the /h/ represents a glottal aspirate or glottal voiced fricative (/h/ as in English “house”), while /j/ represents a velar aspirate or velar voiced fricative (/j/ as in Spanish “joya”) (Grube 2004). In this essay there is no reconstruction of complex vowels based on disharmonic spellings (compare Houston et al. 1998 [2004] and Lacadena & Wichmann 2004, n.d.; for counter proposals see Kaufman 2003 and Boot 2004, 2005a). In the transcription of Maya hieroglyphic signs uppercase bold type face letters indicate logograms (e.g., NAH), while lowercase bold type face letters indicate syllabic signs (e.g., ba). Queries added to sign identifications or transcribed values express doubt on the identification of the assigned logographic or syllabic value (e.g., TIWOL?). Items placed between square brackets are so-called infixed or layered signs (e.g., CH’AM[K’AWIL]); order of the transcribed signs indicates the epigraphically established reading order. Older and obsolete transcriptions and/or transliterations are placed between double pointed brackets (e.g., «cu»). All reconstructions (i.e., transliterations) in this essay are but approximations of the original intended Classic Maya (“epigraphic”) linguistic items (Boot 2002: 6–7), a written language which was employed by the various distinct language groups already formed in the Classic period. Citing of so-called T-numbers (e.g., T528) refers to the hieroglyphic signs as numbered and cataloged by Thompson (1962; the complete list of Thompson’s affixes and main signs can be found online at www.famsi.org/mayawriting/thompson/index.html). 4 The words at the end of each line are preceded by an asterisk (*), which introduces a reconstructed form in proto-Mayan. Reconstructed forms are based on Kaufmann 2003. If no reconstructed form is provided, it means I have not found it in the literature available to me at the time of writing this essay. 5 Not all epigraphers identify the GOPHER logogram as BAH (as I do), but prefer ba. At the end of the Classic period the BAH sign was acrophonocally reduced to simply ba. It has to be noted that scribes also employed syllabic spellings for nah and bah “first.” In the first instance the spelling T23 na was employed for nah, in the second instance T501 ba was employed for bah. In both cases the scribes employed abbreviated spellings (as the final -h was not spelled). I am not familiar with a syllabic spelling for yax with the meaning “first.”

maya writing nah • house (structure) • first, in front, forward

*nhaah *nah

yax

• green/blue • first

*ra’x

bah

• • • • •

*ba’h *bah *bah *bah *bah

pocket gopher face, head self, image top first, front

257

The reconstructed proto-Mayan shapes (after Kaufman 2003) are included to show the difference in the origin of the words.6 To represent the sounds nah, yax, and bah in any context Maya scribes and sculptors developed a series of signs (Figure 2). As the present identification of the visual origin of these signs now stands, I interpret the sign for NAH to represent the base platform of a house (structure) (from *nhaah). Abstraction, limitation of scribal space, and rotation has led to the fact that in many cases the sign is not placed horizontally but vertically. The sign for YAX probably represents an object made of jade, a hard gem and ornamental stone which is known for its (dark) green to grey to blue color range (*ra’x “green/blue”; but also, white, orange, violet, and even black varieties can be found). The sign for BAH represents the head of a pocket gopher, or tuza in Spanish (from *ba’h). On rare occasions one of the front paws of the pocket gopher is included (e.g., Palenque, Creation Tablet). It was an ordinal context in which nah and yax were identified by epigraphers as words for “first” (Schele 1990: 1) (Figure 3a). In this context a series of a specific event was counted. To refer to the second and third “counted in order” Maya scribes employed two dots for “two” (’u-2–ta-la, u-cha’-tal “the second counted”) and three dots for “three” (’u-3–ta-la, u-’ux-tal “the third counted”). It could, as such, be deduced that the first reference to the same event, which included the sign for NAH “house (structure),” had to refer to “first” (’u-NAH-ta-la, u-nahtal “the first counted”). Indeed, the word nah meant “first” in several Mayan languages. The same hieroglyphic sign NAH, to spell the ordinal

6 Absence of a proto-Mayan form only means that this has not yet been proposed in the existing literature (see note 3). Proto-Mayan forms (when the tentative results from glottochronology are invoked) are removed circa 1,000 to 1,600 years from the possible period of the invention (or adoption) of the writing system (circa 1,000 to 400 bce). They are removed some 2,250 to 2,900 years from the Classic period (circa 250–900 ce) in which the majority of surviving hieroglyphic texts was produced.

258

erik boot

Figure 2. The signs for NAH, YAX, and BAH (drawings by Mark Van Stone, after Coe & Van Stone 2001).

word “first,” can be found in another context (Figure 3b); the spelling ’u-NAH-ta-la CH’AM-K’AWIL-la leads to u-nah-tal ch’amk’awil “(it is) the first counted k’awil-taking.” This is an event associated with the taking of office by a king or ajaw; k’awil can refer to the god named K’awil, or to the statuette representing the god K’awil. In an abbreviated reference to the same event, the word nah “first” is substituted by yax “first,” as in YAX-CH’AM[K’AWIL] for yax ch’am k’awil “first k’awil-taking.” There is another good example of the employment of yax as “first” in an ordinal context. A common ceremony among the Classic Maya was an event that can be described as the “binding of the stone” (Stuart 1996). This ceremony can be found written in various forms, for instance ’u-K’AL-wa[TUN]-ni and ’u-K’AL-wa TUN-ni (Figure 4a) for u-k’al-aw

maya writing

259

Figure 3. a) The sign for NAH in an ordinal count, b) The sign YAX substitutes for NAH (drawings by Linda Schele).

260

erik boot

tun “he binds/binded stone.”7 However, of this kind of ceremony, which took place every 360 days, there was a first instance. This first instance is described as ’u-YAX-K’AL[TUN] for u-yax-k’al-tun “(it is) the first stone-binding” (Figure 4b). The first instance, in this particular example at Piedras Negras, was celebrated at the Maya date 9.15.0.0.0 (731 ce), the last day of a circa 20 year period, a so-called k’atun period-ending. The Classic Maya k’atun period-ending was thus considered to be the first in a series of twenty such “stone bindings.”8 There is yet another word for “first”: bah (Schele 1990: 2). An example can be found in the inscriptions at Palenque (Figure 5). This example can be transcribed CHUM[mu]- . . . -ni ta-[BAH]hi ch’o-kole-le 3-K’UXAN?-na ma-ta ’i-tz’i-WINIK K’UH-BAK-la-’AJAW for chum-(w-a)n-Ø ta bah ch’oklel ux k’uxan(?) mat itz’i(n)winik k’uhul bakal ajaw “sits/sat in first heir-ship, Ux K’uxan(?) Mat, younger brother, God-like King of Bakal (Palenque).”9 Although at any given time there could be more than one heir to the position of king, there was only one that was specifically marked as bah ch’ok “first heir” and the position to which he acceded or was seated was named bah ch’oklel

7 Most problematic is the interpretation of tense and aspect within Classic Maya verb conjugations: Does a verb refer to an action performed in the past or the present, and what aspect does it carry? I take a so-called (Initial Series and) Calendar Round date in any hieroglyphic text to function as an temporal adverb, as such placing in the past any action as described by a verb unless a Distance Number carries the action to the future (compare to Houston 1997, Wald 2000). 8 The Classic Maya employed an ingenious place notational calendar system in which units or cycles of increasing length were counted, that represented the amount of days as counted from a zero point. The Maya counted the units of one day (named k’in), of twenty days (winal or winik), of 360 days (tun or hab), of 7,200 days (k’atun or winikhab), and 144,000 days (bak’tun or pik) (these cycles together are referred to as “Long Count”). There were even larger cycles. The Maya also employed a combined calendar that counted and named days in a cycle of 260 and in a cycle of 365 days. The reconstructed date 9.15.0.0.0, 4 Ajaw 13 Yax in Figure 4b informs us of the fact that 9 × 144,000 days and 15 × 7,200 have elapsed since the zero point and that this day has reached 4 Ajaw in the 260 day calendar and 13 Yax in the 365 day calendar. Through a most probable correlation (584,285; see Lounsbury 1982: 166) between the Maya and Christian calendar, this date can be placed in 731 ce. In all probability, the “Maya calendar” (specifically the “Long Count”), as it is often referred to, was not invented by the Maya themselves, but adapted from a neighboring non-Mayan speaking community or communities as the oldest examples are found in places encircling the Maya area. 9 Here -Ø indicates the third person singular of the absolutive set of pronouns, as employed in intransitive verb contexts, which is “empty” and thus not pronounced or written.

maya writing

261

a)

b)

Figure 4. a) The phrase u-k’alaw-tun (drawings by David Stuart); b) The phrase u-yax-k’al-tun at G3 (drawing by Mark Van Stone).

262

erik boot

Figure 5. The reference to bah ch’oklel at Palenque (drawing by Linda Schele).

“first heir-ship.”10 While this phrase may convey a strict ordinal sense to the position of ch’ok “heir,” the actual sense it conveys is one of hierarchy. The bah ch’ok is more important than any other ch’ok. To this particular case I return below. 10

The noun ch’ok literally means “unripe one, young one (youngster).” In the Palenque context the word ch’ok refers to the one who will inherit his father’s kingship. The meaning “heir” is thus a semantically derived meaning. That is why he is seated in bah ch’oklel “first heir-ship.”

maya writing

263

Within the corpus of Classic Maya hieroglyphic texts that I currently have available, there is no overlap between nah and yax “first” on the one side and bah “first” on the other. That fact may be based on the context in which nah and yax are employed, which is ordinal. The context in which bah “first” is employed is hierarchical. Homonymy In a most basic definition, homonymy (or homophony) refers to the relation between two or more words that are spelled or pronounced the same way but differ in meaning. Thus although two or more words are spelled or pronounced the same way, they differ in lexical origin. To my knowledge, the phenomenon of homonymy in Maya hieroglyphic writing was first described in detail by Stephen Houston (1984). He described how the signs “four,” “sky,” and “serpent” (Figure 6) could substitute for each other. In the first example, two variations of the same nominal phrase provide a substitution between the signs for “four” and “sky” (Figure 7a). The spelling TIWOL?-FOUR-ma-ta is substituted by TIWOL?-SKY-ma-ta.11 As these nominal phrases refer to the same person (the father of one of the Palenque kings), the signs FOUR and SKY should represent the same value. The second example provides the same relationship statement between two people (Figure 7b). The spelling ’u-SERPENT-na bo-bo is substituted by the spelling ’u-chaSKY-na bo.12 As the same relationship statement is recorded, the signs SERPENT and SKY should represent the same value. As SKY substitutes for FOUR in the first example and SKY substitutes for SERPENT in the second example, all signs should represent the same value. Houston (1984) presented a short table containing linguistic data through which it became clear that the Mayan words “four,” “sky,” and “serpent” were very close homonyms (or homophones) and, as such, 11 The value TIWOL? for the sign depicting a LONG.LIPPED.HEAD is tentative. It is based on other examples of this nominal phrase at Palenque in which the LONG. LIPPED.HEAD is substituted by a syllabic spelling ti-wo and in which the LONG. LIPPED.HEAD is postfixed with a sign for la. 12 The hieroglyphic sign for cha in this transcription was not yet deciphered when Houston presented his case in 1984. This sign for cha was deciphered by Barbara MacLeod in the early 1990s, based on the logographic value CHAN for all three signs, as discussed further below in the main text of this essay. It should be noted that there is growing evidence that the putative cha sign and the serpent logograph actually form one sign with the value CHAN. Also the sign value bo was not yet deciphered.

264

erik boot

Figure 6. The logograms FOUR, SKY, and SERPENT (drawings by the author).

a

b

Figure 7. a) The collocations TIWOL?-FOUR-ma-ta and TIWOL?-SKY-ma-ta; b) The collocations ’u-SERPENT-na bo-bo and ’u-cha-SKY-na bo (drawings and value assignments by the author).

maya writing

265

Table 1. Words with the meaning “four,” “sky,” and “serpent” (linguistic data adapted from Kaufman, 2003). Language Proto-Mayan Yucatec Ch’ol Ch’olti’ Ch’orti’

Four

Sky

Serpent

*kaanh kan chän – chan

*kaan kan chan chan chan

*ka’nh ka’(a)n chan chan chan

the signs could substitute for each other. Recent linguistic research provides the possibility to expand his original and correct assessment (Table 1). The three reconstructed words in proto-Mayan with the meaning “four,” “sky,” and “serpent” already show that the words were pronounced in a very similar manner. This similarity is also apparent in Yucatec Maya and in Ch’ol. Most interesting are the entries in Ch’olti’ and Ch’orti’, the eastern Ch’olan languages, in which all three words are true homo-nyms.13 If chan is the correct gloss for all three words, each of the hieroglyphic sign represents the logographic value CHAN. The spellings in the first example can thus be transcribed as TIWOL?-CHAN-ma-ta for tiwol chan mat, while the spellings in the second example can be transcribed as ’u-CHAN-na bo-bo which is substituted by the spelling ’u-cha-CHAN-na bo for u-chan bob.14 In the last two phrases the relationship statement u-chan would have the meaning of “the guardian of,” a suggestion actually based on a close homonym cha’an, a verb root with the meaning “to guard” (as suggested by Alfonso Lacadena). Close and true homonyms are the base for a large set of Maya hieroglyphic signs that substitute for each other.15 This writing principle

13 Although it has to be noted that Ch’olti’, a now extinct language, is only known from a couple of seventeenth century sources in which no gloss for the word “four” is found. However, as Ch’olti’ and Ch’orti’ are sister languages, the gloss for the word “four” would probably have been a close if not a true homonym to the other words “sky” and “serpent.” According to one group of linguists and epigraphers, an ancestor to the Ch’olti’ language was the language that gave rise to the Maya script (Houston et al. 2000). Also see “Introduction” of this essay. 14 Maya scribes abbreviated their spellings in many contexts, especially within nominal phrases. As the spellings ’u-CHAN-na bo-bo and ’u-CHAN-na bo refer to the same person, the spelling bo is simply an abbreviation of bo-bo for bob. 15 During the Classic period the signs T95 ’IK’ BLACK and T503 ’IK’ WIND never substituted for each other, although (if their reconstructed sounds for the Classic period

266

erik boot

is often referred to as the “rebus principle.” Space and subject limitations for this essay do not permit a further excursion to illustrate a large variety of examples, but the reader can turn to the examples of synonyms in the first section above. While nah, yax, and bah are synonyms for “first,” the logographic signs employed in the context of “first” are based on their homonymic quality (nah “house,” yax “blue/ green,” bah “pocket gopher”). Polyvalency In a most basic definition, polyvalency refers to the multiple meanings or values, related or unrelated, a single item or sign can have while, relatively speaking, its shape or design is the same. While such signs exist in Maya writing, either context, the employment of a semantic determinant, or phonetic complementation actually set apart signs of similar or the same design. The example I illustrate here is one often employed in Maya studies (e.g., Coe & Van Stone 2001: 25), but here I present additional detail in the discussion. The hieroglyphic sign involved is one cataloged by Thompson (1962) as T528. This sign occurs in different contexts and within each context it has a different value (Figure 8). The values are CHAHUK (formerly “KAWAK”), TUN, and ku. However, the manner in which the sign T528 is employed in each context directs the reader to its correct value. In the descent line on the left T528 is placed within a cartouche, which Maya epigraphers refer to as a “day sign” cartouche. In the monumental inscriptions, as well as in most painted texts, each day sign (of which there are twenty) obtains a cartouche in the context of its employment as a day sign. The day signs have a specific order, and T528, with a day sign cartouche, is the nineteenth day sign. This sign has been ascribed the value or name kawak in earlier studies, based on the fact that within the colonial Yucatec Maya calendar the nineteenth day was known as Kawak (or «cauac» in the old [colonial] spelling) and was named and illustrated as such in the “Relación de las cosas de Yucatán” as written by Diego de Landa.16 However, during the Classic period most of are correct [e.g., Stuart 2005: 80]) these signs are clearly homonymic. Possibly this is due to the fact that ik’ “black” descends from *’ejq’ or *’ehq’ (note *q’eq “black” for Highland Maya languages) and that ik’ “wind” descends from *’i’q’ (Kaufman 2003: 231,492; compare to Brown & Wichmann 2004: Table 5 and 169, *ii’hq’ “wind”). 16 The original manuscript is from 1566 and survives through a copy made in the late seventeenth and possibly the early eighteenth century. In this manuscript the twenty

maya writing

267

Figure 8. Polyvalency: Different contexts for T528 (drawings by Mark Van Stone [after Coe & Van Stone 2001], arrangement and value assignment by the author).

the day signs had a different name since those names were based in a Mayan language different from Yucatec Maya. That language may be an ancestor of a language or several languages in the eastern Ch’olan

day signs are illustrated through their Late Postclassic variants with their Yucatec Maya names. The manuscript also contains the “Landa alphabet,” the sign list which has proven to be the gateway to the decipherment of Maya writing as discovered by the Russian scholar Yuriy Knorozov in the early 1950s (see Coe 1992).

268

erik boot

language group (compare Houston et al. 2000). Possibly the Classic Maya name for this day was chahuk “thunder; lightning.”17 In the descent line in the middle, T528 obtains a -ni phonetic complement. The sign combination T528–ni is read TUN-ni and it occurs for instance in the spelling po-po-TUN-ni for poptun “mat-stone,” a place name. In the descent line on the right, T528 is combined with the sign for ’a to arrive at ’a-ku. Here thus T528 has the syllabic value ku, a value based on the occurrence of the T528 sign in the alphabet as provided by Landa (assigned with the value «cu», now ku).18 The sign combination ’a-ku leads to ak (*ahk, see Kaufman 2003: 634 [Lowland Languages & Western Mayan]), the word for “turtle” (this sign combination also substitutes for the logographic sign ’AK TURTLE). There is yet a fourth context in which T528 occurs. It is employed as the main sign of four Classic Maya month names (actually periods with a length of 20 days). These month names contain color prefixes and can be compared to a series of month names still (or at least during the last century) in use among Q’anjob’al speakers in the department of Huehuetenango in Guatemala, namely ik’ sihom, yax sihom, sak sihom, and chak sihom (Edmonson 1988, Thompson 1950). The sign T528 in this particular context may have represented the value SIHOM (after a suggestion by David Stuart), evidence for which may be found in the optional phonetic complements -ma (common) and -mo (rare). Polyvalency of T528 in Classic Maya writing is thus restricted, as scribes employed different methods to distinguish the same sign or very similar signs in different contexts. To differentiate between the different values the scribes employed a semantic determinative (a day sign cartouche) or phonetic complements (-ni; -ma, -mo). Although 17 I base my assumption on the occurrence of the spelling cha-hu-T528 at Piedras Negras (Throne 1), although it has to be specifically noted that this example is outside the context of a day sign. Most commonly, this collocation is transcribed cha-hu-ku (as T528 has the syllabic value ku; see main text). The word chahuk means “lightning” and “thunder” and it survives in colonial and present-day languages, for instance, as chaak (Yucatec), chauk (Tzotzil), chahwuk (Tzeltal), chahwuk/chajuk (Tojolab’al), kahoq/kohoq (Pokomchi’), and kaaq (Q’eqchi’). Reconstructed forms are *kahoq in proto-Mayan and *chahuk in proto-Cholan) (Kaufman 2003: 489). Since kawak has no meaning in colonial (or present-day) Yucatec Maya other than being a day name, it actually may be a loan word (but from which language?) or an ancient, obsolete word for “lightning” and “thunder.” 18 It was from the occurrence of multiple signs for one alphabetic letter (representing a sound as pronounced in sixteenth century Spanish, e.g., /b/ > “be,” /h/ > “hache”) and signs that represented two sounds («ca», «cu», «ku») that Yuriy Knorozov concluded that the “Landa alphabet” actually was a collection of syllabic signs in alphabetic order.

maya writing

269

rare, there are other signs that may be polyvalent, but in which again context or phonetic complementation indicates the correct value (e.g., the sign known as T24 CELT/MIRROR). Polysemy In a most basic definition, polysemy refers to a word that has multiple senses or meanings, which are derived from the same etymology, and which are employed in different but semantically related contexts. In the study of linguistic semantics, polysemy refers to “multiplicity in meanings of words” (Ravin & Leacock 2000: 1), “the association of two or more senses with a single linguistic form” (Taylor 1995: 99). Polysemy is an important field of study within linguistic semantics. The analysis of polysemy and the processes that govern the polysemization of linguistic forms (leading to different senses and sub-senses) is regarded to be fundamental for understanding language acquisition and accurate reading, i.e., word sense disambiguation (compare Geeraerts 2001, Kilgarriff 1997, Ravin & Leacock 2000: 1–6, Tani n.d.). It is specifically accurate reading (in the present case Maya hieroglyphic texts) that involves polysemy. Here I will describe three cases of polysemy. Based on a variety of Western and Lowland Mayan languages, the verb root pak- can be found defined as: pak- • to fold *paq • to weed • to turn over, to reverse • to somersault (Kaufman 2003: 1436; compare to Brown & Wichmann 2004: 176)

Although tentative, the basic meaning of the root pak- may have been “to fold.” From this meaning the other three senses seem to be derived. “To weed” can be described as “to fold” the ground in a turning or reversing motion, which would explain its use as “to turn over, to reverse” in other contexts. “To somersault” is, as such, derived from the already established senses or meanings, although now in the context of acrobatics performed with the (human) body. All contexts involve motion and thus seem to be logically derived in a process of polysemization. A first example of the root pak- can be found in a text panel with accompanying illustration on a bowl now in the collection of Dumbarton Oaks in Washington, D.C. (Figure 9). The illustration shows

270

erik boot

Figure 9. Panel on a carved bowl, collection at Dumbarton Oaks (drawing by Simon Martin, value assignment by the author).

a depiction of a Maize God-related deity (cacao pods are attached to the body) (Martin, in Miller & Martin 2004: 78). His body is in motion. The particular motion is described in the short hieroglyphic caption that accompanies the illustration. The first collocation can be transcribed pa-ka-la-ja for paklaj. Here one can recognize the root pak-, to which is added the suffix -l-aj. This suffix, common to Classic Maya and several present-day Mayan languages, occurs on verb roots that “refer to physical states or positions” (hence known as “positional verbs”) (Bricker 2004: 1063). The senses as mentioned above now come into play. The motion depicted is one of turning over or reversal; “to somer-sault” might be the correct description of the action depicted. The shape pak-l-aj-Ø would mean “(he) somersaults,” or in a more basic sense “(he) turns over.” The actual name of the deity follows in the second and third collocation. The root pak- can also be found in a different, but semantically related context. Within Maya writing, a large host of objects can be found, each referred to by its proper name. One of these objects is the stone lintel, which, at different places in the Maya lowlands, was carved with short or long dedicatory phrases. One such dedicatory phrase can be found on a lintel of unknown provenance (Figure 10). After

maya writing

271

Figure 10. Lintel of unknown provenance (drawing by Christian Prager, value assigment by the author).

the dedicatory verb (i-k’a[h]laj-Ø “then is presented”), one can find the sequence ’u-pa ka-bu TUN-ni-li for upak(a)b(u)tunil. This item can be analyzed as u-pak-(a)b(u)-tun-il, in which one can identity the root pak- and a -Vb derivational suffix. A lintel is a “turned-over” or “reversed” stone, as the carved side is turned over when the lintel is finally placed during the building process. Here pak- refers to “to turn over, to reverse” and the item u-pak-(a)b(u)-tun-il can be paraphrased as “(it is) the/his turned-over stone.”19 A second example of polysemy can be found in the root tz’ap-. This root can be found defined in several Mayan languages as:

19 The Early Classic item pak(a)b(u)tun (the date on the lintel falls in 513 ce) or perhaps pakbu’tun evolves to pakabtun (pa-ka-ba TUN-ni) or simply pakab (pa-ka-ba) (the collocations itself were deciphered first by David Kelley) and can, as such, be found mentioned in dedicatory phrases in the Late Classic (870–890 ce) inscriptions at Chichén Itzá (Boot 2005b: 318–344).

272

erik boot tz’ap- • to drive in the ground • to sow (corn), to plant • to superimpose, to put one thing on top of another • to close (compare to Kaufman 2003: 864)

The widespread distribution of the syllabic spelling tz’a-pa-ja was first described by Nikolai Grube (1990b). He transliterated this spelling as tz’a[h]paj and identified tz’ap- as the root for “to drive in the ground,” based on a comparison with the root tz’ap- “to sow (corn), to plant.” The verb was followed by a reference to a stela, a standing stone monument part of which was driven into ground to keep it erect. More recently, it was David Stuart (2004) who suggested that there might be a logogram with the value TZ’AP (Figure 11a). This logogram illustrates a maize cob resting on top of an earth sign. A knot is depicted to the right of the two signs (as if these are tied together). To understand this logogram, Stuart (2004: 2) invoked one of the Yucatec Maya meanings of the verb tz’ap-, “to put one thing on top of another.” I hold his identification to be correct, specifically as the complex logographic sign indeed depicts one thing on top of another. The fact that a corn cob is placed above an earth sign invokes yet another meaning of tz’ap- “to sow (corn), to plant.” The example, as identified by Stuart, can be transcribed TZ’AP ’u-LAKAM-TUN-li for tz’a[h]p(aj) ulakamtunil “driven is in the ground/planted is the large stone.”20 Another example identified by Stuart (Figure 11b) can be transcribed tentatively as tz’a-TZ’AP-ja ’u-LAKAM TUN for tz’a[h]paj ulakamtun(il) “driven is in the ground/ planted is the large stone.” The common manner to describe this particular monument dedication was deciphered by Grube as tz’a-pa-ja ’u-LAKAM[TUN]-li for tz’a[h]paj ulakamtunil (Figure 11c). When the root tz’ap- is found in Maya texts, it is the meaning “to drive in the ground/plant” that is commonly intended.21 20 In Classic Maya inscriptions, scribes employed a large amount of abbreviations. These abbreviations occur also in the conjugation of verb roots. Here the logogram TZ’AP occurs in a context in which the root tz’ap- possibly should have a verbal ending -aj (thematic suffix on passives), which is not written (and thus abbreviated). The common spelling chu-ka-ja for chu[h]kaj “captured is” on one occasion is abbreviated to just chu (Kerr No. 2352). 21 There is a passage in the Codex Madrid (Page 112C), dedicated to bee cultivation, in which one can find the phrases ’u-tz’a[pa] ’u-KAB-ba for utz’apa[w] ukab and tz’a[pa]-ja ’u-KAB-ba for tz’a[h]paj ukab, possibly with the meaning “he closes the beehive” and “closed is the beehive” respectively. Vail and Hernández (2005) prefer “setting up the beehive” for these phrases. Due to the polysemous character of the word tz’ap- there is no simple solution to these phrases and their prospective meaning.

maya writing

273

Figure 11. a) The TZ’AP logogram; b) The spelling ’u-tz’a-TZ’AP-ja; c) The spelling tz’a-pa-ja (after Stuart 2004, arrangement and value assignment by the author).

274

erik boot

The third example of polysemy is a word which has been discussed above in the section of synonyms, the word bah: bah • • • •

face, head self, image top front, first

*bah *bah *bah *bah

The context in which it was discussed above was one in which bah referred to “first.” As noted above, I have not yet identified a context in which nah, yax, and bah for “first” all could substitute for each other. The words nah and yax were used in ordinal contexts as “first,” while bah was used in hierarchical contexts as “first.” It is the polysemous character of the senses of the word bah that may explain its particular usage as “first” in a hierarchical context. Its basic meaning may have been “face, head” and it was this particular sense employed in other contexts that led to the meanings “self, image,” “top,” and “front, first.” For an explanation of bah “face, head” to be employed as “front, first” one can even turn to the English language. For example, there are many masters at a school, but there is only one head master. There are many offices, but only one head office. The body derived “head” for “first” indicates that the ranking value “first” is layered vertically, from “top” to “bottom.” This bah “first” is inherently hierarchical, and thus different from nah and yax “first” which are “first” in an ordinal context which is not hierarchical. To spell bah not only the logographic sign BAH GOPHER was employed, but also the syllabic sign ba (as an abbreviated spelling for bah). There are many examples of bah “first” in a hierarchical context (Figure 12). As such there are bah ajaw “first or head king,” bah ch’ok “first or head heir,” bah (y)al “first or head of the children (of mother),” bah uxul(?) “first or head carver,” and bah sajal “first or head local/provincial leader.”22 The word bah “face, head” also can be found in the context of portraiture. The sign employed is again the BAH GOPHER, thus through a homonym one arrives at bah “self, image,” i.e., portrait. The top part of Naranjo Stela 22 (Figure 13c) provides a portrait of the king K’ak’ Tiliw Chan Chak “Raingod Chak who Kindles the Sky with Fire.” The hieroglyphic signs that spell his name are even contained in his head-

22

There are nearly twenty different titles in which a hierarchical difference is indicated through the adjective bah “head, first” (Boot 2005b: 184 [note 7]).

maya writing

275

Figure 12. A selection of bah “head, first” titles (drawings by various authors).

dress. His portraiture is introduced through the collocation marked by an arrow and which is shown enlarged directly above the top part of the stela (Figure 13b). This collocation is spelled ’u-BAH-hi, employing BAH GOPHER (Figure 13a). This collocation (for which also ’u-[ba] hi can be employed) can be transliterated ubah(il) for “(it is) the self, image (portrait) (of )” (Houston and Stuart 1996), after which the name of the king follows. The three examples of polysemy as discussed here were pak-, tz’ap-, and bah-. All three examples provided closely related senses or meanings in related but slightly different semantic contexts. The examples presented here may be considered cases of logical polysemy; the original

276

erik boot

Figure 13. a) The BAH logogram (drawings by Mark van Stone); b) The spelling ’u-[BAH]hi (drawing by Ian Graham); c) Naranjo Stela 22, top part (drawing by Ian Graham).

maya writing

277

sense can still be found within the derived senses through their contextbound employment. Final Remarks In this paper, four writing and language phenomena were discussed, namely synonymy, homonymy, polyvalence, and polysemy. Polysemy was the subject of the symposium. As the examples illustrated and discussed in this essay indicate, cross-overs between the phenomena can be easily identified. The synonyms nah, yax, and bah “first” employed signs that were chosen for their homonymic or homophonic quality. Nah and yax meant “first” in an ordinal context, but bah was employed as “first” in a hierarchical context. Thus nah and yax on the one side and bah on the other side are not true synonyms as their usage is restricted to context. The meaning bah “first” was actually a polyseme, as its sense of bah “first” was derived from its meaning as bah “face, head.” In regard to polysemy, three words and their senses were described (pak-, tz’ap-, and bah) as well as their employment in Maya writing. The polysemous character of words is of great importance in the construction of word lists, lexicons, and vocabularies. Now that several preliminary Classic Maya word lists and vocabularies have been constructed (e.g., Boot 2002, Montgomery 2002, Stuart 2005: 79–90), research on the polysemous character of words should take a serious form if we really want Classic Maya hieroglyphic texts to speak for themselves and convey their true and originally intended sense and meaning. This means that the study of Maya writing has to be combined, on any level, with the study of Mayan languages. References Boot, E. 2002. A Preliminary Classic Maya-English, English-Maya Vocabulary of Hieroglyphic Readings. Mesoweb resources. URL: . ——. 2004. Suffix Formation on Verb Stems and Epigraphic Classic Maya Spelling Conventions: The Employment and Function of Final Ca Syllabic Signs. ——. 2005a. Classic Maya Words, Word Classes, Contexts, and Spelling Variations. Manuscript dated July 4, 2005. Rijswijk, the Netherlands. Circulated among fellow epigraphers. ——. 2005b. Continuity and Change in Text and Image at Chichén Itzá, Yucatán, Mexico: A Study of the Inscriptions, Iconography, and Architecture at a Late Classic

278

erik boot

to Early Postclassic Maya Site. CNWS Publications, Vol. 135. CNWS Publications, Research School CNWS, Leiden University: Leiden, The Netherlands. Bricker, V. R. 2004. Mayan. In R. D. Woodard (ed.), The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages, pp. 1041–1070. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Brown, C. H., and S. Wichmann. 2004. Proto-Mayan Syllable Nuclei. International Journal of American Linguistics, 70(2): 128–186. Coe, M. D. 1992. Breaking the Maya Code. Thames & Hudson, Ltd: London and New York. Edmonson, M. S. 1988. The Book of the Year: Middle American Calendrical Systems. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Geeraerts, D. 2001. The definition practice of dictionaries and the Cognitive Semantic conception of polysemy. Lexicographica, 17: 6–21. Grube, N. 1990a. Die Entwicklung der Mayaschrift. Grundlagen zur Erforschung des Wandels der Mayaschrift von der Protoklassik bis zur spanischen Eroberung. Acta Mesoamericana 3. Verlag Von Flemming: Berlin, Germany. ——. 1990b. Die Errichtung von Stelen: Entzifferung einer Verbhieroglyphe auf Monumenten der klassischen Mayakultur. In B. Illius and M. Lambscher (eds.), Circumpacifica: Festschrift für Thomas S. Barthel, pp. 189–215. Verlag Peter Lang: Frankfurt am Main, Germany. ——. 2004. The Orthographic Distinction Between Velar and Glottal Spirants in Maya Hieroglyphic Writing. In S. Wichmann (ed.), The Linguistics of Maya Writing, pp. 61–81. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Houston, S. D. 1984. An Example of Homophony in Maya Script. American Antiquity, 49(4): 790–805. ——. 1997. The Shifting Now: Aspect, Deixis, and Narrative in Classic Maya Texts. American Anthropologist, 99(2): 291–305. Houston, S. D., and M. D. Coe. 2003. Has Isthmian Writing Been Deciphered? Mexicon, 25(6): 151–161. Houston, S. D., J. Robertson, and D. Stuart. 2000. The Language of Classic Maya Inscriptions. Current Anthropology, 41(3): 321–356. Houston, S. D., and D. Stuart. 1996. Of gods, glyphs, and kings: divinity and rulership among the Classic Maya. Antiquity, 70: 289–312. Houston, S. D., D. Stuart, and J. Robertson. 1998. Disharmony in Maya Hieroglyphic Writing: Linguistic Change and Continuity in Classic Society. In A. Ciudad Ruiz et al. (eds.), Anatomía de una civilización: Aproximaciones interdisciplinarias a la cultura maya, pp. 275–296. Sociedad Española de Estudios Mayas: Madrid (Publicaciones de la SEEM 4). Republished in: S. Wichmann (ed.), The Linguistics of Maya Writing, 2004, pp. 83–101. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. Justeson, J. S., and T. Kaufman. 1993. A decipherment of epi-Olmec hieroglyphic writing. Science, 259: 1703–1711. ——. 1997. A newly discovered column in the hieroglyphic text on La Mojarra Stela 1: A test of the epi-Olmec decipherment. Science, 277: 207–210. Kaufman, T. 2003. A Preliminary Mayan Etymological Dictionary (with the assistance of John Justeson). FAMSI Grantee Report. URL: . Kaufman, T., and J. S. Justeson. 2004. Epi-Olmec. In R. D. Woodard (ed.), The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the World’s Ancient Languages, pp. 1071–1111. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Kilgarriff, A. 1997. “I don’t believe in word senses.” Computers and the Humanities, 31(2): 91–113. Lacadena, A. 2005. Los primeros vecinos letrados de los mayas: Implicaciones históricas de la presencia de rasgos lingüísticos no-mayas en la escritura maya. Paper presented at the 10th European Maya Conference, December 9–19, 2005, entitled “The Maya and Their Neighbours,” Leiden University & Wayeb, Leiden, the Netherlands.

maya writing

279

Lacadena, A., and S. Wichmann. 2004. On the Representation of the Glottal Stop in Maya Writing. In S. Wichmann (ed.), The Linguistics of Maya Writing, pp. 103–162. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City. ——. n.d. Harmony Rules and the Suffix Domain: A Study of Maya Scribal Conventions. URL: Landa, fray D. de 1566. Relación de las cosas de Yucatán. Manuscript in the collection of the Real Academia de Madrid, copy made in the late seventeenth, early eighteenth century. Lounsbury, F. 1982. Astronomical Knowledge and Its Uses at Bonampak, Mexico. In A. F. Aveni (ed.), Archaeoastronomy in the New World: American Primitive Astronomy, pp. 143–168. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. Mesoweb. 2004. Ancient Mask Adds to Corpus of Isthmian Script. Mesoweb Reports & News. URL: . Miller, M., and S. Martin. 2004. Courtly Art of the Ancient Maya. Thames & Hudson, Ltd.: London and New York. Montgomery, J. 2002. Dictionary of Maya Hieroglyphs. Hippocrene Books, Inc.: New York. Ravin, Y., and C. Leacock 2000. Polysemy: Theoretical and Computational Approaches. Oxford University Press: Oxford. Saturno, W. A., D. Stuart, and B. Beltrán. 2006. Early Maya Writing at San Bartolo, Guatemala. Science Magazine: Science Express: 1–6. Online version available at URL http://www.sciencexpress.org> and . Schele, L. 1990. Ba as “First” in Classic period Titles. Texas Notes, No. 5. Center of the History and Art of Ancient American Culture, Department of Art and Art History, University of Texas: Austin. Stuart, D. 2004. A Possible Logogram for TZ’AP. Mesoweb. Available online at URL . ——. 2005. Sourcebook for the 29th Maya Hieroglyphic Forum, March 11–16, 2005. Department of Art and Art History, University of Texas: Austin. Tani, M. n.d. Polysemy: Various Approaches and their Applicability to English Grammar. Manuscript, available at URL . Taylor, J. R. 1989. Linguistic Categorization: Prototypes in Linguistic Theory. Oxford University Press: Oxford & New York. Thompson, J. E. S. 1950. Maya Hieroglyphic Writing: Introduction. Carnegie Institution of Washington Publication 589. Carnegie Institution of Washington: Washington, D.C. ——. 1962. A Catalog of Maya Hieroglyphs. University of Oklahoma Press: Norman. Vail, G., and C. Hernández. 2005. The Maya Hieroglyphic Codices, Version 2.0. A website and database available online at URL: . Wald, R. F. 2000. Temporal Deixis in Colonial Chontal and Maya Hieroglyphic Narrative. Written Language and Literacy, 3(1): 123–153. Wichmann, S. 1995. The Relationship among the Mixe-Zoquean Languages of Mexico. University of Utah Press: Salt Lake City.

IN THE INTERSTICES OF REPRESENTATION: LUDIC WRITING AND THE LOCUS OF POLYSEMY IN THE CHINESE SIGN* Wolfgang Behr Introduction In March 1991, slightly less than two years after the violent crackdown on student protesters in Tiān’ānmén ֚‫ڜ‬॰ square in Běijīng on 4–5 June 1989, during which, even according to very conservative sources, at least four or five hundred people were killed, a poem appeared on the occasion of the annual spring festival on the front page of the overseas edition of the People’s Daily (Rénmín Rìbào (hǎiwàibǎn) Գ‫ֲا‬໴௧؆ठ). The poem, entitled “Lantern Festival”, and, seemingly, a perfectly innocent double quatrain of heptasyllabic lines with a conventional x-a-x-a rhyme scheme and some tonal patterning, was authored by a certain Zhū Hǎihōng ‫ڹ‬௧ੋ, apparently a UCLA graduate student at the time. At first sight it looked like one of those poignantly patriotic pieces so typical of the PRC government controlled newspaper. Poems of this type, still routinely encountered in contemporary PRC papers and journals on the more festive seasonal occasions, are rather stunning not only for their stubborn insistence on a thoroughly pre-modern poetic form in media otherwise aiming at the propagation of a technocratic state-designed overdrive modernity, but also for their adherence to a whole set of thoroughly clichéed classic images, intermingled with socialist buzzwords:

* Part of this essay was written when I was a research fellow at the Swedish Collegium for Advanced Study in Uppsalla (March–July 2005), the support of which is gratefully acknowledged here. I am indebted to Bernhard Führer, Alex de Voogt, and two anonymous reviewers for several insightful comments.

282

wolfgang behr

(1) ցୱ (‫ڹ‬௧ੋ) ࣟଅࢲ૿ႝ௒ᅭ ᦋᨓငౕ୶㌻࿓ ‫د‬ᒌᅃ௧ƈᑷෝ ཾ՗࿆Ӱ৸ਚৄ ٖ૤஀‫س‬໴ഏ‫ݳ‬ Գᒈߛ‫ݺ‬໏ᆄ८ කದ৺ಳ஡ဎ୙ ‫׊‬ৱ壀‫ڠ‬ሙ‫چ‬ਞ

Yuán xiāo dōng fēng fú miàn cuī táo LI ̌ yáo yīng shū chì zhǎn PÉNG chéng yù pán zhào hǎi XIÀ rè lèi yóu zı ̌ dēng TÁI sī gù chéng xiū fù PÍNG shēng bào guó zhì rén MÍN yù wǒ shèng wàn jīn FÈN qı ̌ jí zhuī zhèn Huá Xià qiě dài shén zhōu biàn dì chūn

Lantern Festival (Zhū Hǎihōng)1 East wind strikes the face, bringing on the peaches and plums [LI] Sparrow hawk unfurls its wings, spreading towards a giant [PENG] future Moon, like a jade-disk, shines on the sea, DOWN fall his stinging tears A sojourner ascends a PLATFORM, thinking of his home town Never failing, ALL his life, to dedicate himself to the goals of his country The PEOPLE’s nourishing me is worth more than zillions in gold FURIOUSly I rise to reinvigorate the civilization of China Waiting for spring to spread throughout this sacred land As the more perceptive among the readers soon discovered, much to the dismay of the less attentive frontpage editor of the journal (sacked shortly afterwards), the poem had an acrostic line embedded, diagonally from the last character of the first line to the first character of the penultimate line, seven, ‫ޕ‬ᣛՀ‫؀‬平‫ا‬ᐬ Lı̌ Péng xià tái píng mín fèn,

which can be read as either “Li Peng step down, appease the people’s furor!” or “Li Peng step down, the common people are furious!”. Ending in fèn ‘furious’, the line joins with chūn ‘spring’ in an impure, but conventional rhyme2 in the last line (“waiting for spring to spread throughout this sacred land”), thus surreptitiously evoking the “furor of the people”, and associating it with what had come to be referred to as the shortlived “Běijīng spring” in Western media.

1 The translation aims at transparency of the embedded polysemies. For a less jarring rendering, which endeavours to maintain the acrostichic structure through poetic licence in English, see Eoyang (1992: 255–256). 2 On rhyming standards in colloquial Mandarin see Li Wen-Chao (2000).

in the interstices of representation

283

Textual Polysemy and Morphosyntactic Structure Acrostic poems hiding a political message have a long history in China, going back at least to the first century ad.3 The form sometimes reaches enormous complexities, especially in the more playful scholarly-religious environments of Daoism and Buddhism, where verses occasionally allow for concomitant vertical, horizontal, top down/bottom up and center in/out readings, in various linear and not so linear directions. In such frisky – albeit not necessarily humorous – texts, characters become polysemous very easily and intricately, and it has often been suspected that the observable semantic fluidity of a sentence or a text as a whole is enabled by the fact that Classical and Medieval Chinese (MC), since the Later Hàn period (25–220 ad), was typologically a largely isolating language, quite unlike Old Chinese (OC), which still contained a quite complex derivational – and possibly even traces of inflectional morphology.4 Indeed, the written language of this period was so fluid that almost every sinologist will have had the painful experience, at one point or another in his or her training, of accidentally translating a longish official title as a straightforward finite sentence, a rhymed poem as prose read in the wrong writing direction, or the transcription of a foreign personal name appearing in the distorting fetters of Chinese syllable phonotactics as a genuinely Chinese lexeme. Depending on the intentions of the author, texts can thus either profit from, or, indeed, badly suffer from, the versatility of a syntactic framework in which assignments to a particular word class are not encoded by overt morphological marking. Another feature of Chinese, commonly perceived as contributing to the polysemy in the spoken language, is the great amount of homophony of morphemes. A well-known demonstration of this phenomenon, crafted, rather jokingly, by Y. R. Chao (i.e. Zhào Yuánrèn ᎓ցٚ, 1892–1982, the doyen of Chinese linguistics during the last century, who, among his many other achievements, is the congenial translator of Alice in Wonderland into Chinese)5 is the following little story. It consists entirely of monosyllabic words pronounced as shi, so that all

3

For a good overview of the relevant literature see Führer (2002/3 and 2006). For two competing (albeit possibly reconcilable) recent models of Old Chinese Morphology see Sagart (1999) and Pulleyblank (2000), both summarized in Gassmann & Behr (2005, vol. 3, chap. 10). 5 See on his academic life and thought Sū Jīnzhì (1999); his collected works, projected to comprise 20 volumes, have recently started to appear (Zhào 2002–). 4

284

wolfgang behr

78 occurring characters (32 among them different) are homophones at the segmental level. Even if further specified by the four contour tones of Modern Standard Mandarin (MSM), we still arrive at an information density of one tonally marked syllable representing no less than nineteen different words, leaving aside their further lexical semantic extensions:6 (1) Zhào Yuánrèn ᎓ցٚ: The story of Mr. Shī eating a lion text 0 ਜּଇ䵤‫׾‬ 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

‫ف‬৛ᇣՓਜּႰ䵤Ζ ᎃଇԼ䵤, ּழழᔞؑီᅐΖ Լழ, ᔞԼᅐᔞؑΖ ਢழ, ᔞਜּᔞؑ, ּီਢԼᅐ, ਂ‫ـ‬Ⴈ, ࠌਢԼᅐຓ‫׈‬Ζ ּਕਢԼᅐৡ, ᔞ‫ف‬৛Ζ ‫ف‬৛ᛘ, ּࠌࠊ਌‫ف‬৛Ζ ਌‫ف‬৛, ּࡨᇢଇਢԼᅐৡΖʳʳ ଇழ, ࡨᢝਢԼᅐৡ, ኔԼ‫ف‬ᅐΜᇢᤩਢࠃ . . .

msm pronunciation Shī shì shí shī shĭ shí shì shī shì Shī-shì shì shī. shì shí shí shī, shì shíshí shì shì shì shī. Shí shí, shì shí shī shì shì. Shì shí, shì Shī-shì shì shì, shì shì shì shí shī, shì shĭ shì, shĭ shì shí shī shì shì. Shì shí shì shí shī shī, shì shí shì. Shí shì shī, shì shĭ shì shì shí shì. Shì shí shì, shì shĭ shì shí shì shí shī shī. Shí shí, shĭ shì shì shí shī shī, shí shí shí shī, shì shì shì shì . . .

translation 0 The story of Mr. Shī eating a lion 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Mr. Shī, poet from the “Stone Chamber”, craved lions. Since he had sworn that he would eat ten lions, he went from time to time to the market to look for lions. At ten o’clock, ten lions really went to the market. At that time, just when Mr. Shī went to the market, he saw the ten lions, and, assuming the position of an archer, caused the ten lions to pass away (= killed them). He assembled the corpses of these ten lions and went into the “Stone Chamber” Since the “Stone Chamber” was moist, he first had it wiped by a servant. When the “Stone Chamber” had been wiped, he first set out to eat these ten corpses of the stone lions.

6 There are many different versions of this story (Odendahl 1996: 25–26). I am quoting this one from Zhào (2002, I: 64).

in the interstices of representation

285

10 And it was only at the time of his meal when Mr. Shī became first aware that these lions – 11 were in fact stone lions! Now you try to explain that . . .

Of course, this delightful display of overwhelming phono-semantic ambiguity ignores the fact that MSM words are usually bimorphemic compounds and that the syntactic and pragmatic contexts of any given utterance usually work together to disambiguate most of the lurking polysemies, albeit not all of them, as can easily be put to the test by reading this story aloud to a modern Chinese audience. A major problem of accounts of “the” Chinese language, be it within or outside sinology, is that this apparently fluid state of affairs, based upon reading a story crafted in semi-classical prose with a modern pronunciation, is nonchalantly projected back into earlier stages of the language. This inevitably results in rather preposterous generalizations about the “vagueness” of this and that Chinese text, or, depending on the philosophical preferences of the respective authors, about the deliberate or inescapable “oscillation” and “ambiguity” of meaning in the “harmonizing mind” of the Chinese (e.g., Nakamura 1964: 185–190, Rosemont 1974, Hall & Ames 1987: 261–274, Gu 2005: 168–80, 235–53, to name just a few of the more extreme proponents). Indeed, one might refer to this complex of clichés as the “continuity curse” in the sense that – apart from the more obvious exoticising Western alterity concepts – it was the obstinate refusal of the Chinese writing system to die out like most other pre-modern logographic systems that has led to the widespread misconception of an intrinsic and unchanging indeterminacy of the language it represents. However, once Chao’s story is subjected to a phonological reconstruction diachronically matching its syntactic properties, i.e. a reconstruction of the Classical Chinese of the last centuries bc,7 the apparent indeterminacy immediately vanishes: OC* 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

hlaj ge-q m-lәk srij s-rә-q dak s-tit s-tә N-s-rә-s hlaj ge-q gij-s srij. m-tet-s m-lәk gip srij, ge-q N-tә N-tә s-tek dә-q N-k-lij-s srij. gip N-tә, s-tek gip srij s-tek dә-q. de-q N-tә, s-tek hlaj ge-q s-tek dә-q, ge-q N-k-lij-s de-q gip srij, N-tә-q hlij-q hŋet-s, s-rә-q de-q gip srij N-tet-s hlap-s. ge-q gup de-q gip srij hlij, s-tek dak s-tit.

7 Here and elsewhere throughout this paper, Old Chinese reconstructions are based on the system of Baxter (1991), as amended by Sagart (1999), rewriting the final glottal stop as *-q and type A syllables by notationally doubling the root initial.

286

wolfgang behr 8 9 10 11

dak s-tit hŋəp, ge-q s-rə-q N-tə-s hlək dak s-tit. hlək dak s-tit, ge-q hlə-q hlək-s m-lək gip srij hlij. m-lək N-tə, hlə-q s-tək-s de-q gip srij hlij, m-lit gip dak srij! hlək-s hlak de-q m-s-rə(-q)-s . . .

What we are left with at this level is a diversity of twenty-two lexical roots and not a single fully homophonic pair of words. In short, polysemy is no more pronounced than it would be in an Indo-European language specimen of the same length, nor is it dependent upon the writing system used. It is simply based upon the morphosyntactic structure of an anachronistically represented language, such that comparable phenomena are bound to occur in all languages tending towards an isolating typology and written in conservative orthographies. Where is it, then, that polysemy emerges at the level of writing? Polysemy and the Written Sign Terminological Preliminaries Assuming a deliberately naïve stance vis-à-vis the intricacies of discussions of polysemy in current linguistic theories, we may proceed from the traditional view of a correspondence between a word (form), a meaning (referent), and a written representation of both or, in semiotic terms, between linguistic, mental and written signs. The relationship that maps a linguistic sign onto a mental referent is known as semasiology, while the converse relationship, associating a lexical item with a referent, is referred to as onomasiology. The relationship between semasiology and onomasiology gives rise orthogonally to polysemy (a form, or cognate forms, related through etymology, denoting two or more referents) and synonymy (two or more different forms denoting one referent). This dichotomy can in turn be contrasted on yet another level with homosemy (one form having one and only one particular referent) and homonymy (a form or contingently identical forms, denoting two or more referents). The relationship between a linguistic sign and its referent is typically characterized by several structural homologies. Yet, as the very slight difference between polysemy and homonomy already shows, these might be far from perfectly parallel. Consequently, much of the debate in semantics about these relationships is concerned with the question of whether they are really characterized by simple polar oppositions, and how they are mediated by an interpretation and reference mechanism in the semiotic triangle. More specifically, one might ask, how more general mechanisms of cognition, how the outside world

in the interstices of representation

287

or a particular culture and similar parameters influence the mechanism by which a speaker/listener identifies meaning in a particular pragmatic setting. Even more recently, neurolinguists and psycholinguists have been looking into the way in which the involved concepts are stored and accessed in the brain.8 If we attempt to transpose the semantic concepts sketched above to the level of the written sign, assuming again that the ensuing relationship will be characterized by a structural homology, the problem arises that there is simply no well-established terminology in the theory of writing which – had it not been for the cannibalizing appropriation of the term by deconstructivist literary theory – might simply be called grammatology. More often than not, the semantic concepts characterizing the relationship between (B) and (C) in the following graphic summary (2) are simply extended to the relationship between a written symbol and a linguistic form (A). However, we do occasionally find the term polyvalency or polyphony (rather than polysemy) for a written symbol representing multiple linguistic forms or “readings”, and rebus or paronomasia (rather than homonymy) for a linguistic form referring to multiple meanings, unrelated by any semantic or etymological proximity (e.g. Coulmas 1989: 82–84, 217; 2003: 177–184; Boltz 1994: passim; 1999: 117–121): (2) PRAGMATICS GRAMMATOLOGY

SEMANTICS poly- : homosemy

sign type: tradition: level:

written symbol (S) representation

(polyvalency) (rebus)

linguistic word (W) form

semasiology onomasiology

mental meaning (M) referent

homo- : synonymy

A

B

C reference (thought, interpretation, culture)

domain:

Semiotics

8 For good overviews of recent approaches see, e.g., Deane (1988), Klein & Murphy (2001), Klepousnioutou (2002) on the cognitive processing of polysemy, Nunberg (1979), Panman (1982), Ci (1987), Hospers (1993), Taylor (2003) on semantic theories, and Behrens (2002) on its challenges for a theory of the lexicon.

288

wolfgang behr

The question, then, is how this set of conceptual homologies is structurally built into the elements of a non-alphabetic writing system, and, more particularly, which levels of its representation need to be distinguished in Chinese writing. The Locus of Polysemy in the Chinese Graph a. Structural Levels of the Graph Prior to more elaborate theoretical considerations, one might assume that a word consists of a semantic, a morphological and a phonological layer (leaving prosodic, cognitive, pragmatic and other considerations aside for the moment). One might then differentiate further between a semantic core (a prototype or class) on the one hand, and its concrete denotational extensions on the other, which componentially or hierarchically contribute to that core at the semantic end. In a similar way, the morphological level will minimally distinguish a lexical root (a stem) from further affixal material, be they of a derivational or inflectional nature. On the phonological level, the onset and the rhyme portion of a syllable, and, possibly, several further autosegmental layers will have to be distinguished. Note that the affixal structural position covers – albeit obliquely – non-concatenative morphology, such as transfixation or circumfixation, as well as root-internal ablaut, since morphologically conditioned root vowel alternations can always be reinterpreted as infixing of minimally zero-morphemes into the root. A maximum representation (3), taking into account some well-known extreme cases in the typological literature,9 could take this shape: (3)

d1, d2, … dn class/prototype (C)

denotation (D)

semantic (s) word morphemic (m) root (r)

affix (a)

phonemic (p) onset (o)

rhyme (rh) nucleus

r1, r2 … rx

a1, a2 … a14

coda

o1, o2 … o4 n1, n2 … n5 c1, c2 … cX

9 For instance, A14 is allegedly attested in some Yeniseian and Athabascan languages, N5 in some Tai-Kadaiic languages.

in the interstices of representation

289

The next question to be answered is whether the written sign includes representation sites for all three linguistic levels of the word (as in (4)), or if it only targets parts of it, which seems overwhelmingly likely from the viewpoint of practical processing constraints in reading. The written representation must then be either systematically underspecified, or, at least organized in such a hierarchical way that informational transparency of targeted features at the linguistic end is warranted by some rigid mapping and tracking mechanism. For instance (as I will argue below) the phonological level of the linguistic sign is, with rare exceptions, largely invisible to the written representation in Old Chinese, since it is hierarchically subordinate to the morpho(no)logical node(s) during this early period (5): (4)

SEMANTIC

WORD

MORPHEMIC

(5)

SEMANTIC

WORD

PHONEMIC

MORPHOPHONEMIC MORPHEMIC PHONEMIC

However, the process of morphological attrition and final complete loss of morphology must have been completed in Central Chinese dialects some time during the late Classical or Six Dynasties period, although there were very small remnants surviving in or even beyond Middle Chinese into the peripheral dialects (Sagart 2001). The phonological level thus successfully ousted the morphological. What became “visible” to the graphic sign at this point was its phonological, or even surface phonetic shape, since in a largely isolating language such as Middle Chinese most morphology is compounding, i.e. word-level syntax. b. Representation of Structural Levels in Ancient Chinese Writing In order to capture different types of relationships between the written and the linguistic sign in Chinese writing, we here propose a hierarchical, bipolar notation that associates [⇔] a word W with both its semantic s and morphonemic mp constituents, including their further subcategories, to a written symbol Σ, by linking the semantic σ and phonetic π representation sites of it:

290

wolfgang behr

(6) denotation [D]

class [C]

semantic form [s]

semantic representation [σ] symbol[Σ]

⇔

phonological representation [π]

word [W] morphonenic form [mp]

morphemic [M]

root [R] affixes [A]

phonemic [P]

onset [O] rhyme [Rh]

Equipped with this notational toolkit, and, gratefully acknowledging its indebtedness to formats of representation commonly used within “non-linear” or “government” approaches to the phonology of natural languages, we may then proceed to describe the different types of character structures attested in Chinese writing throughout all periods of development. I will qualify symbol-word relationships as bound if a semantic or morphonemic property, or one of its subcategories within the word, has a representational locus in the structure of the written character and symbolize this by a continuous line. Conversely, a purely conventional relationship, in which the semantic or morphonemic property of a word is not represented in the written character or unbound, will be marked by a dashed line. By specifying the associations obtaining in any given character in this admittedly formalistic fashion, it is hoped that the model may eventually be employed to make some easily falsifiable predictions, for instance, about the non-occurrence of certain theoretically possible structures in the historical record, the occurrence frequency within a given corpus, or the cognitive processing load involved for a given character type.10 With respect to polysemy, as a one-to-multiple mapping relationship between a word and its mental referent as described in (2), this allows us to specify its locus in the graph more precisely. The model predicts that polysemy arises at the level of the written sign, whenever there is

10 For which – and I mention this only as a curiosity – a genetic basis is now sometimes claimed in the literature, cf. Evans & Seymour (1997).

in the interstices of representation

291

a possibility of realigning an unbound dashed association line in the representation to a semantic node or subnode at the level of the word. Moreover, it allows us to identify certain character structures beyond the coverage by the traditional “six scripts” (liùshū ք஼) theory of the Hàn dynasty,11 whose inadequacies have long been noted and discussed.12 Character Structures Attested in Chinese Writing The following section will present a catalogue of attested character structures in the model outlined above, along with some illustrative examples for each category and some minimal commentary. Where necessary, examples of characters from oracle bone inscriptions (OBI; chin. jiǎgǔwén ‫ظ‬೎文) or bronze inscriptions (BI; chin. jīnwén ८文) will be quoted. If a particular category has a corresponding classification in premodern indigenous theories of the Chinese writing system, these are noted in brackets. (7)   
   


 







/

0

 

 

 11
























 !"# %&&'# ()*'#




   

+&'(,(!-*%.'%#
 

Pictographs13 are structured such that the semantic node of the written sign σ is attached to the semantics of a word by way of some degree

11

The classical formulation of this theory, dominant throughout the grammatological tradition in China, is due to the first lexicographer Xǔ Shèn’s ๺შ (58–148). For good, if not always unanimous, introductions to the theory of the six scripts see Unger (1969), Wiedenhof (1985), Boltz (1994: 143–155), Winter (1997: 109–150), Bottéro (1996: 17–41, 49–58, 1998). 12 For well-argued critiques see, for instance, Boodberg (1937, 1940) and Yú Mı ̌n (1979). 13 These are sometimes referred to as zodiographs (Boodberg 1937, Boltz 1994) on the assumption that the processing of this character type involves a certain amount of phonological recoding after all. Two good arguments, why characters in logographic scripts such as Chinese and Egyptian can never be meaningfully analyzed as pictographic, are elaborated by Boltz (2006) and Jespersen & Reintges (2008). I maintain the term here merely for easier cross-reference to the sinological tradition.

292

wolfgang behr

of conventionalized iconicity, while the phonetic representation site π is unlinked. This means that phonetic detail is not “visible” to the graph, which is merely conventionally associated, and thus marked, by a dashed line. Nor does the graph indicate any distinctive semantic level, i.e. core vs. denotations. (8)

II: simple phonetic loan, “rebus” [~ jiˇajiè běnzì

]

σ

s

Σ

W

gloss

1. “r. hand” 2. “assist” 3. “again” 4. “have”…

π

mP

OC

1. *wә, 2. *wә-s, 3. *wә-s, 4. *wә-q…

MSM

1. yòu, 2. yòu, 3. yòu, 4. yˇou

m R

exx.

P

(

,

,

,

…)

a

In a simple phonetic loan or rebus, the phonetic node of the graph is still attached to the morphological node of mp, but the node is dominated by the phonological node of the represented word at a higher level. This domination relationship is reflected notationally in the dominating node by capitalizing P. Notice that the phonological node of the graph π does not specify the entirety of the word’s phonological structure but only its lexical root R stripped off of all affixal material. Since the semantic representation σ is not in the least bound, all morphonological structures sharing the same R can be written by one and the same sign Σ. (9)     


 
     

$

%

,

-

.

/0

*

→




  !"
      &'%(&'%()" +  
     +
 Β1: ( /0 
  /0 


in the interstices of representation

293

The character resembling the panicle of a specific grain14 is glossed as A “grain” and as B “harvest/year” by specialists in osteographic studies, and assigned two different pronunciations along with this metonymic differentiation. These cannot be etymologically reconciled, since OC *ggoj and *nnin do not share a lexical root in anyone’s theory. Characters of this type are thus an exact mirror image of phonetic loans and have been called “polyphonic” or “polyvalent” (Boodberg 1937, Boltz 1994) in the sense defined above. Since subsequent evolution of the writing system would have quickly erased most traces of such structures, and since any proliferation within the writing system would have considerably delayed processing and retrieval in reading, the category remained marginal throughout the development of Chinese writing.15 (10)     
 
 

  

"

#

"

*

+

*,

 $

-

.

-



 $  $



 $

.



   
   %%%     %

 &'(( &'((()) &'((()) 

←     /0

←  1 23() ←    (

/

This is the most successful building type in the development of the Chinese writing system, and, indeed, the only one according to which sizeable numbers of new characters were created as late as the late 19th century ad. Witness, for instance, the prominent case of the translation of chemical element names into Chinese (Wright 1997, Zhāng Háo 2000). It is a structure in which the morphonological node of a graph Σ1 is associated with the lexical root of the word to be represented, i.e. its V, CV, or CVC skeleton in accordance with type II (simple phonetic

14 In all likelihood a variety of millet, the staple food of early China, cf. Sagart (1999: 176–79). 15 It is presently unclear, although likely (cf. Lín Yún 1997), whether semantic loans can be identified with the elusive category traditionally labelled as “mutually commenting characters” (zhuănzhù ᠏ࣹ‫)ڗ‬.

294

wolfgang behr

loan), while the semantic node σ of another, diachronically secondary sign Σ2. This secondary sign, often referred to as the semantic determiner (det), attaches to the “free” semantic class node C of the word. The main problem for a retrospective understanding of the script today is that the targeted root R has, in many cases, undergone massive sound change diachronically, and that we are only just beginning to understand the comparatively rich derivational morphology implied by its extensions in a.16 Consider, e.g., the following series of “tautoradical” words with their greatly divergent MSM pronunciations: i.

[r *lut] ۙ MSM yù < MC *ywit < OC *(Cə-)lut gloss 1.“stylus”, 2. “follow”, 3. a particle ࿝ MSM bı̌ < MC *pit < OC *p-lut [det: ‫“ ێ‬bamboo”] gloss “stylus, writing brush” ৳ MSM lǜ < MC *lwit < OC *Cə-lut [det: ᩐ“step”] gloss 1.“pitch pipe”, 2.“law, standard” (. . .)

ii.

[r *lә] ‫ ؀‬MSM yí < MC *yi < OC *lә gloss 1PPr. “I” ‫ ؀‬MSM tāi < MC *thoj < OC *hllә gloss 1.“n. of a star”, 2.“senex”, 3. loan for “to use” (ѳ) ੃ MSM dài < MC *dojX < OC *llә-q [det: ָ “corpse”] gloss 1. “be dangerous; endanger s.o.”, 2. almost, 3. interrogate ࡨ MSM shı̌ < MC *syiX < OC *hlә-q [det: Ֆ “woman”] gloss “begin; be first, originate” Ḉ MSM xı̌ < MC *siX < OC *s-hlә-q [det: ֵ “wood”] gloss “fine hemp” ‼ MSM chì < MC *trhiH < OC *hl-r-ә-s [det: ‫“ ؾ‬eye”] gloss 1. stare (at), gaze” ܏ MSM yě < MC *yæX < OC *lla-q (< ** ll-X-ә-q) gloss 1. “to melt”, 2. “to adorn” [det: 䤲 “ice”] (. . .)

iii. [r *pu] ࢄ MSM zhǒu < MC *tsyuwX < OC *t-pu-q 䆡 id. [det: ‫“ ێ‬bamboo”], 偗 id. [det: ᫫ “grass”] gloss 1. “broom”, 2. “to brush, sweep” ഡ MSM fù < MC *bjuwX < OC *N-pu-q [det: Ֆ “fem.”] gloss 1. “female; spouse, lady”, 2. “mother-in-law”

16 For the concept of the identity of phonophorics with lexical “roots” in homophonophoric (so-called xiéshēng ᘫᜢ) series employed here, cf. Sagart (1999), Hú & Jīn (2001).

in the interstices of representation ⅖ ൿ

295

MSM sǎo < MC *sawX < OC *s-tu-q (< **s-t-pu-q ?) MSM id. [det: Ւ “earth” / det: 䭿 ← ֫ “hand”] gloss “to brush, sweep, wipe”

(. . .)

(11)

V: associative, syssemantic [~ huìyì

D

C

i.

OBI

]

(

←

) “be cruel”

MSM nüè < MC *ngjak < OC *ŋ(r)awk σ

s

σ

Σ1

W

Σ2

Σ1 Σ2 ii.

π

mp

π

OBI

( ) OC *nin “man” ( ) OC *k-lla-q “tiger” ( ) “name of an insect”

MSM zˇao < *tsawX < *ttsu-q Σ1: ( ) OC *wә-s “hand” Σ2: ( ← ) OC *xxuj “creeper”

This type of character, immensely popular in graphic folk etymologies and premodern analyses of character structures, identifies a word by associating the semantic “docking sites” of two graphs with both the denotational extension and the semantic class of the corresponding word, while the phonetic nodes are completely unbound. Occasionally, identification will target two different denotations, skipping the corresponding semantic class node. Obviously, characters belonging to this type, especially if composed of more than two elements, create enormous cognitive processing difficulties. This is because a semantic class has many more possible denotations than the one relevant for the identification of the particular word in question, but it cannot be disambiguated by means of phonetic information in this structure. Rather, it has to rely heavily on pure convention of association, i.e. rote learning. The category is therefore much more marginal than traditionally assumed, although probably not completely elusive, as claimed by Boltz (1994), even during the earliest phases of Chinese writing.17 However, there can be no doubt that it was used in learned graphic creations during the Medieval period. Compare, for instance, the following derivation of a pejorative Daoist character for the name of the Buddha by the concatenation of eight exclusively σ-bound signs 17 For a critique of Boltz’s delightfully heretical view on this matter see Bottéro (1996, 1998) and Behr (2006).

296

wolfgang behr

nested into four constituent semantics “wise man from the western territories”: (12)
⇒

 ← [[    



 

 

  

←








 !""#

It has to be stressed, however, that these are rare oddities in the lexicon and that the number of genuine cases encountered in everyday usage is exceedingly small. (13)      

 
  
 





'

$

'

)

-

)

1

/

1




    !"#$%  (     

 ) *
  ##"+ !,#%



 **
→ 
  . #*  !/","0#%        

 )2 
   !$3%

Direct proof of the existence of one peculiar type of syssemantic characters, even during the earliest phases of the Chinese writing system, is provided by the category of “homosomatic associative” characters, which are created by combining up to seven shape-identical semantic elements,18 without binding any position in the morphonological node of W. The semantics of the composite graph is only partially retrievable from the semantics of its constituent Σ1–7, which are not specified for a fixed denotation D. Rather, it originates from a conventionalized combination of the class semantics of Σ with properties such as plurality, genericity, intensity, adversity, rapidity or diminutivity, contributed to W iconically by virtue of notions associated cross-linguistically with reduplication and concatenation. It is scarcely surprising, then, that many lexicographically attested characters of this type have no fixed pronunciation.

18 Which would have to be termed “(iso)di . . . heptaplogram” in Boodberg’s (1957) learned neo-latinate terminology.

in the interstices of representation (14)

VI: simple ambiphonetic [~ chóngshēngzì

σ

s

σ

Σ1

W

Σ2

π

Mp

π

R

297

]

Bi

1. “sit cross-legged” 2. n. of a feudal state (EZ) read 1. MSM jì < MC *giH < OC *N-k(r)ә-q 2. MSM qˇı < MC *khiX < OC *kh(r)ә-q Σ1: Σ2:

a

MSM jˇı < MC *giX < OC *N-k(r)ә-q MSM qí < MC *gi < OC *gә

Ambiphonetic characters are petrifications of simple phonetic loans (type II) or, more rarely, straightforward pictographs (type I), augmented by secondary phonophorics, at a point in time when the phonetic value of the original phonophoric has become inapplicable to the target W, due to the workings of diachronic (or, possibly, dialectal) sound change. Just as in a simple rebus type loan, Σ1 and Σ2 are linked to the root node of W and remain indifferent to the added affixal elements. Since this secondary augmentation procedure may in principle apply iteratively across time on the basis of an already existing phonosemantic (type IV) or associative (type V) character, we also find the following category:19 (15)

19

      
   







/

/



/

5

5,

6

5*

8

8

9

8

  !"# $%& '"(  
*+,# -. 

      
   .

0  
  1 23 4 5 0  
  17( 5, 0
 
 & '( 5*   
 $" 23:&'1(

0   

19 See on this type of character formation Wú Zhènwŭ (2003) and Behr (2005); on this particular example cf. also Baxter (2001).

298

wolfgang behr

In this example, the Confucian key term rén ո “sociable, humane”, also written as a phonosemantic character composed of a phonophoric qiān Տ and a “heart/mind” semantic in bronze inscriptions, is encountered as 啄 with a replacement phonophoric shēn ߪ “body” in recently excavated bamboo texts from Guōdiàn ພࢋ, but it is also represented as 啅 with yet another additional phonophoric rén Գ in a seal inscription (Guxi #5382). While this might be interpreted as a case of adding a secondary phonophoric to a phonosemantic graph, including a diachronically “π-delinked” Σ1-phonophoric, it should be borne in mind that all three phonetics are also semantically related to the word represented. Moreover, the replacement phonophoric shēn ߪʳ(OBI s) is in turn paleographically derived from rén Գ (OBI ᢸ), just as qiān Տʳ(OBI o) is too, even if this was no longer transparent synchronically at the time of the creation of the peculiar seal character. We have thus come full circle. (16)

II-b: complex phonetic loan [~ jiăjièzì

σ

σ

s

Σ1

Σ2

W

π

Mp R

]

OBI ( ) “office, official” MSM guān <MC *kwan < OC *kkon Σ1: ( ) “platoon”, OC *dduj Σ2: ( ) “roof, house”, OC *men i.e. Σ1+ Σ2 “many people in a room, barracks”→ guˇan “lodging, hostel” a

Complex phonetic loans are constructed by reanalyzing pictographic signs as phonophorics and combining them into a new sign, which is phonetically not, or only distantly, related to the constituent phonophorics, and to bind this new complex phonophoric to the morphonological root node R in the word to be designated. Thus, in the example above, guān ࡴ is used for guǎn 塢 “lodging, hostel” on the strength of its phonetic properties, which are not in any way derivable from either duī ‫ ۍ‬or mián 㡉. Characters of this type are thus good examples of the high degree of modular recursiveness built into the Chinese writing system.20 Consider

20 See Mattingly & Hsiao (1999) on implications of recursiveness for a psycholinguistic account of the Chinese writing system and Ledderose (2000) for a fascinating perspective on the anthropology of modularity in Ancient China.

in the interstices of representation

299

for an admittedly extreme example of this phenomenon the following character: (17) 唼 MSM < MC *dzej < OC *ddzəj < **s-lləj “to ascend to” It occurs in the Tián chē ‫“( ߫ض‬Hunting Chariot”) stone drum inscription, probably dating from the 5th c. bc: (18) “唿媎唼Л啀” “[I] use it (the chariot) to ascend to the high plains” The character is constructed in the following complex way (Types involved in the derivation are marked by their respective numbers in brackets.):















 

 

 

 

 


 > 












 












 












> )

 

     
 




 

  



 






 

 






 




 




 







 
 






 


 

300

wolfgang behr

Here, every relationship between subgraph constituents (except the initial A1–2) becomes part of a phonophoric reinterpretation at one point or another in the seven-level derivation process. Notice the very odd “percolation” of a phonetic value to a phonosemantic character FG-4, which is maintained at level F-5, even after the original phonophoric has been discarded, but before the new triple phonophoric Ꮨ + ࡠ + (ְ→) ᩦ is combined with the “mound”-semantic ॱ at level 7. On a more formal plane, complex phonophorics such as this, featuring concatenative π-binding to the Mp-node of W, are veritable fossils of the constant urge to maintain morphonemic transparency in the writing system, against all threats of diachronic sound change. (19)

VII: explicit sesquiphonetic [—] (i.e. “lento-forms”, cf. Behr 1998)

D

C

s

σ

s

W

Σ1

W

pm

π

Mp A

σ

σ Σ2

π

bùyíng < OC *pә-leŋ Σ1: a verb-negative Σ2: “be full, fill” text “ ” (Maoshi 179.7) tr.“the great kitchen will be filled” com. “ , ”

π

R

Explicit sesquiphonetics, a category not recognized by the tradition, reflect the likelihood that Old Chinese, far from being a strictly monosyllabic language, had quite a sizeable proportion of words featuring reduced (schwa-vocalized) iambic presyllables in front of the lexical root, thus matching a syllable structure widely attested in Austroasiatic languages (cf. Pān Wùyún 1998, 2000, Sagart 1999).21 Occasionally, the sesquisyllabic structures will escape their notorious non-representation

21 The idea that the Chinese writing system quite successfully hides an underlying non-monosyllabic language is already present in an essay by the famous antiManchurian reformer and radical critic Zhāng Tàiyán (a.k.a. Zhāng Bı ̌nglín ີ੢᧵, 1868–1936), entitled “Yī zì chóng yīn shuō” ԫ‫ૹڗ‬ଃᎅ [Discussion of one character representing two sounds], included in his Guógù lùnhéng ഏਚᓵᘝ [Weighed disquisitions on the foundations of the Chinese nation], see Chén Píngyuán, ed. (2003: 22–23). Zhāng’s idea and its phonologically more sophisticated modern successors also to a certain extent undermine the theory that monosyllabicity of the lexical root was a precondition for the emergence of logographic writing in China and the Ancient Near East. This was first adumbrated in Steinthal (1852) and has been independently rediscovered by Daniels (1992) and Boltz (1994).

in the interstices of representation

301

in a Chinese character, leading to a situation, in which two graphs respectively bind the affix and the root nodes of the W to be represented. Accordingly, the semantic representation of both constituent Σ, or, as in the present example from the Book of Odes, the oldest collection of Chinese poetry, only one of the two Σ, is discarded. Loosely attached presyllable structures of this type are often only very vaguely reflected in the series of characters constructed from identical phonophorics, such that external (i.e. comparative) evidence is usually needed for corroboration.22 23 (20)

VIII: phonanalytic-intrasyntactic [—]

s

σ

s

σ

W

Σ1

W

Σ2

pM

π

mP

π

m

MSM béng < Y.23 *1puŋ “don’t (have to)” Σ1: MSM bù < Y. *4puh NEG Σ1: MSM yòng < Y. *3juŋh “use; have to” →

4

p{ uh + 3j}uŋh : 1puŋ

P O Rh

Phonanalytic-intrasyntactic characters take the principle of sesquisyllabic characters one step further, by constructing a character phonemically from an analysis of the monosyllable to be represented by one Σ each into an onset and a rhyme part. Concomitantly, the semantic nodes of these two Σ are linearily strung into a syntactic phrase, such that all π- and σ-nodes are bound to W. This very ingenious character construction only appears since the very late Medieval period and stays unproductive in mainstream Chinese, although quite a few Wú ‫ܦ‬, Yuè ᆕ, and Mı ̌n Ꮈ dialect characters belonging to this type are known. The type is much more productive in the adjacent Southern Chinese writing systems of Sino-Vietnamese, Sino-Sui, Old Yi, as well as Tangut writing in the north. There can be little doubt that a further development of this type of character segmentation at the crucial phonological joints of the syllable could easily have led to the emergence of a regular alphasyllabary for Chinese, leaving the logographic stage behind.

22 Cf., e.g., Written Burmese práñ, Kachin pjriŋ, Mikir, pleŋ “full”, Written Tibetan ling-ba “wholepiece” etc., possibly all going back to a Sino-Tibetan root *s-b-liŋ (cf. STC #40, HPTB 281/2). 23 Late Middle Chinese (LMC) and Early Mandarin (Yuán = Y.) dynasty re-constructions are quoted from Pulleybank (1991).

302 (21)

wolfgang behr VIII-b: intrasyntactic semantic loan [—]

D σ

MSM qì < LMC *4khjih “to not use → discard”

C σ

s

qì < LMC *4khjih

~

“discard” Σ

W

Σ

π

mP

π

Yet another step further in the character structure recycling chain, we encounter “intrasyntactic semantic loans”, which take a phonanalyticintrasyntactic graph of type VIII in example (20) and, by delinking its phonological nodes from W, associate its semantics with a synonymous (but allophonetic) word which is thus phonetically not bound at all. In the example at hand, from the Lóngkān shǒujiàn ᚊ㛦֫ᦹ [Handy mirror of the ‘Buddha prayer niche’], a dictionary of 997 ad including 163.170 obscure characters in the Buddhist canon compiled by the Khitan monk Xíngjūn ۩݁, we find the phonetic gloss “ଃඵ” (“pronounced as qì < LMC *4kʰjiʰ) for the graph, which elsewhere has maintained the phonanalytic-intrasyntactic pronunciation béng to this very day. (22)

VIII-c: phonanalytic transcription [—]

σ

s

s

σ

W

Σ1

W

Σ2

pm

π

mP

π

m

for Sanskrit -khyaΣ1: MSM qˇı < LMC *khji’ Σ2: MSM yˇe < LMC *jia’ → *kh[ji’ + j]ia’ : *khia’

P O

Rh

Finally, we encounter the exceedingly rare category of “phonanalytic transcriptions” in Chinese Buddhist texts. Characters of this type, which again imply an underlying onset/rhyme analysis of the syllable to be represented, simply project the technique of explicit Old Chinese sesquiphonetics onto the Medieval Chinese monosyllable in the context of transcriptions of Sanskrit and other Medieval Central

in the interstices of representation

303

Asian loanwords. In this example, taken from the Dàfāng guǎng púsà cáng Wénshūlì génběn guı̌ jīng Օֱᐖဆ៳៲֮௘‫ܓ‬௅‫ء‬૩ᆖ [Sūtra on the basic precepts of Mañjuśrī [belonging] to the Mahāvaipulyabodhisattva-pit ̣aka], the second syllable of the Sanskrit term saṁkhya (the name of one of the schools of Hindu philosophy), gets represented by writing -khya- as *kʰ[ji’+ j]ia’ → *kʰia’ phonanalytically.24 In the compound character, none of the semantic nodes binds W, while the phonetic nodes properly represent the P-node under mP, as far as we can see from the reconstruction of Late Middle Chinese of the 9th or 10th c. ad. All other character structures recognized by the tradition, such as the so-called jiānyì ଫᆠ “also semantic” or yìshēng ٍᜢ “also phonophoric” types, can be either modelled as combinations of the types analyzed above,25 or refer to merely spatial, not structural considerations. This is, for instance, the case with so-called héwén ‫ٽ‬文 or “ligature characters”, regularly employed in OBI and BI, such as曩= ՛՗ xiǎozı̌ “little child” (a title),曠= ‫(׊‬ల)ԭ Zǔ dīng (name of a Shāng king),曘= ՀԬ xiàyı̌ “next [cyclical day] yı ̌”, etc. Héwén simply write two distinct characters into the space of one, without, presumably, altering either the semantic or morphonemic properties of the merged characters. Finally, under the model developed here, the well-known category of “indexical-deictic” zhı̌shì ਐࠃ (‫ء‬, Ս, ૿, etc.) or “abstract” chōuxiàng ࢼွ characters (ԫ, Բ, Կ, Լ, Ղ, Հ, ᩍ, etc.),26 arises from further specifications of the s-D-relationship of the represented word, i.e., by different types of involvement of the interpretative component assigning a “meaning” in the semiotic triangle. Polysemy can thus be shown to stem either from purely semantic extensions of denotations associated with a particular graph, or, in the model outlined here, by the re-binding – intentional or not – of any dashed mapping line to a “free” semantic structural node of the word. While the first phenomenon is unrelated to the type of the writing system and can be shown to be operative in all languages making use of metaphors, metonymies, and the like, to enrich the text beyond its straightforward surface semantics, the second one is more intimately

24 Taishô (20.0901a); cf. Zhèng Xiànzhāng’s work (2004: 74–75) on qièshēnzì ֊ߪ ‫ ڗ‬or “cut body characters”. 25 Compare in this direction the notion of structural “blendings” discussed in Jiāng Xuéwàng (2004). 26 For a good discussion of this distinction see Qiú Xīguī (1988: 110–121).

304

wolfgang behr

linked to the peculiarities of logography. Since structural properties are often best visible from the vantage position of exaggeration, let us now briefly take a look at the behaviour of some of the sketched logographic “hyphenation points” in ludic usages of writing Classical Chinese. Ludic Writing Phonetic Conundrums Phonetic conundrums, or “puns” in some definitions of this elusive term, are based upon varying degrees of similarity between a linguistic and/or orthographic form and two or more different associated words. Dienhart (1999), with twinkle-in-the-eye, convincingly identifies the following cline of similarity relationships involved in the construction of English riddles:27 (23) similarity hierarchy polysemy >> homonymy >> homophony >> paraphony >> hahaphony

The rhetorical functions of these similarity relationships are by no means limited to the realm of wit, irony, persuasion or aesthetic pleasure in most ancient textual traditions. Quite to the contrary, paronomastic homonomy or “paretymology”, more often than not, is a serious device to unfurl an epistemological effect, for instance, in Ancient Egyptian literature, where it acquires an almost magical sense, by establishing conceptual contiguity via phonetic proximity (Loprieno 2001: 135).28 Another common field of application is name-tabooing practices, figuring prominently in the rituals governing the usage of posthumous royal names in Ancient China.29 Nor is the phonetic conundrum a

27 Where paraphony refers to near-homophony, i.e., the relationship of two words being semantically related, albeit distantly, forcedly, and orthographically dissimilar (e.g., gnawing vs. knowing), and hahaphony (of hahafunny!), where the relationship is created by deliberate “pseudo-morphemic” re-analysis, typically resulting in the creation of new words (e.g.: spooketti vs. sphagetti), cf. Dienhart (1999: 109). For a more sophisticated classification of the concept of phonological similarity involved in such puns, see also Zwicky & Zwicky (1986). 28 Cf. for a collection of fascinating Egyptian examples Sander-Hansen (1948) and Loprieno (2000, 2001). For comparative perspectives see also the contributions to Noegel (2000) on ancient Near Eastern literatures, Klein (2000) on Old Indic, Louden (1995) on Homeric Greek, and Frank (1972) on Old English. 29 On the cultural history of name tabooing in Ancient China see Emmrich (1992) and Wáng Jiàn (2002).

in the interstices of representation

305

phenomenon limited to premodern texts, as the language of advertising shows just as clearly as, say, Heidegger’s frequent attempts to employ paronomasia to convey the “monstrative” or “apophantic” powers of language (Eiland 1982). Consider for a typical polysemous example, constructed along the principles of simple phonetic loans (type II), i.e., by an association of two different lexical items enabled by the non-bound semantic nodes, the following passage from a wickedly cunning dialogue with Confucius, narrated by the Zhuāngzı̌ ๗՗ (25.9): (24) “٘‫؍‬ംՊՕ‫׾‬᱌Ε‫܄‬ൄᤳΕ‎ଁִ: ψ֛ᨋֆ堬಺ྈᑗ, լᦫഏ୮հ ਙ, ‫៊ض‬ฅէ, լᚨ壆ঀհᎾΖದࢬ‫א‬੡ᨋֆृ۶ߵΛωՕ᱌ֳ:ψਢ ‫ڂ‬ਢՈΖω” “Zhòngní inquired with the Grand Scribes Big Bowcase, Elder Aloofa-lot, and Leathery-like-a-hog, saying: ‘Now, Duke LÍNG [of Wèi] was a drunk and indulging in pleasures so much that he paid no attention to the administration of the state and the big families, he was so much into net- and-arrow-hunting that he did not react to the contacts between the many lords. On account of what, then, was he canonized as the “numinous” (LÍNG) duke?’ Big Bowcase said: ‘It was precisely this on which it was based.”

Here, the conundrum works on account of the fact that ᨋ líng < OC *Cə-rreŋ represents a polysemous word, which not only designates the “spiritual” or “numinous” ruler posthumously, but also a “chaotic, muddleheaded” person, even if we do not know whether this second meaning arose by metonymical extension of the first, or if it is merely phonetically evoked. Since the reading process in a logosyllabographic writing system involves a more complex type of phonological recoding than in an alphabetic one,30 phonetic conundra tend to be less transparent to the reader. This is all the more true if they occur in premodern examples which necessitate a phonological reconstruction beyond the level of synchronic phonological processing. Moving down along the similarity hierarchy a little bit further, we find examples such as the following late premodern one, appearing in a dialogue between the famously witty scholar Ōuyáng Xiū ᑛၺଥ (1007–1072) and the current chancellor Gāo Yánfū ೏ณ֛:31 30

See for a recent model focussing on Chinese e.g. Zhou & Marslen-Wilson (2000). Recorded in the Guīqiánzhì ូᑨ‫[ ݳ‬Memoirs from Retirement] of Liú Qí Ꮵઙ (1203–1250), quoted from Odendahl (1996: 24–25). 31

306

wolfgang behr

(25) chancellor: ହ੡冓? “Who are You?” ouyang: ‫ݺ‬ᑛၺଥՈΖዿ੡冓? “I am Ouyang Xiu. And who are you?” chancellor: ‫نݺ‬ઌՈΖዿಡլᢝ? “I am the the chancellor. How come you do not know this?” ouyang: ଥլव‫ن‬ઌ, ‫ن‬ઌլवଥΖ a. “I [Xiu] do not know you [chancellor], [and] you [chancellor] do not know me [Xiu]” b. “I [Xiu] do not know you [chancellor], [but] you [chancellor] are shameless.”

Here, the phonetic conundrum, which allows the scholar to poke fun at his superior, rests on the fully contingent homophony of the two characters ଥ xiū (LMC *siw) “the cultivated”, i.e., the personal name of Ouyang, and ฺ xiū (LMC *siw) “shame” in late Middle Chinese. The conundrum is thus not based on the properties of the writing system, since a similar homophone association can be found in languages using alphabetic writing, or, indeed, even in non-verbal performance. Student protesters during the Běijīng spring of 1989 were very much aware of this effect when they threw “little bottles” (xiǎo píng ՛෿) out of the windows of their dorms to express criticism of China’s leader Dèng Xiǎopíng ᔥ՛平 (1904–1997). It is only the degree of the “collateral” semantic deflection in the detection of the conundrum, which makes the case logographically different from its alphabetic or syllabographic counterparts. Graphosection Ludic graphosection (xīzì ࣫‫)ڗ‬, a widespread mantic and poetic practice in premodern China,32 involves the analysis of complex characters into their constituent elements, or even into single strokes, and the semantic reassociation of these parts to unrelated lexical items. In the following example, an undated premodern “synthanalytic” poem (líhéshī ᠦ‫ٽ‬ᇣ) found on a stone slab from the “Peach Blossom Spring” (Táohuāyuán ௒क़ᄭ), a Daoist sanctuary area in Northwestern Húnán founded during the late Táng period, characters are read in an outward spiralling direction (quoted from Zhōu and Zhōu 1987: 76–77):33 32

For a good introduction to its history and sources see Führer (2002/3) (in print). The spirals in the charts (a–c) indicate reading direction. Notice that, unlike in the poem quoted in (1), there seems to be no other possible reading direction (either 33

in the interstices of representation

307

(26)  

    













































































































































#

$

 %









!

"











&

'

(













































)

*

+

,

-

.

/

7

















In order to arrive at a classical heptasyllabic poem of eight lines, each line final character will have to be dissected into two parts, of which the “second”, i.e., right-hand or lower (↓) part then functions as the first character of the next line. Depending on the function of this unhitched part in the composite line final “pivot” graph as either phonophoric (p) or a semantic (s), the type of “realignment” imbuing the dissected character with polysemy, will be either semantically or phonetically motivated (types 8 or 9 above):
  
 









 


%









 

%

  

       !"# 
"&





 



 




  $

!"





 "

'

"*

!"

!

+ 



+


%

%

,



-

!"





" &

!



% 

./



 

 

!"





&



#

















→   



→   

 

!"#→    ↓



 →   

 

 &→ 
"  



 
→
  

 

→    

 


 "
"

vertically, or horizontally, or diagonally) which would result in a meaningful text, although – given the polyvalent nature of the script and the largely isolating literary Chinese it represents – one could be enticed to muster a forced attempt at a nonspiralling analysis.

308

wolfgang behr e. translation: 4d–3e Cowherds and weaving girls gather for tryst TIME 3e’–6b Under the MOON, playing the zither and reciting POETRY 6b’–2d The MONASTERY is silent, just a bell and drum to be heard ECHOING 2d’–6f When the sounds stop, I first sense the stars are MOVING 6f’–7a So MANY (yellow caps =) Daoist priests go back to their SHRINE 7a’–1a Having gained INSIGHT into it, they are blissfully at ease with forgetting the CRUX of life 1a’–1g WHEN will I get to peach blossom CAVE 1g’–7g to play a game of chess with those immortals?!

While graphosectional techniques are employed here in a position predictable by the overall poetic form into which they are playfully, but regularly, embedded, the form eventually reaches mind-boggling complexity in a type known as “the inscrutable knowledge genre” (shénzhìtı̌ 壀ཕ᧯) or “riddle representation poetry” (míxiàngshī ᝎቝᇣ), first mentioned in Sāng Shìchāng’s ௌ‫( ࣑׈‬born ca. 1140) Huíwén lèijù ‫ڃ‬文ᣊፋ [Anacyclical texts grouped into categories].34 An undated late Imperial example by an otherwise largely unknown 18th c. author Chén Zhǎnhuì ຫ୶ᘏ, in which the character constituents are not only dissected along the phonosemantic demarcation line, but also inverted, mutilated or reanalyzed into syntactic phrases, is the following poem entitled “Guī qíng” Ꮇൣ or “Vestal feelings”. Moreover, the metalanguage describing these character transforming operations becomes part of the text again, in which a maiden, longing for her distant lover, sighs (Zhōu and Zhōu 1987: 49):35 (27) a. text:

b. reading: ຨ‫ؾ‬լ‫ګ‬ఠ ⇒ ຢ։‫ڇ‬ᢴছ ྤ֨৸ឰኄ ֘ࢢ৿९෰

c. transcription: bì mù bù chéng mián jìng fēn zài jìng qián wú xīn sī duàn mèng fǎn pà hèn cháng qiān

d. translation: 1 Closing my eyes I cannot get to sleep 2 A hairpin [lies] open, in front of the mirror

34

See on this important collection Odendahl (1996: 8–12). Obviously, examples such as this verge on being well-nigh “undecodable”, without explanations by their creators or early collectors/commentators. 35

in the interstices of representation

309

3 I (do not have the heart =) am not in the mood to think of interrupting my dreams 4 But I fear I would hate if it continued for long.

In character (1a), the semantic (s) determiner “eye”, usually added to a phonophoric “people” to construct the phonosemantic character (type IV) mián ఠ “sleep” – a structure which we could notate as ps[det[‫]ؾ‬ + phon[‫ ا‬mín]] – is “closed”, i.e., blackened, so that the “blackened eye” and “people” do not compose the character “sleep” any more. Transposed to the metalanguage level of the lyric ego, the maiden “cannot get to sleep”. The phonosemantic character (2a) chái ຢ “hairpin”, structurally ps[det[८ “metal”] + phon[叉 chā, “pin”]] (2b), is not written as such, but by separating p and s, such that not only the character ຢʳchái is dissected, but, on the metalanguage level, “hairpin”, the object designated by it, “[lies] open” as well. Moving then, from the level of the written language – not to that of descriptive metalanguage, but to the corresponding referents in the real world – chái ຢ, the “hairpin”, not only stands dissected in front of the character jìng ᢴ (2c), it also “lies open” or fēn ։ “in front of the mirror”. ৸ sī “to think of ” (in all likelihood an associative character (type V) with the structure ss[det[֨ “heart”]+sem[‫=ض‬᪩ “fontanel”]]) appears here without the semantic “heart” (3a), which translates into a metalanguage description wú xīn ྤ֨ “have no heart”, which is then reinterpreted as part of the poetic line “[to] not dare to, not feel like”. The object of this verb phrase is a complement clause, construed by adding the undissected character sī ৸ and appearing in the metalanguage description, to yet another verb. This verb is generated by “cutting” the next character mèng ኄ “dream” into two pieces (3b–c), which, for once, do not get recycled with a new semantic association. Rather, it is only the metatextual description which becomes operative again by identifying “to cut” with one of its many conventional semantic extensions as to “interrupt, stop”. In the last line, the phonosemantic (type IV) character pà ࢢ (4a) “to fear” is “inverted” (turned by 90 degrees), and thus semantically associated with the character representing the word for “to invert, reverse”, făn ֘, which is also used, however, as a sentence-initial conjunction “but, on the contrary” in Classical Chinese. The original pà ࢢ “to fear” is maintained as the main verb of the main clause, to which a minor clause is added by using the graphical description of the last character hèn ৿ (4b) “hate”. Since the character appears in an unusual oblong shape, it can be described in the metalanguage as being cháng qiān ९䵖 or “torn long”, which, if reinterpreted temporally rather than spatially, and reinserted into the poem, obviously means “to continue for long”.

310

wolfgang behr Conclusion

Obviously, examples for the exploitation of “open interfaces” within the structure of Chinese characters for the creation of polysemy are much more diverse and layered than I have been able to demonstrate in this short essay. For instance, the possibility of altering the whole language system underlying a Chinese graph to generate polysemy – be it in the context of dialect writing, the representation of foreign loans, or of whole foreign languages with Chinese characters – had to be neglected here, as was also the difficult field of phonanalytic name association in Old Chinese historical narratives. Both areas doubtlessly offer rich hunting grounds for examples not covered above. It has become clear, I hope, that it is important to distinguish between polysemy as a cross-linguistically available, universal function of the linguistic sign on the one hand, and as a particular capacity, “hardwired” into the structural properties of the Chinese writing system on the other. Given its great diachronic persistence despite all changes in the anthropology, sociopolitical setting and material culture, it is tempting to assume that the success of the Chinese writing system is somehow related to the flexibility and economy of the structural devices it makes use of to represent meaning, and, indeed, more than just one meaning, per sign.36 It would be interesting to see, then, if the structural model outlined here is robust enough to be extended to other non-alphabetic writing systems. References Baxter, William H. 1992. A handbook of Old Chinese phonology (Trends in Linguistics; Studies and Monographs; 64). Berlin & New York : De Gruyter. ——. 2001. Aspects of Old Chinese morphology: Reading between the characters in early Chinese texts. Paper presented at the 4th International Conference on Classical Chinese grammar, UBC Vancouver, 17–19. August, 22 pp. Behr, Wolfgang [Bì È ฅ㖅] 1998. Jiǎgǔwén suǒjiàn ruògān shànggǔ Hànyǔ fùshēngmǔ wèntí lícè ‫ظ‬೎文ࢬߠૉեՂ‫ײ‬ዧ፿ᓤᜢ‫ئ‬ംᠲᥢྒྷ [Desultory jottings on the problem of initial consonant clusters as reflected in oracle bone inscriptions]. Shēngyùn Lùncōng ᜢᣉᓵហ, Vol. 6, pp. 471–530. —— [Bì È ฅ㖅] 2005. Wéichí tīngjué wěngù – cóng Zhànguó ‘chóngshēngzì’ hé ‘zhùyīn xíngshēngzì’ tánqı ̌ ፂ਍ᦫᤚ᡹ࡐ – ൕᖏഏψૹᜢ‫ڗ‬ωࡉψࣹଃ‫ݮ‬ᜢ‫ڗ‬ωᓫದ [Maintaining aural stability: on the implications of Warring States phonophoric dou-

36 See Ricoeur (1973) on the crucial role of synonymy for linguistic creativity in general.

in the interstices of representation

311

bling and replacement]. Paper presented at the International Symposium Paleography: Theory and Practice. University of Chicago, May 27–30, 2005. —— 2006. Homosomatic juxtaposition and the question of syssemantic characters. In: F. Bottéro & R. Djamouri (eds.) (2006), Ecriture chinoise, données, usages et représentations, pp. 4–52. Paris: EHESS. Behrens, Leila 2002. Aspects of polysemy. In: D. A. Cruse (ed.), Lexikologie: ein internationales Handbuch zur Natur und Struktur von Wörtern und Wortschätzen, Halbband 1 (Handbücher zur Sprach- und Kommunikationswissenschaft; 21), pp. 319–337. Berlin: de Gruyter. Boodberg, Peter A. 1937. Some Proleptical Remarks on the Evolution of Archaic Chinese. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, Vol. 2, pp. 329–72. ——. 1940. ‘Ideography’ or Iconolatry. T’oung Pao, Vol. 35, pp. 266–288. ——. 1957. The Chinese Script: An Essay on Nomenclature (The First Hecaton). Bulletin of the Institute of History and Philology, Vol. 29, pp. 113–120. Boltz, William G. 1994. The origin and early development of the Chinese writing system (American oriental series; 78). New Haven: American Oriental Society. ——. 1999. Language and writing. In: M. Loewe & E. Shaugnessy (eds.), The Cambridge history of ancient China, pp. 74–122. Cambridge: Cambridge UP. ——. 2006. Pictographic Myths. Bochumer Jahrbuch zur Ostasienforschung Vol. 30 (special section Sprache und Denken in China und Japan, ed. by W. Behr & H. Roetz), pp. 39–54. Bottéro, Françoise 1996a. Sémantisme et classification dans l’écriture chinoise. Les systèmes de classement des caractères par clés du Shuowen jiezi au Kangxi zidian (Mémoires de l’Institut des Hautes Études Chinoises; 37). Paris: Collège de France, Institut des Hautes Études Chinoises. —— 1996b. Review of Boltz 1994. In: Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 116, No. 3, pp. 574–577. —— 1998. La vision de l’écriture de Xu Shen a partir de sa présentation des liushu. Cahiers de Linguistique Asie-Orientale, Vol. 27, No. (2), pp. 161–191. Ci Jiwei 1987. Synonymy and Polysemy. Lingua, Vol. 72, pp. 315–331. Coulmas, Florian 1991. The writing systems of the world. Oxford & New York: B. Blackwell. —— 2003. Writing systems: an introduction to their linguistic analysis. Cambridge, U.K.; New York: Cambridge UP. Daniels, Peter T. 1992. The syllabic origin of writing and the segmental origin of the alphabet. In: P. Downing et al. (eds.), The linguistics of literacy (Typological studies in language; 21), pp. 83–110. Amsterdam: J. Benjamins. Deane, Paul D. 1988. Polysemy and Cognition. Lingua, Vol. 75, No. 4, pp. 325– 361. Dienhart, John M. 1999. A linguistic look at riddles. Joural of Pragmatics, Vol. 31, No. 1, pp. 95–125. Eiland, Howard 1982. Heidegger’s etymological web. boundary, Vol. 10, No. 2, pp. 39–58. Emmrich, Thomas 1992. Tabu und Meidung im antiken China: Aspekte des Verpönten (Münsterische Sinologische Mitteilungen; 2). Bonn: Bock & Herchen. Eoyang, Eugene 1992. Primal Nights and Verbal Daze: Puns, Paronomasia, and the People’s Daily. Tamkang Review, Vol. 22, No. 2, pp. 254–262. Evans, Henryka M. and Philip H. K. Seymour 1997. Genetic constraints on the development of alphabetic literacy: a cognitive study of two 48, XXXY cases. Cognitive Neuropsychology, Vol. 14, No. 2, pp. 255–291. Frank, R. 1972. Some Uses of Paranomasia in Old English Scriptural Verse. Speculum, Vol. 47, pp. 207–226. Führer, Bernhard 2002/3. Seers and Jesters: Predicting the Future and Punning by Graph Analysis. Ms., S.O.A.S., London (forthcoming in Chinese Science).

312

wolfgang behr

—— 2006. Riddles and Politics. A Graffito Against Wang Anshi’s Policies. In: H. Roetz (ed.), Kritik im alten und modernen China (Jahrbuch der Deutschen Vereinigung für Chinastudien; 3), Wiesbaden: O. Harrassowitz (forthcoming). Gassmann, R. H. and W. Behr 2005. Antikchinesisch – ein Lehrbuch in drei Teilen (Schweizerische Asiengesellschaft, Studienhefte; 18/1–3), Vols. 1–3. Bern, Frankfurt etc.: P. Lang. Gu Dong Ming 2005. Chinese Theories of Reading and Writing: A Route to Hermeneutics and Open Poetics (SUNY series in Chinese philosophy and culture). Albany: SUNY Pr. Hall, D. L. & R. T. Ames 1987. Thinking through Confucius (SUNY series in systematic philosophy). Albany: SUNY Pr. Hospers, Johannes H. 1993. Polysemy and Homonymy. In: Zeitschrift für Althebraistik, Vol. 8, No. 1, pp. 114–27. Hú Xiǎoxīn ઺ᖠᄅ & Jīn Lı̌xīn ८෻ᄅ 2001. Xiéshēng de běnzhì ᘫᜢऱ‫ء‬ᔆ [Fundamentals of the homphonophoric principle]. Wēnzhōu Shīfàn Xuéyuàn Xuébào 㻭‫ڠ‬ஃᒤᖂೃᖂ໴, Vol. 22, No. 1, pp. 9–12. Jespersen, Bjørn & Chris Reintges 2008. Tractarian Sätze, Egyptian Hieroglyphs, and the very idea of script as a picture. The Philosophical Forum, Vol. 39, No. 1, pp. 1–19. Jiāng Xuéwàng ᓏᖂ࣎ 2004. Qiǎ ntán gǔ wénzì yìtı ̌ róuhé ෍ᓫ‫ײ‬文‫ڗ‬ฆ᧯༷‫ٽ‬ [Preliminary remarks on the blending of allographs in paleographic characters]. Gǔ Hànyǔ Yánjiū ‫ײ‬ዧ፿ઔߒ No. 1, pp. 77–79. Klein, D. E. & G. L. Murphy 2001. The representation of polysemous words. Journal of Memory and Language, Vol. 45, No. 2, pp. 259–282. Klein, Jared S. 2000. Polyptoton and Paronomasia in the Rigveda. Münchener Studien zur Sprachwissenschaft, Beiheft 19 (Fs. J. Narten), pp. 133–155. Klepousnioutou, Ekaterini 2002. The processing of lexical ambiguity: homonymys and polysemy in the mental lexicon. Brain and Language, Vol. 81, No. 1–3, pp. 205–223. Ledderose, Lothar 2000. Ten thousand things: module and mass production in Chinese art. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lı ̌ Hǎixiá ‫ޕ‬௧ដ 1999. Xíngshēngzì zàozì lèixíng de xiāozhǎng – cóng jiǎgǔ wén dào «Shuōwén» xiǎozhuàn ‫ݮ‬ᜢ‫ڗ‬ທ‫ڗ‬ᣊীऱ௣९ – ൕ‫ظ‬೎文ࠩπᎅ文ρ՛ᒦ [The growth and decline of catgeories of the formation of phonosemantic characters – from oracle bone inscriptions to the small seal script of the Shuōwén]. Gǔ Hànyǔ Yánjiū ‫ײ‬ዧ፿ઔߒ No. 1, pp. 65–69. Li Wen-Chao 2000. Chinese Rhyme Redefined: Evidence from Pop, Rap and Multilingual Lyrics. Paper presented at the Yuen Ren Society Symposium, 210th Meeting of the American Oriental Society, March 12~13, 2000, Portland/OR. Lín Yún ࣥႆ 1997. Gǔ wénzì zhuǎnzhù jǔlì ‫ײ‬文‫ڗ‬᠏ࣹᜰࠏ [Some examples of ‘mutual commentating’ in paleographic characters]. In: Dìsānjiè guójì Zhōngguó gǔ wénzìxué yántǎohuì lùnwénjí รԿࡻഏᎾխഏ‫ײ‬文‫ڗ‬ᖂઔಘᄎᓵ文ႃ [Proceedings of the third international conference on Chinese paleography]. Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong Pr. Reprinted in: Lín Yún xuéshù wénjí ࣥႆᖂ ๬文ႃ, pp. 35–43. Běijīng: Zhōngguó Dà Bǎikè Quánshū chūbǎnshè, 1998. Louden, Bruce 2000. Categories of Homeric Wordplay. Transactions of the American Philological Association, Vol. 125, pp. 27–46. Loprieno, Antonio 2000. Puns and word play in Ancient Egyptian. In: Noegel (ed.) 2000: 3–20. —— 2001. Le signe étymologique: le jeu de mots entre logique et esthétique. In: La pensée et l’écriture: pour une analyse sémiotique de la culture égyptienne. Quatre séminaires à l‘École Practique des Hautes Études Section des Sciences religieuses 15–27 mai 2000, pp. 129–158. Paris: Cybele. Mattingly, Ignatius G. 1992. Linguistic awareness and orthographic form. Haskins Laboratories Status Report on Speech Research, Vol. 109–110, pp. 129–140.

in the interstices of representation

313

Mattingly, Ignatius G. & Hsiao Pai-ling 1999. Are phonetic elements in Chinese characters drawn from a syllabary?. Psychologia, Vol. 42, pp. 281–289. Mèng Guǎngdào ࡯ᐖሐ 2000. Shēngfú léizēng xiànxiàng chūtàn ᜢฤ㗊ᏺ෼ွॣ൶ [Preliminary discussion of the phenomenon of phonophoric accretion]. Gǔ Hànyǔ Yánjiū ‫ײ‬ዧ፿ઔߒ, Vol. 47, No. 2, pp. 10–13. Nakamura Hajime 1960. The ways of thinking of Eastern peoples. Tôkyô: Print. Bureau, Japanese Government. Noegel, Scott B. (ed.) 2000. Puns and pundits: word play in the Hebrew Bible and ancient Near Eastern literature. Bethesda: CDL Press. Nunberg, Geoffrey 1979. The non-uniqueness of semantic solution: polysemy. Linguistics and Philosophy Vol. 3, pp. 143–184. Odendahl, Wolfgang 1996. Zur Typologie der chinesischen Schrift- und Sprachspiele aufgrund des Huiwen Leiju. M.A. thesis, Universität zu Köln [unpublished]. Pān Wùyún ᑰஔႆ 1998. Hàn-Zàngyǔ de cìyào yīnjié ዧ៲፿ऱ‫ڻ‬૞ଃᆏ [Secondary syllables in Sino-Tibetan]. In: Pān Wùyún & Shí Fēng ‫( ୽ف‬eds.), Zhōngguó yǔyánxué de xīn tuòzhǎn խഏ፿ߢᖂऱᄅࢷ୶, pp. 126–147. Hong Kong: City University of Hong Kong Pr. —— 2000. Hànyŭ lìshǔ yīnyùnxué ዧ፿ᖵ‫׾‬ଃᣉᖂ [Historical phonology of Chinese] (Zhōngguó dāngdài yǔ yán cōngshū խഏᅝ‫ז‬፿ߢហ஼). Shànghǎi: Shànghǎi Jiàoyù. Panman, Otto 1982. Homonymy and Polysemy. Lingua, Vol. 58, No. 1–2, pp. 105–136. Pulleyblank, Edwin G. 1991. Lexicon of reconstructed pronunciation in Early Middle Chinese, Late Middle Chinese, and Early Mandarin. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2nd rev. ed. Qiú Xīguī ᇗᙔ‫ ڈ‬1988. Zhōngguó wénzìxué gàiyào խഏ文‫ڗ‬ᖂᄗ૞ [Essentials of Chinese graphology]. Běijīng: Shāngwù Yìnshūguǎn. Ricoeur, Paul 1973. Creativity in Language: Word, Polysemy, Metaphor. Philosophy Today, Vol. 17, pp. 97–111. Rosemont, Henry Jr. 1974. On Representing Abstractions in Archaic Chinese. Philosophy East and West, Vol. 24, pp. 71–88. Sagart, Laurent 1999. The roots of Old Chinese (Current Trends in Linguistic Theory; 184). Amsterdam: J. Benjamins. —— 2001. Vestiges of Archaic Chinese Derivational Affixes in Modern Chinese Dialects. In: H. Chappell (ed.), Sinitic Grammar – Synchronic and Diachronic Perspectives. Oxford: OUP. Sander-Hansen, C. E. 1948. Die Phonetischen Wortspiele des Ältesten Ägyptischen. AO, Vol. 20, pp. 1–22. Steinthal, Heyman 1852. Die Entwicklung der Schrift. Nebst einem offenen Sendschreiben an Herrn Prof. Pott. Berlin: F. Dümmler. Repr. in: W. Bumann (ed.), Heymann Steinthal. Kleinere sprachtheoretische Schriften. (Collectanea; XII), pp. 165–247. Hildesheim & New York: G. Olms, 1970. Sū Jīnzhì ᤕ८ཕ 1999. Zhào Yuánrèn xuéshù sīxiǎng píngzhuàn ᎓ցٚᖂ๬৸უ ေႚ [A critical account of Zhao Yuanren’s scientific thought]. Běijīng: Běijīng túshūguǎn chūbǎnshè. Taylor, J. R. 2003. Polysemy’s paradoxes. Language Sciences, Vol. 25, No. 6, pp. 637–665. Ulmer, G. 1988. The Puncept in Grammatology. In: J. Culler (ed.), On Puns: The Foundation of Letters. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Unger, Ulrich 1969. Aspekte der Schrifterfindung. In: Frühe Schriftzeugnisse der Menschheit: Vorträge auf der Tagung der Joachim Jungius-Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften (Hamburg am 9. u. 10. Okt. 1969), pp. 11–38. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Wáng Jiàn ‫׆‬৬ 2002. Zhōngguó gǔdài bìhuìshı ̌ խഏ‫זײ‬ᝩᘨ‫[ ׾‬A history of linguistic taboo in ancient China]. Guìyáng: Guìzhōu Rénmín.

314

wolfgang behr

Wiedenhof, Jeroen 1985. Het nawoord van de Shuō wén jiě zì. M.A. thesis, Rijksuniversiteit te Leiden [unpublished]. Winter, Marc 1997. “. . . und Cang Jie erfand die Schrift”: ein Handbuch für den Gebrauch des Shuo Wen Jie Zi (Schweizer Asiatische Studien; 28). Bern, Berlin, Frankfurt a.M. etc.: P. Lang. Wright, David 1997. The Great Desideratum: Chinese Chemical Nomenclature and the Transmission of Western Chemical Concepts. Chinese Science, Vol. 14, pp. 35–70. Wú Zhènwǔ 㤴஡ࣳ 2003. Gǔwénzì zhōng de ‘zhùyīn xíngshēngzì’ [On ‘phonophorically determined phonsemantic characters’ in paleographic characters]. In: Dìsān jiè Guójì Hànxué Huìyì lùnwénjí wénzì xuézǔ รԿࡻഏᎾዧᖂᄎᤜᓵ文ႃ文‫ڗ‬ᖂ ల (ed.), Guwénzì yǔ Shāng-Zhōu wénmíng ‫ײ‬文‫ڗ‬ፖ೸ࡌ文ࣔ [Palaeography and Shāng-Zhōu Civilization], pp. 223–236. Táiběi: Zhōngyāng Yánjiūyuàn. Yú Mı ̌n ঒ඕ 1979. Lìushū xiànyí ք஼᣸ጊ [A dissenting opinion on the “six scripts”]. Zhōngguó Yŭwén, No. 1, pp. 55–59. Zhāng Háo ്ᎌ 2000. Zài chuántǒng yǔ chuàngxīn zhījiān: shíjiǒu shìjì de zhōngwén huàxué yuánsù míngcí ‫ڇ‬ႚอፖ໌ᄅհၴ: Լ԰‫׈‬ધऱխ文֏ᖂցై‫ဲټ‬ [Between Tradition and Invention: The Chinese Terms of the Chemical Elements in the Nineteenth Century]. Huàxué ֏ᖂ, Vol. 59, No. 1, pp. 51–59. Zhāng Tàiyán ີ֜ङ 2003. Guógù lùnhéng ഏਚᓵᘝ [Weighed disquisitions on the foundations of the Chinese nation], Chén Píngyuán ຫؓ଺ (ed.) (Pénglái cóngshū ᓒဒហ஼). Shànghǎi: Shànghǎi Gǔjí. Zhào Yuánrèn ᎓ցٚ 2002–. Zhào Yuánrèn quánjí ᎓ցٚ٤ႃ [The complete works of Zhào Yuánrèn], Chén Jié ຫḱ et al. (eds.), Běijīng: Shāngwù yìnshūguǎn. Zhèng Xiánzhāng ᔤᔃີ 2004. «Lóngkān shǒujìng» yánjiū πᚊ㛦֫ᢴρઔߒ [Studies on the Handy Mirror for the Dragon’s Prayer Niche]. Chángshā: Húnán Shīfàn Dàxué chūbǎnshè. Zhou Xiaolin & William Marslen-Wilson 2000. Phonology, Orthography and Semantic Activation in Reading Chinese. Journal of Memory and Language, Vol. 41, pp. 579–606. Zhōu Yuānlóng ࡌෘᚊ and Zhōu Wéi ࡌ੡ 1987. Shī qù ᇣᔊ [Poetic pleasures]. Hong Kong: Jīnhuī chūbǎnshè. Zwicky, Arnold and Elizabeth D. Zwicky 1986. Imperfect puns, markedness, and phonological similarity: with fronds like these, who needs anemones?. Folia Linguistica, Vol. 20, No. 3–4, pp. 493–503.

TOWARDS ANOTHER SCRIPT

EGYPTIAN WRITING FOR NON-EGYPTIAN LANGUAGES AND VICE VERSA: A SHORT OVERVIEW Joachim Friedrich Quack Since my contribution about the writing of foreign words has already induced me to give some remarks about the use of Egyptian writing systems for writing foreign languages, I will provide a separate discussion for them here. The fact that the Egyptian writing could be, and was used for writing other languages is of some theoretical interest. The following documentation (see Peust 1999: 74f and 78), will only consider cases where not only single words were rendered but also connected texts of at least one sentence in length. The literary letter of the New Kingdom, attested mainly in papyrus Anastasi I, contains, besides many deliberately chosen individual foreign words, in 23, 5 one single phrase entirely in a Semitic language (Fischer-Elfert 1983: 138, 1986: 152, Hoch 1994: 20f). The language is obviously chosen because the sentence is supposedly spoken by Asians, thus it adds a local dimension. We can suppose that at least part of the intention was to convey the semantic meaning as well as the fact of its foreignness to the educated reader. The ostracon Cairo CG 25759 rt. comes from the Valley of the Kings at Thebes and dates to the twentieth dynasty (Černý 1935: 79 and pl. XCVI, 92*, 93*). On the recto, it is written in hieratic script, but does not seem to be Egyptian in language. It has been analyzed as a North-West Semitic text concerning an everyday affair (handing over of a goat) (Shisha-Halevy 1978). The imperfect preservation of the piece as well as the small extent of the text renders all interpretations problematic. It might be not a connected text at all, but a list of words or even personal names, e.g., the first entry could be analyzed as a mixed Egyptian and Semitic name t频-n.t-颓čm “she of the goats”. The scanty remains on the verso are definitely in Egyptian. If this really is a business text in Northwest-Semitic, it would be due to the fact that many Asiatics were settled in Egypt during the New Kingdom, and they might have occasionally used their own language even if sticking to the local script system. Thus, this would be a conveyer of semantic meaning, even more so than in pAnastasi I.

318

joachim friedrich quack

The magical-medical papyrus London BM 10059, rt. 7, 1–7 contains a sequence of seven short spells in non-Egyptian language (although the practical indications for drugs and application are in Egyptian) (Leitz 1999: 61–63 and pl. 32). One of them is explicitly designated as being in the language of the Keftiu (probably the Cretans) while the rest does not have any intrinsic ethnic attribution. They have been analyzed as Northwest-Semitic language, except for the one spell attributed to Cretan language (Steiner 1992). Recently, it was proposed to see real reflections of language transmitted in the Linear A tablets in the latter one as well as in one directly following it which Steiner had analyzed as Semitic (Haider 2002) – although the proposal to analyse also the one without explicit attribution to the Cretan language as such was recently criticised (Lange 2007: 54). The spells are directed against skin-diseases, which also mostly have names of foreign origin or are designated in Egyptian as “The (disease) of the Asians”, thus it is not unlikely that the incantations as well as the disease itself came from the outside to Egypt. Within the hieroglyphic texts accompanying the depictions of the festival of Min in the Ramesseum and at Medinet Habu (Gauthier 1931: 188–199), there is a section containing, besides clear Egyptian texts, also some passages which do not make sense as Egyptian language, and which are repeated twice with only slight variations. (Medinet Habu IV, pl. 203, l. 20f and 28f; and 213, l. 46–48). Especially given that the god Min has strong connections with the south and southeast, and that there is a heading entitled “The spells of reciting; what the negro of Punt says” directly following, there is some possibility that this is a sentence in a language from that south-eastern area, which became fixed as liturgical formula. For the Egyptians of the New Kingdom, it can hardly have been more than pure sound without intrinsic meaning. Within the magical papyrus Harris, which dates probably to the later part of the twentieth dynasty (Quack 1998: 311), there is one section of a bit more than 4 lines standing on the verso separately on a page of its own (the last page of the manuscript) that clearly is not in Egyptian language (Lange 1927: 98f, Leitz 1999: 49f and pl. 23). It has been understood as Canaanite incantation for lion hunting (Schneider 1989). The preceding sections of the verso contain incantations supposedly taken over from the mouth of herdsmen (Quack 1998: 311), and they are mainly concerned with driving away dangerous animals. Since they show strong influences of northwest-Semitic mythology, they would be consistent with the use of an incantation completely

egyptian writing for non-egyptian languages

319

in a foreign language. Some other parts of the manuscript also show occasional “strange” words which are either gibberish or non-Egyptian language of an as yet unresolved nature. Within the Book of the Dead there is a group of chapters already designated as “supplementary” by the Egyptians themselves. They might have been composed for a restricted group of users in the Ramesside period and began to be attested in private funerary texts sporadically in the twenty-first, and more often from the twenty-sixth, dynasty onwards (Yoyotte 1977). Those, and some related spells that are attested in individual manuscripts but did not make it into becoming a regular part of the “Book of the Dead” (Allam 1992), contain short sound sequences (probably more than single words) of very foreign character. They are nowadays mostly supposed to be some Nubian language (perhaps proto-Meroitic) (Vernus 1984, Lesko 1999, 2003, Zibelius-Chen 2005). Of somewhat related nature are certain strange invocations preserved in funerary papyri of the twenty-first dynasty (Golénischeff 1927: 1–23). It is not entirely clear whether there are real phrases or only isolated names and epithets, but they clearly represent a non-Egyptian language addressed to the god, followed, however, by a quite normal LateEgyptian text. Considerable discussion has been devoted to a magical spell against scorpions dating to about the fourth century bc and written in Demotic in the Wadi Hammamat. The title and the indications for the manual act are in contemporary Demotic language, but the spell itself (3½ lines) creates difficulties. Originally, most of it was understood as sheer magical gibberish (Vittmann 1984). Later, there were proposals to read parts of it either as unorthographic Egyptian (Zauzich 1985; Cruz-Uribe 2001: 51f and 54; against this Vittmann 1989) or as Semitic (Steiner 2001). The final verdict does not yet seem to have been reached (Vittmann 2003: 119). The famous papyrus Amherst 63 is written entirely in Demotic script but Aramaic language. It has only been partially published, and interpretations of the details are far from unanimous (see, e.g., Vleeming & Wesselius 1982, 1983–84, 1985, 1990; Nims & Steiner 1982, Steiner & Nims 1984, 1985, Steiner 1991, Kottsieper 1997a, 1997b). Most of the content seems to consist of hymns and invocations, including a fairly direct parallel to psalm 20, but the last (and longest) section is a story of Assurbanipal, his brother Šamaššumukin and the fall of Babylon. Unfortunately, hardly anything is known about the original context

320

joachim friedrich quack

of the manuscript. Most important would be the question of why the individual or community using the text had recourse to a writing system which was quite exotic for an Aramaic-speaking person, and which gave only a limited rendering of the meaning because the distinction between voiced, voiceless and emphatic sounds, crucial for Semitic languages, could not be adequately represented in Demotic writing. Were the users more at home with the Egyptian writing system, or did they use the manuscript only as a conveyer of supposedly powerful sound, regardless of any semantic content? The late Demotic magical papyri from the Roman period contain several sequences that show a phonetic rendering of Greek language, sometimes intermixed with Semitic forms (Quack 2004a). By far the most important source is the demotic magical papyrus of London and Leiden (pBM 10070, pLeiden I 383) (Griffith & Thompson 1904–1909). The sequences themselves are typically short, and many are problematic in the precise analysis. One of the longest and also one were most of the interpretation seems rather certain is gyre the频 pysytw ek-颓频-ymy 频t颓m (demotic magical papyrus of London and Leiden vs. 13,17) which I have proposed to analyse as κύριε θεέ πιστεύω ἐγω εἰμι ἀδάμ “Lord God, I believe, I am Adam” (Quack 2004: 464). It should be noted, however, that the scribe has not declared such sections as Greek and we have no indication that he was aware of their semantic meaning. As a matter of fact, we even can prove the contrary in some occasions. In the demotic magical papyrus of London and Leiden, rt. 16, 2, there is a word el-颓频-e with a Greek gloss ελωαι which is a reasonable rendering of the Hebrew word “god”. But directly above it, the scribe has noted a variant ε[λ]ων. This is obviously no more than a reading mistake (ΑΙ understood as Ν), but it is annotated with a demotic nfr sp 2 “very good”, which shows that it brought about the desired effect in an actual use. So, it was the effectiveness that counted, not the linguistic affiliation nor original semantic. Whenever the scribe was clearly aware that the formula was Greek, he actually preferred to write it out in Greek letters (thus rt. 4, 9–19, rt. 15, 25–28, rt. 23, 9–20; Dieleman 2005: 123–138). Discovering traces of Greek language among the invocations written out in Demotic is thus a modern detective’s work uncovering the prehistory of the formula, but the scribe did not have the intention of rendering Greek language with semantic meaning in Egyptian writing. He intended to write down powerful words of invocation operating by their very sound; and actually, in most cases the Demotic rendering of those formulae is accompanied by a supralinear

egyptian writing for non-egyptian languages

321

Greek version. This conclusion can be strengthened by the fact that even originally Egyptian words in those formulae which had passed through a Greek phonetic rendering were quite often not reconstituted in their correct Egyptian orthography, but given in a phonetic equivalent of their Greek rendering which often is only a poor approximation due to the fact that several Egyptian consonants did not exist in Greek language (Quack 2004, Dieleman 2005: 69–80). Two spells also claim to be in Nubian language (Thissen 1991: 371f and 375f; Dieleman 2005: 138–143). One is preserved in papyrus British Museum 10588,7,1–5 (Bell, Nock & Thompson 1932: 12f; Ritner 1986: 98f). In this papyrus we have also the sequence hrb颓b颓 br颓s颓khs (7,2), and this seems like a bad segmentation for hrb颓b 颓br颓s颓khs, the second element obviously being the well-known magical word Abrasax. This casts quite a bit of doubt on the true linguistic affiliation of the text, in any case it seems to have passed through a stage of being written in Greek letters. The other one, in the demotic magical papyrus of London and Leiden vs. 20, 4–5 does not contain any equally evident clues, but is also not unlikely to be based on a Greek vorlage. In any case, the scribe did not choose to write them in Meroitic writing (which he probably did not master). In summation, we have to note that there are guaranteed cases where Egyptian writing was used for non-Egyptian language, even though they are quite few in number. In most cases, however, the text afterwards tended to loose its semantic component and to be employed as an invocation gaining its power from the preservation of the sound. The sections in foreign language are typically quite short, about one to a maximum of four lines, and they are completely embedded in an Egyptian-language context giving, for example, manual instructions for the rituals and conjurations. The single obvious exception is papyrus Amherst 63, which is both a very extended manuscript (at least twenty-one columns), and (according to the actual state of publication) completely free of any evident Egyptian-language setting; it remains to be seen whether it had meaning as semantic structure or only as sound, although the first one is not improbable. This use of an Egyptian writing system for preserving rather the effective sound than the meaning of a passage has, I think, a good parallel in inner-Egyptian renderings. There are some cases were classical Egyptian language mostly of ritual or liturgical content is written down in Demotic script even though preserving its original language characteristics (Smith 1977, 1993, Vleeming 1990, 2004, Widmer 1998,

322

joachim friedrich quack

2004, Quack 2001, Hoffmann 2002, Stadler 2005). Since many of the syntactical constructions and much of the vocabulary did not have any established Demotic orthography, their writing is often highly unetymological, using completely different Demotic words, perhaps sometimes for deliberate puns, but often simply in order to convey to the reader/recitator the actual sound. Besides, there is of course Meroitic, which I have deliberately not treated here (See the contributions of Rilly in this volume.) and which is evidently the rendering of a non-Egyptian language by a writing system developed out of the Egyptian hieroglyphs and cursive writing systems. But up to now, there are no preserved testimonies of the intermediate state which could rightly be called Meroitic language written in Egyptian script. On the other hand, there is also the option of writing Egyptian language in foreign writing systems. The best known case is the use of the Greek alphabet which, in combination with a few signs taken over from the indigenous Demotic writing system, led to the Coptic writing system. Much older is the case of cuneiform writing, although it never came so far as to really write out whole sentences. There are quite a few Egyptian names and lexical items rendered in cuneiform in the correspondence between Egypt and other Near Eastern areas, as well as, remarkably, a lexical list giving equivalents between Akkadian and Egyptian – the last also written in cuneiform (Izre’el 1997: 77–81). From its place of discovery in Amarna, this list is likely to have been used by the Egyptians. It keeps a unity of the media by exclusively using the foreign writing system – incising the Egyptian words as hieroglyphs into the clay did not seem appropriate to whomever made this tablet. One item also most probably attests to the use of Aramaic writing for the rendering of Egyptian. We have scanty remains of a leather manuscript pBerlin 13443 (Porten & Yardeni 1999: 137) in which the text makes no sense if read as Aramaic, but several sound sequences would lend themselves to an analysis as Egyptian language (Vittmann 2003: 117–119, Quack 2004b: 360). The manuscript is too fragmentary and the interpretation not yet far enough advanced to present a definitive assessment of the contents, although it is not unlikely that it consisted of invocations or liturgical passages. While the use of Greek writing finally, due to the political dominance of a foreign elite, succeeded in not only producing substantial amounts

egyptian writing for non-egyptian languages

323

of text but even completely replacing the older indigenous system of writing, the other cases rest isolated and sporadic occurrences without long-term impact. References Allam, M. Z. 1992. Papyrus Berlin 3031. Totentexte der 21. Dynastie mit und ohne Parallelen. Dissertation Bonn University. Bell, H. I., Nock, A. D. & Thompson, H. 1932. Magical Texts from a Bilingual Papyrus in the British Museum. From the Proceedings of the British Academy, Volume XVII. Humphrey Milford: London. Černý, J. 1935. Catalogue général des antiquités égyptiennes du Musée du Caire, Nos 25501–25832. Ostraca hiératiques. Imprimerie de l’Institut Française d’Archéologie Orientale. Cruz-Uribe, E. 2001. Demotic Graffiti from the Wadi Hammamat. The SSEA Journal 28: 27–54. Fischer-Elfert, H.-W. 1983. Die satirische Streitschrift des Papyrus Anastasi I. Textzusammenstellung, Kleine ägyptische Texte. Otto Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden. ——. 1986. Die satirische Streitschrift des Papyrus Anastasi I. Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 44. Harrassowitz: Wiesbaden. Gauthier, H. 1931. Les fêtes du dieu Min. Recherches d’archéologie, de philologie et d’histoire 2. Cairo: Institut Française d’Archéologie Orientale. Golénischeff, W. 1927. Catalogue général des Antiquités égyptiennes du Musée du Caire, Nos 58001–58036. Papyrus hiératiques. Imprimerie de l’Institut Française d’Archéologie Orientale: Cairo. Griffith, F. Ll. & Thompson, H. 1904–1909. The Demotic Magical Papyrus of London and Leiden. H. Grevel & Co: London. Haider, P. W. 2004. Minoische Sprachdenkmäler in einem ägyptischen Papyrus medizinischen Inhalts. In Th. Schneider (Hrsg.), Das Ägyptische und die Sprachen Vorderasiens, Nordafrikas und der Ägäis. Akten des Basler Kolloquiums zum ägyptisch-nichtsemitischen Sprachkontakt Basel 9.–11. Juli 2003. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 310: 411–422. Ugarit-Verlag: Münster. Hoch, J. E. 1994. Semitic Words in Egyptian Texts of the New Kingdom and Third Intermediate Period. Princeton University Press: Princeton, NJ. Hoffmann, F. 2002. Die Hymnensammlung des P. Wien D6951. In K. Ryholt (ed.), Acts of the Seventh International Conference of Demotic Studies Copenhagen, 23–27 August 1999. CNI Publications 27: 219–228. Museum Tusculanum Press: Copenhagen. Lange, E. 2007. Kretischer Zauber gegen asiatische Seuchen. Die kretischen Zaubersprüche in den altägyptischen medizinischen Texten. In R. Hannig, P. Vomberg, O. Witthuhn (eds.), Marburger Treffen zur altägyptischen Medizin. Vorträge und Ergebnisse des 1.–5. Treffens 2002–2007. Göttinger Miszellen Beihefte 2 (Göttingen): 47–55. Leitz, Chr. 1999. Magical and Medical Papyri of the New Kingdom. Hieratic Papyri in the British Museum 7. British Museum Press: London. Lesko, L. H. 1999. Some Further Thoughts on Chapter 162 of the Book of the Dead, in: E. Teeter, J. A. Larson (eds.), Gold of Praise. Studies on Ancient Egypt in Honor of Edward F. Wente. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilisations 58: 255–259. The Oriental Institute, Chicago: Chicago. ——. 2003. Nubian Influence on the Later Versions of the Book of the Dead. In Z. Hawass (ed.), Egyptology at the Dawn of the Twenty-First Century. Proceedings of

324

joachim friedrich quack

the Eighth International Congress of Egyptologists Cairo, 200, Volume 1, Archeology, pp. 314–318. The American University in Cairo Press: Cairo. Nims, Ch. F. & Steiner, R. C. 1983. A Paganized Version of Psalm 20: 2–6 from the Aramaic Text in Demotic Script. Journal of the American Oriental Society 103: 261–274. Peust, C. 1999. Egyptian Phonology. An Introduction to the Phonology of a Dead Language. Monographien zur ägyptischen Sprache 2. Peust & Gutschmidt Verlag: Göttingen. Porten, B. & Yardeni, A. 1999. Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt Newly Copied, Edited and Translated into Hebrew and English, 4. Ostraca & Assorted Inscriptions. The Hebrew University: Jerusalem. Quack, J. F. 1998. Review of M. Bommas, Die Heidelberger Fragmente des magischen Papyrus Harris. Archiv für Papyrusforschung 44: 310–312. ——. 2001. Ein Standardhymnus zum Sistrumspiel auf einem demotischen Ostrakon (Ostrakon Corteggiani D 1). Enchoria 27: 101–119, pl. 4. ——. 2004a. Griechische und andere Dämonen in den demotischen magischen Texten. In Th. Schneider (Hrsg.), Das Ägyptische und die Sprachen Vorderasiens, Nordafrikas und der Ägäis. Akten des Basler Kolloquiums zum ägyptisch-nichtsemitischen Sprachkontakt Basel 9.–11. Juli 2003, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 310, pp. 427–507. Ugarit-Verlag: Münster. ——. 2004b. Review of Vittmann 2003. Journal of the American Oriental Society 124: 360–361. Ritner, R. K. 1986. Gleanings from Magical Texts. Enchoria 14: 95–106. Schneider, Th. 1989. Mag. p. Harris XII, 1–5. Eine kanaanäische Beschwörung für die Löwenjagd? Göttinger Miszellen 112: 53–63. Shisha-Halevy, A. 1978. An Early North-West Semitic Text in the Egyptian Hieroglyphic Script. Orientalia 47: 145–162. Smith, M. 1993. New Middle Egyptian Texts in Demotic Script. Sesto Congresso internazionale di Egittologia, Atti, volume II: 491–495. Turin. ——. 1977. A New Version of a Well-Known Egyptian Hymn. Enchoria 7: 115–149, pl. 18. ——. 1999. O. Hess = O. Naville = O BM 50601: An Elusive Text Relocated, in Teeter, E. & Larson, J. A. (eds.), Gold of Praise, Studies on Ancient Egypt in Honor of Edward F. Wente. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilisations 58: 397–404. The University of Chicago Press : Chicago. Stadler, M. A. 2005. Das Ritual, den Tempel des Sobek, des Herrn von Pai, zu betreten. Ein Ritualtext aus dem römischen Fayum. In B. Dücker, H. Roeder (eds.), Text und Ritual. Kulturwissenschaftliche Essays und Analysen von Sesostris bis Dada, pp. 149–163. Synchron: Heidelberg. Steiner, R. C. 1991: The Aramaic Text in Demotic Script: The Liturgy of a New Year’s Festival Imported from Bethel to Syene by Exiles from Rash. Journal of the American Oriental Society 111: 362–363. ——. 1992. Northwest Semitic Incantations in an Egyptian Medical Papyrus. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 51: 191–200. ——. 2001. The Scorpion Spell from Wadi Oammamat: Another Aramaic Text in Demotic Script. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 60: 259–268. ——. 2007. http://hebrew-academy.huji.ac.il/PDF/steiner.pdf. Steiner, R. C. & Nims, Ch. F. 1984. You Can’t Offer Your Sacrifice and Eat It Too: A Polemical Poem from the Aramaic Text in Demotic Script. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 43: 89–114. ——. 1985. Ashurbanipal and Shamash-shum-ukin: A Tale of Two Brothers from the Aramaic Text in Demotic Script. Revue Biblique 92: 60–81. Thissen, H.-J. 1991. Nubien in demotischen magischen Texten. In D. Mendel, U. Claudi (eds.), Ägypten im afro-asiatischen Kontext. Aufsätze zur Archäologie, Geschichte

egyptian writing for non-egyptian languages

325

und Sprache eines unbegrenzten Raumes, pp. 369–376. Gedenkschrift Peter Behrens. Institut für Afrikanistik, Universität zu Köln: Cologne. Vernus, P. 1984. Vestiges de langues chamito-sémitiques dans les sources égyptiennes méconnues. In J. Bynon (ed.), Current Progress in Afro-Asiatic Linguistics. Papers of the Third International Hamito-Semitic Congress. Amsterdam Studies in the Theory and History of Linguistic Science, Series IV – Current Issues in Linguistic Theory 28: 477–481. Benjamins: Amsterdam, Philadelphia. Vittmann, G. 1984. Ein Zauberspruch gegen Skorpione im Wadi Hammamat. In H.-J. Thissen, K. Th. Zauzich (eds.), Grammata demotica. Festschrift für Erich Lüddeckens zum 15, Juni 1983. Gisela Zauzich Verlag: Würzburg. ——. 1989. Zum Verständnis des demotischen Zauberspruchs im Wadi Hammamat. Discussions in Egyptology 13: 73–78. ——. 2003. Ägypten und die Fremden im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrhundert. Kulturgeschichte der antiken Welt 97. Philipp von Zabern: Mainz. Vleeming, S. 1990. Translitterating Old Egyptian in Demotic, Göttinger Miszellen 117/118: 219–223. Vleeming, S. P. 2004. A Hieroglyphic-Demotic Stela from Akhmim. In Hoffmann, F. & Thissen, H. J. (eds.), Res severa verum gaudium. Festschrift für Karl-Theodor Zauzich zum 65. Geburtstag am 8. Juni 2004. Studia Demotica 6: 623–637, pl. 58. Peeters: Leuven/Paris/Dudley, MA. Vleeming, S. P. & Wesselius, J. W. 1982. An Aramaic Hymn from the Fourth Century bc. Bibliotheca Orientalis 39, col. 501–509. ——. 1983–1984. Betel the Saviour. JEOL 28: 110–140. ——. 1985. Studies in Papyrus Amherst 63. Essays on the Aramaic Texts in Aramaic/ Demotic Papyrus Amherst 63. Volume I. Juda Palache Instituut: Amsterdam. ——. 1990. Studies in Papyrus Amherst 63. Essays on the Aramaic Texts in Aramaic/ Demotic Papyrus Amherst 63. Volume 2. Juda Palache Instituut: Amsterdam. Widmer, G. 1998. Un papyrus réligieux du Fayoum: P. Berlin 6750. Bulletin de la société d’égyptologie de Genève 22: 83–91. ——. 2004. Une invocation à la déesse (tablette démotique Louvre E 10382). In Hoffmann, F. & Thissen, H. J. (eds.), Res severa verum gaudium. Festschrift für KarlTheodor Zauzich zum 65. Geburtstag am 8. Juni 2004, Studia Demotica 6: 651–686, pl. 51. Peeters: Leuven/Paris/Dudley, MA. Yoyotte, J. 1977. Contribution à l’histoire du chapitre 162 du libre des morts. Revue d’égyptologie 29: 194–202. Zauzich, K.-Th. 1985. Abrakadabra oder Ägyptisch? Versuch über einen Zauberspruch. Enchoria 13: 119–132. Zibelius-Chen, K. 2005. Die nicht ägyptischsprachigen Lexeme und Syntagmen in den chapitres supplémentaires und Sprüchen ohne Parallelen des Totenbuches. Lingua Aegyptia 13: 181–224.

THE CAROLINE ISLANDS SCRIPT: A LINGUISTIC CONFRONTATION Alex de Voogt The Caroline Islands are located in the Federated States of Micronesia in the western Pacific Ocean. According to Sohn (1975), the Caroline Islands refer to the islands of Woleai Atoll, Ulithi, Fais, Sorol, Eauripik, Faraulep, Ifaluk, Elato, Puluwat, Lamotrek and Satawal. These are also known as the Outer Islands of the Western Carolines. “Outer” specifies their distance from Yap, the center of the traditional hegemony as well as the present administration. Woleaian is spoken with dialectal differences on Woleai, Eauripik, Faraulep, Elato, Lamotrek, Puluwat, Satawal and Ifaluk. It is on this group of islands that the Caroline Islands script was found. For reasons of convenience Riesenberg & Kaneshiro’s (1960) term ‘Caroline Islands script’ is used and the islands and the language are referred to as the Woleai group and the Woleai language. In 1975, there were approximately 1,500 speakers of Woleai on the various islands. Similar to Trukese and Ulithian, the language can be classified as a member of the Trukic subgroup of the Micronesian group of the Oceanic branch of the Austronesian language family. The invention of the Caroline Islands script at the beginning of the twentieth century and the subsequent dismissal of the script by linguists in the latter half of that century illustrate a conflicting view on the usefulness of this script that was dominated by linguists rather than the users of the script. Linguists have contrasted the script to a phoneme inventory but their conclusions depended on the adequacy of the phonological analysis that they provided. In 1909 the Hamburg Südsee Expedition visited Woleai. Their ethnographic work was not published until 1929 and later – so late, that one of the principal ethnographers, Sarfert, had died just before the 1938 publication of his work. Damm & Sarfert (1935) describe examples of the script from both Ifaluk and Faraulep. During a brief visit shortly after the Hamburg expedition, Brown (1914) collected a series of characters but, according to Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 276), he did not collect the complete set. Few others

Figure 1. Map of the Caroline Islands. Encircled is the Woleai group, where the Caroline Islands script was found.

328 alex de voogt

the caroline islands script

329

Figure 2. Examples of the Caroline Islands script (Brown 1914).

have commented on the script. Imbelloni (1951: 164) and Barthel (1971) speak of a possible link between the undeciphered Easter Island script and the Caroline Islands script. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro mention a Japanese scholar, Someki, who visited the islands. He recorded thirtyeight characters collected from different islands. There are two sets of characters. The origin of the two sets of symbols form an important part of Riesenberg & Kaneshiro’s research. Type 1 and Type 2 Type 1 and type 2 are the names for two sets of symbols making up the Caroline Islands script. From 1954 to 1957, Riesenberg & Kaneshiro conducted fieldwork and obtained a list of the symbols. They also

330

alex de voogt

Figure 3. Example of a text written in the Caroline Islands syllabary. (Riesenberg & Kaneshiro 1960).

collected inscriptions on canoes, houses, and on people (as tattoos). Type 1 (see figure 5: only the first 26 are shown) bears little resemblance to any other script (including the Easter Island script). Type 2 (see figure 4) appears to derive from an European source, since it resembles Roman alphabet characters. The two types are complementary and together form the script used in the Caroline Islands. The symbols represent syllables, as Brown discovered in 1914. He also found that the names for the individual symbols are equivalent to their sound value. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 282) found 78 characters of type 1 and 19 of type 2. They state that this was a system of writing that was developed some time before 1909. The difference between the two types was pointed out to them by indigenous informants. In their research, Riesenberg & Kaneshiro translated this distinction into a type 1 and a type 2 script. They reconstructed the history of type 2 symbols and found that all type 2 symbols ended in an -i. They attributed this to the introduction of an alphabet whereby the names of the symbols were taken as their syllabic sound value. The islanders learned the alphabet by using the names for the letter symbols. These names then became the values of the symbols, i.e., a consonant and a vowel -i, or a vowel on its own.

the caroline islands script

331

The number of inhabitants who knew how to write the script in the 1950s was minimal. On Faraulep, Woleai, and Ifaluk, there were a few old people who knew the script; on Elato and Satawal, the last experts had died. According to Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 277), there is evidence that in 1909 both types of symbols were known on Woleai, Faraulep, Puluwat and possibly Satawal. In 1934, when Someki visited, both systems were known on Ifaluk and Elato as well. But, as suggested by the number of persons able to write in the 1950s, knowledge of the script was in decline. The knowledge of the script was distributed over a distance of three hundred miles between several islands. There is little evidence that European traders or missionaries frequented those islands, so Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 284) assumed that the islanders themselves were more active agents in the dispersal of the script at that time than were traders, explorers, or missionaries. Type 2 script appears to be an adaptation of the alphabet created by the missionary Logan, who, in 1878, was assigned by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions to write religious texts in the Trukese language. H. Damm (1935) suggested that a missionary from Truk, who had been shipwrecked on Eauripik, was instrumental in transferrring the Trukese alphabet to Woleaian, which then became the source of the type 2 script. Various stories were collected that spoke about a missionary shipwrecked with his companions who taught the Trukese alphabet to the people of Eauripik and later Woleai. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 288–289) identified this missionary as Alfred Snelling, a missionary in Truk at the beginning of 1888. He had been lost at sea in 1905 and happened upon Eauripik, after which a Woleaian chief brought him to Woleai. One surviving companion, Airas, later confirmed this story to Frank Mahoney, the district anthropologist in Truk in the 1950s. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro compared the alphabet of Trukese with the type 2 writing of the Woleai group. Logan’s alphabet appeared to be close enough to the type 2 to conclude that the Truk area must have been the source. Airas, Snelling’s companion, also pronounced the consonant letters with i-endings in later interviews with Frank Mahoney. Type 1 writing (see figure 4) was then developed after the syllables with endings in -i were found to be insufficient. This development occurred in the course of teaching type 2 to other people by the islanders. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro suggest a sequence of inventions, because

332

alex de voogt

Figure 4. Type 2 script (Riesenberg & Kaneshiro 1960).

they found symbol variations. The characters of type 1 appeared to have a certain order, but, after the first fifty syllable symbols, more variation in this order was found among the users than at the beginning, which suggests a later invention of characters at the end of the order. Confusingly, the two types of script are named 1 and 2 by Riesenberg & Kaneshiro although their chronological order would suggest the opposite. Type 1 symbols have values with vowels other than ‘i’. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro’s informants agreed that type 1 was invented in Faraulep. They even called it the “Faraulep writing”. Their statements suggest that the script was learned through correspondence between islands. Even people who did not master the script recognized it as the script from Faraulep. It is said to have been invented after “the big typhoon”. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro reconstruct this date to 1907, so that the invention must have taken place between 1907 and 1909 when the Hamburg expedition found the writing on various islands.

the caroline islands script

333

Figure 5. Example of type 1 script (Riesenberg & Kaneshiro 1960).

The values of the type 1 characters are the same as, or close to, the names of the objects they represent. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 297) had their informants identify the characters and they appeared to be parts of canoes, certain fish, body parts, et cetera. In sum, the Caroline Islands script as it was used by the Caroline Islanders, seems to have developed after 1907 (from a type 2 script) and then developed further into a syllabary on Faraulep (a combination of type 1 and 2). Frequent communication between the islands allowed the script to spread to many of the islands in the Woleai group. However, the script was already in decline in the 1950s.

334

alex de voogt Linguists and the Script

In their analysis of the Caroline Islands script, Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 299) considered phonemes and phonemic combinations. Based on Smith’s (1951) orthography of the Woleai language, they assumed that Woleaian had fifty phonemes, of which there were twenty-four vowels – eleven long and thirteen short. There were also two semivowels, ‘w’ and ‘y’, and twenty-four consonants. The official orthography by Smith was at that time proposed to the Trust Territory administration. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro used this orthography in the remainder of their study. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro found 97 characters in the Caroline Islands script (78 of type 1 and 19 of type 2). All of them have consonant + vowel, semivowel + vowel or vowel values. According to Riesenberg & Kaneshiro, Smith’s phonemic analysis indicates that there is a theoretical possibility of 24 × 26 = 624 syllables of consonant and vowel and an extra twenty-four vowels as independent syllables. In their sample of 301 words written in the script, only 175 syllables occurred with a projected maximum of 250, or 300 if larger texts would have been used. The phonemes ‘d’ and ‘ngh’ in Smith’s orthography do not occur in the syllabary in initial position at all and some consonants (ch, j, n, rw, th, z) have only one or two entries. The total number of possible syllables was probably even smaller, since the distinction between long and short vowels did not seem to be necessary, its opposition indeed being very infrequent. Long vowels occur infrequently (Sohn, personal communication) and no characters were needed to represent them. In this arrangement, only 338 syllables and thirteen vowels as independent syllables can occur. In addition, most characters representing vowels also represented the semi-vowel + vowel combination (10 out of 13). Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 303) stated that there is considerable variation and that it is obvious that the system is inadequate for truly phonemic representation (in Smith’s phoneme system). They found that many of the 97 characters must serve for several combinations. There is an overall lack of exact correspondence between characters and syllables. Not only must one symbol serve for several different syllables, but also some syllables may be represented by different symbols. They found that where it is necessary to represent a sound not represented in the script, the choice has to be made between two or more sym-

the caroline islands script

335

bols whose attributed values are closest phonologically (Riesenberg & Kaneshiro 1960: 304). Riesenberg & Kaneshiro admit it is possible that they misheard some of the tape-recorded values. Other inaccurate correspondence might be due to dialect differences. For instance, ‘a’ and ‘aa’ in Smith’s orthography are separate phonemes on Woleai and Faraulep (Smith 1951: 40) and on Eauripik (Rehg, personal communication). Sometimes informants used more syllables for a word than Smith recorded, which tends to support dialect differences (Riesenberg & Kaneshiro 1960: 304). There is consistency for the choice of end-consonants. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro suggest that when the script was invented, a weaklypronounced vowel might have been present, as in some other MalayoPolynesian languages, so that the character whose full syllabic value includes the vowel sound was formerly terminal. Sohn (1975: 18–22) confirmed that there are voiceless end-vowels, which supports Riesenberg & Kaneshiro’s theory. Perhaps, as a second option, the informants anticipated vowels which appear only when additional syllables are suffixed to the same word. Although they present a series of explanations for the consistencies in the script Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 307) did not find a clear rule. In the last part of their study, they compare two texts written by two informants. Riesenberg & Kaneshito conclude that there is freedom in expression and preference when choosing between one symbol or another. Within a single individual’s writing, however, there is much consistency. Smith’s Orthography Smith (1951) designed the first official orthography of the Woleaian language. His work on Woleaian for the United States Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands extended to other islands of the territory as well. Smith designed an orthography, which was adapted for use by Riesenberg & Kaneshiro, without diacritical marks (see Table 1). Smith (1951) introduced fifty phonemes for the Woleaian language with single phonemes represented by more than one symbol in more than half of the proposed alphabet. In contrast, the syllabary represents different combinations of phonemes with the same symbol. To solve this ambiguity in the script, readers have to rely on the context of the written words. This context is created by Smith, who introduces one or two additional symbols that always accompany the first symbol to

336

alex de voogt

distinguish it from other phonemes. The letter ‘o’ is used for ‘o’ but also for the long vowel ‘oh’ and for the vowel ‘oa’ and its long variant ‘oah’ (see Table 1). Adequacy and efficiency of such an orthography becomes, therefore, difficult to assess since different techniques create different problems. The syllabary has symbols representing different sounds, the alphabet has letters used in different letter combinations to represent different sounds. They both depend on the context of the symbols that should prevent ambiguity. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 299) offer the following opinion about Smith’s orthography: Smith’s published work is non-technical in language, and his phonemes were established by means of minimal pairs. The values indicated below are, in Smith’s words, “only a meager approximation indeed.” For this reason we are not satisfied that our transcription in his orthography of the attributed values of the various characters in figs. 25 and 26 is always accurate.

Sohn’s Orthography Sohn’s orthographic design for Woleaian was developed for a grammar and dictionary of the language, the first of their kind. In 1984 Sohn suggested improvements to this orthography and pointed out considerable differences from Smith’s orthography (see Table 2). He states (1984: 217): The spelling proposed by Smith (1951), which is an alphabetic writing, is an example of an orthography based on a poorly analyzed sound system, in which Smith sets up too many letters and poor spelling conventions.

If Sohn’s analysis of the Woleai language had been taken into account, a different evaluation of the Caroline Islands script would have emerged than the one put forward by Riesenberg & Kaneshiro. First, lengthening is not represented for all vowels in Sohn’s list. Lengthening is also an infrequent opposition in the transcribed texts of Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960). It appears that the Woleaians can do without length-representation in their spelling (Sohn, personal communication). Second, semivowels are predictable in most environments (Sohn 1984: 215) and do not always need to be represented by a symbol. The Caroline Islander script has been criticized for variation in symbol values and dismissed for its inadequacy by Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960: 311). Smith’s orthography of the Woleaian language

the caroline islands script

337

shows so many inaccurate transcriptions of the Caroline Islands script, and contains so many superfluous letters and poor spelling conventions that a comparison between the Caroline Islands script and Smith’s orthography does not warrant a dismissal of the script. One may add that the syllabary never developed into a standard form and as a consequence, different writers of the syllabary solved spelling problems in different ways. This does not, however, represent any obstacle for a writing system. Other syllabaries have functioned quite satisfactorily with such a system. This flexibility of the script also allowed dialect differences (Woleai, Faraulep, etc.) to be represented by the script (Riesenberg & Kaneshiro 1960: 304). Finally, consistency was found when writers had to decide on the end-consonant and individual writers were consistent within their own writing, suggesting a writing system that was both appropriated by the speakers of the language and served the local needs for writing. Was the research of Riesenberg & Kaneshiro to be repeated and a comparison with a more accurate orthography made, then Sohn’s orthography proposal would be more appropriate for such a purpose. But Sohn made a new proposal and dismissed the syllabary without making a new comparison. His arguments, presented in a paper published a decade after the publication of the Woleaian-English dictionary and reference grammar, have a different background. Sohn (1984) argued that syllabaries and ideographies are inadequate for languages, especially those with a complicated syllable structure. These writing systems need too many symbols in order to represent a language systematically. In Sohn’s view, only systematic writing systems should be developed, because this makes it easier for outsiders to learn and to investigate the language. Sohn (1984: 216) stated that “syllabaries are adequate only in such a language as Japanese where there are a relatively small number of different syllables.” Sohn adds: “wol [Woleai] has a syllable structure as simple as Japanese, but has many more vowels and consonants. This fact makes it disadvantageous for Woleaians to have a syllabary.” The Caroline Islands script was, by (Sohn’s) definition, inadequate. Similar conclusions could be drawn for most scripts found elsewhere in this publication. DeFrancis (1989: 231) stated that in the case of Japanese “there are 105 or 113 syllables and 46 syllabic symbols to represent them. The 46 symbols are juggled around in various well known ways so as to handle all of the syllables, in somewhat the same way that we combine

338

alex de voogt

‘t’ and ‘h’ to represent the sounds in ‘this’ and ‘thin’.” Thus, not even the Japanese represented all the possible syllables in their language. It is interesting to note that with a phonemic spelling as proposed by Sohn, and disregarding vowel length and geminated consonants, the total of possible (open) syllables in Woleaian is just 15 × 8 = 120 and 8 syllables for single vowels. This number is rather close to that of the Japanese language. Apparently, the ‘indigenous’ writers of various languages of ancient and modern times were and are not much concerned with the particular features of syllabaries that Sohn finds so inadequate. Though Sohn set criteria of strict sound-letter correspondence for an ideal alphabetical system, he admitted that the present orthography for the English language fails to pass these criteria. To this, the majority of writing systems can be added, since languages change over time. As soon as a writing system is standardized, which, according to Sohn, is done easily with a strict sound-letter correspondence, further changes in the language become difficult to be represented in the orthography. Although Sohn’s analyses are insightful linguistically, his orthography proposal has a number of rules and spelling conventions that complicate the Woleaian orthography if they are implemented. According to Sohn (1984: 223), there are five consonants that do not have corresponding double consonants. These consonants are doubled for grammatical purposes. Sohn (1984: 222) states that, for example, “doubled |x| becomes |kk|, doubled |s| and |r| become |cc|, and doubled |l| becomes |nn|, …” Instead of introducing more consonants, Sohn provided a small list of exceptions with their representation. In a subsequent paragraph, Sohn (1984: 223) stated, that “with the deletion of i, the consonants l and s are collapsed to |cc|. In the same way, l + r = |cc|, l + t = |tt|, and l + s = |ss|. These alternations are phonologically instead of grammatically conditioned.” Vowels have even more extensive phoneme alternations, according to Sohn (1984: 223). For instance, the word that means ‘name’ is phonemically represented in three different ways, |iite|, |ite|, and |ita|. Sohn lists five different environments that are involved in determining the right representation. Here Sohn (1984: 223) makes a strong argument for using a base form. “Since the different realizations of the word ‘name’ are due to sound environments such as neighboring vowels, the word boundary, and the presence or absence of a modifying word, we can easily imagine that there is a base form in terms of their sound environments . . . [The different realizations of the word ‘name’] are derivable from the base form . . . by means of a few general phonological rules.”

the caroline islands script

339

Sohn (1984: 228) proposed three alternatives for an adequate orthography (1984: 229): a. Phonetic spelling, where words are written in letters corresponding to their actual pronunciation. Many sound alternations may, however, be predicted from the sound environment. Therefore, this alternative should be dismissed, according to Sohn. b. Phonemic spelling, where words are written according to their phonemic representation (that is, according to the proposed list of alphabetic symbols). c. Base form spelling. Sohn (1984: 229) stated: “As we have seen, base forms of words are set up by reducing any sounds caused by environments to their source sounds, that is, to those sounds which would be pronounced if no sound environment were present.” Option (b) is closer to the phonetic spelling, but option (c) gives less variation of the spelling of a morpheme. Sohn’s appendix (1984: 233–234) lists spelling conventions following the general recommendations of the Yap outer Islands Orthography Committee (Kuroiwa 1973). He stated: “Almost all native speakers seem to prefer tradition and convenience to linguistic simplicity and clarity, at least at this stage of linguistic sophistication . . . This is understandable when we take into account the popular notion that writing systems are only for those who know the language.” He concluded that the spelling conventions they adopted are not those of the base form spelling, but a more phonemic spelling; i.e., the spelling adopted in the dictionary (Sohn 1975) and reference grammar of Woleaian (Sohn & Tawerilmang 1976). In order to reach a strict sound-letter correspondence or a base form spelling, Sohn had to introduce a number of rules that make the spelling hardly more convenient than the Caroline Islands script, especially for the beginning writer, student and outsider for whom he thought an orthography should be designed. The Caroline Islands Script Between 1907 and 1909 the idea of writing introduced by outsiders was adapted and developed into a syllabary by the islanders of the Woleai group for writing their own language. The script did not receive serious

340

alex de voogt

attention until 1960, when Riesenberg & Kaneshiro described and analyzed the script using the few writers left on the islands. They used the official and the only available orthography at that time by Smith to transcribe the syllabary symbols. Riesenberg & Kaneshiro (1960) stated that the Caroline Islands script was used for personal correspondence, a catechism, records of chants and magical formulae, accounts of travel and even for some government orders. The Caroline Islanders also used the script in tattoos and decorations of boats and houses. The wide use of this script suggests that it was appropriated by the indigenous people. Even though Riesenberg & Kaneshiro were aware of the different uses of the script, they did not appreciate the fact that these uses justified the existence of the script. If the script served such a variety of purposes, then there was and is no reason to replace it. New linguistic research in the 1970s by Sohn and Tawerilmang made clear, however, that Smith’s orthography was a poor one. The number of letters and possible syllables of the language was much lower than Riesenberg & Kaneshiro had assumed. The script appeared to have been unjustly dismissed as an inadequate orthography. Sohn (1984) suggested that the Caroline Islands script posed several learning and research difficulties. When the Trust territory of the Pacific Islands replaced the indigenous writing with an alphabet for the Woleaian language, this appeared to serve only the purposes of the outsiders. Sohn also dismissed the script, but not based on a new transcription of the syllable signs with his own phonemic analysis, but on general principles of adequacy and practicality. Since he did not make a new comparison, he overlooked the fact that his arguments did not apply to the Woleaian case. Linguistic analyses had the possibility of assisting in the improvement of the Caroline Islands script, instead they left it no future. References Barthel, Thomas S. 1971. Pre-contact writing in Oceania. In Current trends in linguistics 8: 1175–1187. The Hague: Mouton. Brown, J. MacMillan. 1914. A new Pacific Ocean script. man 14: 89–91. Damm, H. & E. Sarfert 1935. Inseln um Truk. In G. Thilenius (ed.), Ergebnisse der Südsee–Expedition, Band 2, 6:2. DeFrancis, John 1989. Visible speech: the diverse oneness of writing systems. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

the caroline islands script

341

Imbelloni, José 1951. Las “Tabletas parlantas” de Pascua, monumentos de un sistema gráfico indo-oceánico. Runa 4: 89–177. Buenos Aires. Riesenberg, S.H. & S. Kaneshiro. 1960. A Caroline Islands Script. In Anthropological Papers, No. 60. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington. Smith, Alfred G. 1951. Guide to Woleaian spelling. Saipan: Department of Education, Trust Territory government. (Woleaian version published as Gamwoelhaelhi ishilh Weleeya. Honolulu: Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands, Department of Education) Sohn, Ho-Min & Anthony F. Tawerilmang 1976. Woleaian-English Dictionary. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Sohn, Ho-Min. 1975. Woleaian reference grammar. Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. ——. 1984. An orthographic design for Woleaian. In Studies in Micronesian linguistics, Byron W. Bender (ed.). Pacific linguistics, C–80: 215–236. Tawerilmang, Anthony F. 1982. A study of Woleaian grammar for the bilingual education program in Woleai. University of Hawaii. Voogt, Alexander J. de 1993. The Caroline Islands Script. ma-thesis, Pacific Island Studies, University of Hawaii, Honolulu. Ann Arbor, Michigan: umi.

342

alex de voogt Table 1. Smith’s ‘phoneme’ inventory

a ah aa aah ae aeh e ee eeh i ih ii o oh oa oah oe oeh u uh uu uuh v vh w y b c g d

father ch choose fa–ther f aloof fat j (a strong “h”) fa–t k kid fed l bottle (Brooklynese) fe–d lh balle (French) father m some safe mw someway sa–fe n man sea nh manikin sea– ng sing sit ngh singer oak p up oa–k r “Brritish” (trill “r”) off rw Irwin (trill “r”) o–ff s sow hors d’oevres sh show hors d’oe–vres t pat boot th pit–e–pat boo–t z adze Nürnberg Hyphen (–) used for on–glides or escrescent Nü–rnberg vowels in reduplicatives (like “oe” but with the tip of tongue curved up and back) wood yes upward juice Bach bad

the caroline islands script

343

Table 2. Sohn’s and Smith’s orthography. This table presents a comparison between two Woleaian orthographies. Although, the comparison is speculative, it illustrates the strong differences between the two. Consonants

Vowels

Sohn:

Smith:

Sohn:

Smith:

p pp t tt ch k p bb f ff s ss sh l r m mm mw mmw n ng nng – g – – – – – – y w

p – t th (?) ch k b – f – s – sh l – m – mw – n ng ngh c g d j lh nh rw z y w

i ii e ee a aa iu eo u uu o oo oa – – – – – – – – – –

i ih ae (?) aeh (?) a ah uu oe u uh o oh oa aa aah ee eeh ii oah oeh uuh v vh

(?) – extra speculative

THE INTERACTION OF SYLLABIC AND ALPHABETIC CUNEIFORM WRITING IN UGARIT Wilfred H. van Soldt Introduction The ancient city of Ugarit was located ca. 10 km north of the Syrian city Latakiah (classical Laodicea) on the Mediterranean coast. It was the capital of a small city-state of which the borders coincided with natural barriers in the north and west (see map). Only in the south was the border less clearly defined and there it had to be determined by political means. The city was an important trading center and lay on the crossroads of the main overland route from north to south (Egypt to Hatti v.v.) and the main route from west to east (Cyprus to the Euphrates region v.v.). The rich archaeological finds attest to the wealth that this trade generated and the advantageous position and the profits of the city did not go unnoticed. The great powers of the period, Hatti, Egypt and Mittani, all tried to incorporate this small city-state into their empires and to exploit its material wealth for their own purposes. Until ca. 1330 bc Ugarit had been part of the territory controlled by Egypt, but around that date it became part of the Hittite empire. It is only after Ugarit came under Hittite control that writing is attested in the city on a large scale. Although the earliest traces of occupation on this spot go back as far as the middle of the seventh millennium and the site knew more or less continuous occupation there is no trace of scribal activity in the city itself before the last phase of the Late Bronze Age (ca. 1330–1180), even during the second millennium bc. The only exceptions are a few letters written at Ugarit around 1350 and found in Egypt, but at that time there was apparently no local bureaucracy. Of course, the lack of texts could be due to the fortuitous results of excavation but at least from the late second millennium there seems to be enough evidence to rule out mere chance (although a detailed study of earlier layers could change this view). The beginning of Hittite rule and the (re-)introduction of the script are probably connected. Parallels in other Syrian cities (Alalakh, Qatna, Emar) suggest that smaller city-states were able to manage their administrative

346

wilfred h. van soldt

the interaction of syllabic and alphabetic scripts

347

affairs basically without literacy. Empires like Hatti, on the other hand, show a continuous use of writing from the seventeenth century bc and when smaller local centers were added to their sphere of influence the formal relationship was not only sealed by a treaty in which the rights and obligations towards their overlord were stipulated but they also became part of the imperial bureaucracy. The reasons for this are not difficult to understand. First, the Hittite king and his viceroy in Carchemish on the Euphrates exchanged letters with the vassals on a regular basis, which needed to be answered, for not answering meant risking the wrath of the king. Secondly the empire imposed payment of tribute on its vassals and the best way to exercise control over this was through a local bureaucracy. Taxation texts from Ugarit show how this tribute was exacted from all the professional groups and towns of the city-state. The script that was used in the city in the fourteenth century was the Babylonian cuneiform script, in which the Mesopotamian languages of Sumerian and Akkadian and the Hittite language in Anatolia were written. Importantly, however, the script was probably not borrowed directly from Mesopotamia. Until ca. 1340 the empire of Mittani ruled over North Mesopotamia and local scribes trained there were among the ones who brought the script to the west of Syria, as can be shown by interference phenomena in the earliest texts written at Ugarit. The language of Mittani was Hurrian, a language totally unrelated to either Akkadian or Hittite and closer in structure to the Caucasian languages. After Mittani had disappeared around 1340 Mesopotamian scribes could come to Ugarit directly and the script and the language changed accordingly over time (Van Soldt 1991: 519f ). Towards 1200 bc there was an Assyrian scribe working in the archive of the šatammu rabû, the “chief administrator”. At the same time some texts also testify to the possible activity of scribes from Hatti in the city.1 The Cuneiform Script When the Mesopotamian script was introduced in Syria it had already seen a long development. Originally, the script was devised for the linguistically isolated Sumerian language (around 3000 bc), but from

1

See Neu, in Dietrich-Loretz (1995: 115f ).

348

wilfred h. van soldt

the middle of the third millennium we also find an increasing amount of documents in Akkadian, the Semitic language of Mesopotamia. After 2000 bc, when Sumerian had become extinct as a spoken language, Akkadian can be divided into two main dialects, Assyrian in the north and Babylonian in the south. However, Babylonia and its dialect remained the prime focus of Mesopotamian culture throughout its history. Originally the script was used for Sumerian only and the signs were to be read as Sumerian. For example, a picture of a foot could to be read gub meaning “to stand”. But it could also be read as du meaning “to go”. However, these values could also be used as syllables in words that needed to be spelled phonetically. For example, the sign E could be read as the word e meaning “dike”, but it was also used as the grammatical element -e. When the Akkadians started to use the script for their own language they primarily used the signs for their syllabic values and less frequently as word-signs. Nevertheless, the originally Sumerian word-signs remained an important element in cuneiform writing and we now usually refer to word-signs as logograms or ideograms and to syllabic signs as syllabograms. The logograms can also be used as semantic indicators (so-called determinatives), for example to determine the category of the word that precedes or follows it (like giš, “wood”), while the syllabograms can be used as phonetic indicators (so-called phonetic complements) which help to determine the correct reading of a word, especially when a word-sign is used. Examples of a semantic indicator are gišná, “(wooden) bed” (written before a logogram) and gišgu.za, “(wooden) chair” (preceding a Sumerian(?) word spelled with syllabograms). An example of a phonetic indicator is GUB-az, to be read as Akkadian izzaz, “he stands” (logograms in Akkadian words are usually spelled with capitals). Akkadian Texts at Ugarit The language that was written with the Mesopotamian cuneiform script in Syria was a form of Babylonian that was influenced by the teachers who taught the script and the language(s) as well as by their students. Only a few of the teachers and none of the students were native speakers of Akkadian. With this script and this language the scribes conducted the correspondence with the outside world, first of all with the Hittite king and his viceroy in Carchemish, but also with

the interaction of syllabic and alphabetic scripts

349

the other vassals in Syria and elsewhere, for example, with Cyprus. In the local bureaucracy Akkadian was used for juridical documents and administrative records. It was probably the use of the Mesopotamian cuneiform script that prompted an important invention in the city of Ugarit, an alphabetic script written with cuneiform signs. The alphabet used in the city (and a wider area around it) contained thirty signs, 29 of which had phonemic status. The thirtieth was probably used to express an allophone of /s/ and can be seen as a late addition. Three signs are used for a single consonant, the aleph (glottal stop), but they differ in their vowel segment: ʾa, ʾi, ʾu. The alphabet itself is probably an adaptation of an already existing linear script existing in the south (Canaan) where it is attested as early as the middle of the eighteenth century. This new script was first of all used to put the local literature in writing. A number of important literary texts, myths and epics, have been recovered. But the script also played an important role in the local cult, as shown by the many rituals and incantations that have come to light. By gradual steps the alphabetic script also came to be used for texts which had been in the domain of the syllabic Mesopotamian script, and many administrative records and even juridical documents were drawn up in this local cuneiform. Most striking is the frequent ‘code-switching’ within the texts. Scribes could easily change from one script to another and vice versa if they found this more convenient. Thus, many administrative records written in alphabetic script also contain captions in syllabic Akkadian, for example, to write numbers with figures (which occur in the syllabic script) rather than spelled out (as in the alphabetic script). Schooling Learning the Mesopotamian cuneiform script took several years and involved the writing down of school material from dictation (originals from outside Ugarit, which could have been used as Vorlage, have hardly ever been found). In the first phase, the students started with simple lists of syllables and continued with lists of signs, the pronunciation and meaning of which had to be memorized. These lists were didactically arranged with the most difficult texts at the end of the curriculum. Since neither Sumerian nor Akkadian were native languages at Ugarit the scribes sometimes added an extra column to their schoolbook in

350

wilfred h. van soldt

which they presented the words in their own language. An example is the entry for “man”. The first column has the sign with its Sumerian reading, the second the Akkadian translation, the third the translation into Hurrian (probably for the teacher), and the fourth is the Ugaritic column. ZA = amīlu = taršuwanni = bunušu

The first phase,the teaching of so-called lexical texts, was followed by a second phase in which words were practised in context. For this the students wrote literary texts from Mesopotamia as well as rituals and other cultic texts. Naturally, learning the indigenous alphabetic script of just thirty signs was much easier and as a consequence the number of exercises are fewer than those in syllabic script. However, it has recently been suggested that quite a number of the alphabeticallywritten religious and literary texts from Ugarit form as much part of the school curriculum as their syllabic counterparts. For the literary texts this can indeed be shown from the colophons at the end of the tablet, in which the scribe identifies himself as a student. This may be an indication that the scribes took the teaching of the alphabetic script as seriously as that of its syllabic counterpart. The Differences between the Alphabetic and the Syllabic Scripts Unlike the syllabic cuneiform script from Mesopotamia which was able to express both consonants and vowels, the alphabetic script was basically consonantal. It indicated three vowels, but only when they occur as a segment to the already mentioned aleph-signs. The main advantage of the syllabic script was that it indicated all vowels, but its disadvantage was that it could not indicate all the different consonants occurring in Ugaritic. The alphabetic script had a sign for each individual consonant, but ignored the vowels almost completely. Fortunately, both scripts were used in the administration to write Ugaritic words and the different spellings complement one another to give us a more accurate phonological shape of these words. Thus, for example, the word for “slave, servant” appears as ab-du in Mesopotamian cuneiform, but as ʿbd in the local alphabet. A combination of these data leads to ʿabdu, a form identical to the word of the same meaning in Arabic.

the interaction of syllabic and alphabetic scripts

351

Idiosyncratic Use of the Syllabic Script Since probably all professional scribes in Ugarit learned both scripts and used them side-by-side in the same document there is a considerable number of instances where the syllabic script was adjusted to scribal needs. As we have seen, they always learned the Akkadian meaning of the Sumerian logograms, but in daily practice they often skipped the Akkadian and simply used the logograms for their own Ugaritic words. This is most obvious when they wrote terms for professions, for which they used both the logograms and their Ugaritic translations. The Akkadian translations are given below to show that they are different from the corresponding Ugaritic words. In texts these Akkadian translations are hardly ever attested, only those in Ugaritic.2 After the Ugaritic word the spelling in alphabetic cuneiform has been added between brackets. Logogram lú TÚG3 lú SANGA lú MU lú GAR.KUR

Akkadian ašlāku šangû nuḫ atimmu šakin māti

Ugaritic kābisu (kbs) kāhinu (khn) ʾāpiyu (apy) sākinu (skn)

Translation “fuller, washer” “priest” “baker” “governor”

The same procedure can be found in the many personal and place names in the syllabic texts. Here, too, the logograms serve as a means to write indigenous Ugaritic words, but personal names, of course, could not be translated into Akkadian. The logograms may have been used for their brevity. Note that sometimes rather rare logographic meanings were applied, which the scribes had probably learned during their training. Logogram pd UTU-LUGAL p ia-ku-SIG5-ma uru GEŠTIN-na uru SAG.DU uru SÍG uru ḫu-ri-KA

Akkadian (Šamaš-šarru) (damqu) (karānu) (qaqqadu, rēšu) (šīpātu) (būṣu)

Ugaritic Šapšu-malku (špšmlk) Yaku(n)-naʿma (yknʿm) Yēnā (yny) Raʾšu (riš) Šaʿartu (šʿrt) Ḫ uri-ṣubūʿi (ḫ rṣbʿ)

Translation “Šapšu is king(!)” Yakunaʿma (acc.) “Wine (city)” “Cape” “Wool” “Hyena’s lair”

2 An obvious example is the prevalent use of the Ugaritic word sākinu, although the corresponding Akkadian word šakin māti is also frequently attested in texts written at Ugarit, see van Soldt (2001: 583–4). 3 The semantic indicator lú before a logogram marks it as a profession.

352

wilfred h. van soldt

The underlined elements refer to that part of the name which is spelled with a logogram. The first name is remarkable because of the gender of the second element. In Mesopotamia the Sun (Utu, Šamaš) is masculine, in the Levant (Šapšu, Šamšu, Šemeš) feminine. The second name probably means “The gracious one (truly) exists” (SIG5 and damqu means “good”). It is a personal name that came to be used as a place name. Yakunaʿmu, Yēnā (from yēnu, “wine”)4 and Šaʿartu have been discussed in a recent monograph (van Soldt 2005).5 In particular the equivalent of KA in the last example is quite rare and is in Mesopotamia almost only attested in texts written in the standard literary Akkadian of the first millennium. In the older periods it is attested as a personal name.6 Note that KA is used for a different word in an example discussed below.7 The following examples concern cases in which the syllabic value of the sign as used by the Ugaritic scribe is different from the ones current in Mesopotamia. Sumerogram dan-GIŠ pd U-ṣa-DUGUD uru MI-ḫu uru ZUM-du uru šá-NIR-ba-a

Mesopotamia danniš (–) (ṣíl) (rík) (nir)

Ugarit – Baʿlu-ṣaduqu (bʿlṣdq) Silḫu (slḫ ) Raqdu (rqd) Ṯallurbā (ṯlrby)

Translation “greatly” “Baal is just” “Irrigated area(?)” “Resting place(?)” “Plum (city)??”

As can be seen, the differences are usually rather small and they mainly concern the nature of the vowel or of one of the consonants. The first example is an Akkadian word for which the scribes used a value (níš) that in general rarely occurred in Mesopotamia, but which was widely used in the periphery.8 For the second example, see the discussion in Ugarit-Forschungen 33, 2001, 594f. The syllabic value duqu for the sign DUGUD was not used in Mesopotamian Akkadian.

4 Compare Hebrew yayin, which came into Dutch as jajem, a word for gin in Dutch. 5 For Yakunaʿmu, see pp. 175f., for Yēnā, 25 and 176, and for Šaʿartu, see pp. 44 and 184f. 6 Akkadisches Handwörterbuch s.v. būṣu I. 7 See already van Soldt (1990:324). 8 See von Soden (1991: 30, no. 156). In Mesopotamia this value is mainly attested in texts from the Middle Assyrian period. Note that níš is once attested in a Standard Babylonian text, see Farber (1977: 232, 60’ with commentary on p. 256).

the interaction of syllabic and alphabetic scripts

353

The value síl of the third example goes back to the Akkadian equivalent ṣillu of the Sumerian word spelled GIŠ.MI, “shadow”, which we find written as MI in personal names. The syllabic value raq of the sign ZUM (in Akkadian used for rík) is so far only attested at Ugarit.9 A similar value rakx is attested in the divine name Ninkarrak and in the Akkadian word abarakku (see van Soldt 1991: 268, note 41). The value lurx is confined to the place name Ṯ allurbā (van Soldt 2005: 46f ). There are other examples which show how signs and their meanings can be used for etymological speculations. In a number of cases these spellings served as a bridge between the Akkadian and the Ugaritic words, in other cases they were probably meant to show off the proficiency of the scribe. Sumerogram A.GÀR-ÍD

Mesopotamia ugāru; nāru “field; river” KI-dIŠKUR ašru; Adad “place; Adad” KUR DUGUD-ri (kabtu, Māt “heavy, important”) ŠÁM.TIL(.LA) šīmu gamru “full price” NA4 KA.BI aban gabê Read: aban ga14-bé AL.TIL qati Read: AL.BE

Ugarit Ugar-it

Translation “Field+river”

Gi-Baʿlā (gblʿly)

“Land(?) of Baal”

Kapturi (kptr)

“Crete”

ṣax-mid = ṣamid “it has been transferred (land)” abn ṣrp “alum” abnu ṣurra-pí GUD.Ḫ I.A “it is finished (tablet)” alpē

The first of these examples tries to etymologize the name of the town of Ugarit. It does so by explaining the first part as the Akkadian word ugāru, “(agricultural) land” (written with the logogram A.GÀR) and the second as the Sumerian word íd, “river”, read ít for this occasion. In this way the scribe explained the toponym as a combination of two important topographical features of the city-state of Ugarit (van Soldt 2005: 169). In the second example the scribe tried to find a connection between the Ugaritic element gi in the place name Gi-Baʿlā and the Akkadian word ašru, “place”, by using the sign KI = ašru. However, although this could point to the meaning of gi it is not certain that this element

9

For the various syllabic spellings of the town Raqdu, see van Soldt (2005: 41).

354

wilfred h. van soldt

of the Ugaritic toponym indeed has to be understood as “place” (van Soldt 2005: 171). The third example could be an attempt at an etymology, but this is far from certain. Perhaps the scribe just wanted to use the logogram DUGUD as a syllabogram. For another unusual spelling involving this sign, compare the name Baʿlu-ṣaduqu discussed above. The fourth example is more complicated. The Sumerian expression sa10(ŠÁM).til.la.bi.šè means “for its full price” (Akkadian ana šīmišu gamri) and is abbreviated to the signs ŠÁM.TIL.LA or ŠÁM.TIL. However, in some Akkadian contracts from Ugarit the expression does not refer to the full price, but to the fact that the property has been transferred from one owner to another. In syllabic spellings this word appears as the verb ṣamādu, “to (legally) bind (to)”. Since the sign TIL also has the value mid it is possible that the scribe wanted to create a bridge between the Sumerian expression and the terminology used at Ugarit.10 Such a bridge between the two languages was clearly being constructed in the fifth example, in which the scribe(s) wrote the sign KA (to be understood as ga14) instead of the more appropriate GA. The reason for this was that KA offered a better opportunity for an etymological explanation. In this particular case the word for “alum”, Ugaritic abnu ṣurrapi,11 literally “stone for dyeing”, had to be connected with the Akkadian aban gabê, the etymology of which is unclear. This could be achieved by explaining NA4.KA as ṣurru, “flint”, and taking it as a syllabic constituent of ṣurrapi. The last syllable was supplied by the sign BI (van Soldt 1990: 324). The last example occurs in a colophon to a copy of the lexical schooltext Ḫ arra-ḫ ubullu 3 from the “Maison-aux-tablettes” (van Soldt 1988: 317[t]) in the “Ville Sud”12 of the city. The scribe wanted to write “it (the tablet) is finished”, but instead of the usual AL.TIL (Sumerian til means “to finish”) he wrote the signs GUD.Ḫ I.A, “oxen”. The solution is to be found in its Akkadian counterpart alpū, accusative/genitive alpē, “oxen”.13 The sign TIL also has the value BE and if we read the signs as AL.BE we find the connection that the scribe had in mind: GUD.

10

For a discussion, see van Soldt (1991: 244, note 9). This vocalization is not entirely certain. 12 For its location and contents, see Yon (1997: 105f ) and van Soldt (1991: 182f ). 13 Ugaritic also has the word ʾalpu, “ox”, but its accusative/genetive plural is ʾal(a) pīma. 11

the interaction of syllabic and alphabetic scripts

355

Ḫ I.A => alpē => AL.BE => AL.TIL. Since “oxen” has no meaning in this context, the spelling was probably no more than Spielerei. In the preceding pages I have given a number of examples which show the versatility and inventiveness of the Ugaritic scribes in their use of the Mesopotamian cuneiform script. Our explanations why the scribes spelled words the way they did is mainly possible because of the two different scripts used in the city. In other West-Semitic speaking areas where Western Semitic speakers can be seen to have used Mesopotamian logograms and syllabograms (Emar, the Amarna archive), similar phenomena may have occurred, but they are more difficult to discern because of the dearth of documents in the native language. References Dietrich-Loretz M. 1995. Ugarit. Ein ostmediterranes Kulturzentrum im Alten Orient. Ergebnisse und Perspektiven der Forschung. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Farber, W. 1977. Beschwörungsrituale an Ištar und Dumuzi. Wiesbaden: Steiner. van Soldt, W. H. 1988. The Title ṯʿy. Ugarit-Forschungen 20:313–321. ——. 1990. Fabrics and dyes at Ugarit. Ugarit-Forschungen 22:321–357. ——. 1991. Studies in the Akkadian of Ugarit: dating and grammar. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker. ——. 2001. Studies on the sakinu official (1). The spelling and the office-holders at Ugarit. Ugarit-Forschungen 33:579–599. ——. 2005. The Topography of the City-State of Ugarit. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. von Soden, W. 1991. Akkadisches Syllabar. 4. Auflage. Yon, M. 1997. La cité d’Ougarit: sur le tell de Ras Shamra. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations.

WRITING DANCE Joukje Kolff Dance is, like any performing art, an ephemeral art. However, unlike works of art in music and drama, that are usually preserved in written documents, dance, with relatively few exceptions, can only endure in memory, images, reviews, articles, sometimes in film and, during the last few decades, on video. None of those media is a score in an accepted system of notation that outlines the structure of the piece and the dancers’ movements. While students of music and drama practice and learn about their art form through performing the work of their predecessors, dance students seldom get to perform pieces of repertoire work. This is unfortunate. As a result dancers and their audience know relatively little about their history. Unlike the other performing arts, different interpretations of and responses to a work in modern dance are rare.1 Although many systems of notation have been put forward over the centuries (we know of around 87 [Guest 1989]), dance notation is still sparsely used. I will discuss some possible reasons for this later. First, I will focus on the characteristics of a few systems of dance notation developed for Western Dance since the fifteenth century, finishing with three twentieth century systems: Labanotation, Benesh and EshkolWachmann. I am particularly able to expand upon the Labanotation system. Another overview of dance notation systems has been written by Brenda Farnell (Farnell 1996), an anthropologist with a dance background, who has employed Labanotation as a research tool, documenting, for example, sign languages. Most research in this area, however, has been done by Ann Hutchinson Guest. Without her valuable contributions, we would still know very little about the many dance notation systems that were put forward over the centuries.

1 It is more common in ballet. Reconstructions can vary from variations of a theme or a story, to attempts to replicate the steps to some degree.

358

joukje kolff Different Dance Notation Systems

Guest divides dance notation systems into five categories (Guest 1989). Those using: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Word abbreviations Track drawings Visual representations (a stick figure) Music notes adapted for dance Abstract symbols

There is some overlap, or integration, between the categories. For example, floor plans showing the pattern of the dance on the floor are used in most notation systems. Music notes can be seen as just another kind of abstract symbol. Abstract symbols can be based on a visual representation and a system of notation that is based on the stick figure can use abstract symbols to show movement details. Also, word notes can be given to complement the symbols in any system. I will, however, keep to Guest’s division, and show examples of one or more notation systems in each category, as they do illustrate the various approaches to notating dance. Besides the above categories, that demonstrate different ways of representing movements, there are also different ways of looking at and analyzing dance. Also the various systems take different viewpoints. For example: • What system of reference is used? Where is forward and where is up for the notator and dancer? Forward can be seen as where the dancer is facing or it can be towards the audience or the front of the room. Up can be in the direction of the spine or head or it can be up in relation to the line of gravity, no matter whether the dancer has bent the trunk or is lying flat down on the floor. Where do the arms go when they go ‘up’? • Is the dancer looked at from behind or from the front? • Is the movement, its direction and distance, written or is it the resulting position or series of positions?

And there are various other questions one can ask about a system: • How does one cope with the three-dimensionality of the body? How is that transposed to two-dimensional paper? • How precise can one be in timing?

writing dance

359

• How much detail can be included in the score? And how much detail is desired and needed? How much is left open to the dancer to add using knowledge of the style of the dance, of the choreographer and of the piece?

Over the centuries many systems of notation were used and then abandoned. Usually the elements and possibilities of the system responded to the style of the dance for which they were created. For example, if arm movements and carriage of the torso were clear to those who studied the dance form, they did not need to be written in the score. As dance evolved and dance styles went out of fashion, so did the notation systems based on them. Systems Using Word Notes/Abbreviations The earliest known systems of notation were used in the fifteenth century and were based on letter codes relating to the names of the steps in the dance. In different European countries the names for these steps vary slightly and sometimes a different letter was used. The following letter abbreviations indicate one of the five steps of the Basse (meaning low) Dances in French, Italian and Spanish:2 R

reverence, the formal bow which commenced and concluded each dance s simple, a step forward followed by a closing of the other foot d (or de) double, two steps forward followed by a closing of the feet r (or re or Z) reprise, a backward step b (or 9) branle, a swaying step that consisted of two lilting steps in place.

These letters could be placed under the appropriate music notes to indicate the correlation with the music. The first printed book using this established letter code was L’Art et instruction de bien dancer, published in France in the late fifteenth century, from which Example 1 is taken. Of course, word notes are a great memory-aid for dancers, even now. But they are useful merely for those dancers who already know the dance and the style. As a document for future generations of scholars 2

Step information is from Guest 1989.

360

joukje kolff

Example 1. L’Art et instruction de bien dancer (late 15th century). (Example 2 from Guest (1989); printed with permission from Ann Hutchinson Guest.)

and dancers, scores based on word notes are not sufficient. Not only do they lack detail, one must also cope with their changes in language over time. Feuillet: A Track Drawing System The system that has been the most widely used in its time is the Feuillet system, developed by Raoul Feuillet. It is also called Beauchamp-Feuillet, as there is some evidence that it was originated by Pierre Beauchamp. The system was first published in 1700 in a book called Chorégraphie ou l’art de décrire la dance. The system was very popular with the educated classes, who strove to master the intricacies of dancing. Many dances were published, to which we still have access today. The Feuillet system could show considerable detail in a simple way, such as positions of the feet, variations of the steps, and such as bending

writing dance

361

Example 2. Feuillet notation. (Example 15 from Guest (1989); printed with permission from Ann Hutchinson Guest.)

or rising on half-toe, sliding, turning, a spring and some leg gestures as well as some simple arm gestures and the holding and releasing of hands. Carriage of the body was understood. The wide adoption of the system, and the fact that it was in use for almost a century, allowed it to develop in response to practical needs. Such development is essential for successful application to various dances. Most dance notation systems developed since then, did not get the chance to be expanded so extensively.

362

joukje kolff

The notation in Example 2, the Bourée d’Achille by Pecour, shows a couple starting at the back of the room holding hands, the man on the left, the lady on the right. They move forward, then turn away from each other before moving on quarter-circle arcs to meet again and continue towards their starting position on a straight path. The pins at the start show the starting positions of the feet (fourth position). The man starts with steps on the left-right-left, the lady starts on the opposite foot. Releasing of the hands is shown at the end of the first straight path. The lady ends her dance with a backward step. The strokes crossing the central line correspond to the bar lines in the music notation, which is also shown. Arm positions are not specified in this piece of notation. Saint-Léon: A Stick Figure System Arthur Saint-Léon published his system, called Sténochorégraphie, in Paris in 1852. The book included the notation of the Pas de Six from his ballet La Vivandière. Example 3, shown here, represents the Cavalier’s solo from this dance. The system was based on the image of a stick figure. It uses a single upper line for the body on which the positions for arms, body and head are indicated pictorially. The upper body images can be clearly seen on the top line in Example 3. The body is seen from the point of view of the audience, which means that, when reading the notation, one has to swap right and left: the limb which is right on the paper, is in fact the dancer’s left limb. Underneath this upper line, there is a five-line staff for steps and gestures of the legs. Travelling is indicated by moving the figures down- or upwards on the five-line staff. Upward is travelling away from the audience. Supports are indicated on a line, jumps above a line. Positions of the legs, although based on a picture of legs, are slightly more abstract, as the notator deals with showing forward and backward on 2-dimensional paper. The drawings in Example 4 show one leg supporting, indicated by the thicker line, the other gesturing. Stepanov: A Music Note System Vladimir Stepanov created a dance notation system based on music notes, which was published in 1892 in a book entitled L’Alphabet

writing dance

363

Example 3. Saint-Léon notation. (Example 31 from Guest (1989); printed with permission from Ann Hutchinson Guest.)

Example 4. (Example 48 from Guest (1989); printed with permission from Ann Hutchinson Guest.)

364

joukje kolff

des mouvements du corps humain. The system was adopted by the St. Petersburg School of Dance and taught there for a number of years. It was the first system after Feuillet’s that functioned and was employed amongst quite a few dance professionals. Stepanov died at the age of twenty-nine and, therefore, could not develop his system further. Alexander Gorsky took over the responsibility for the system and developed it slightly. As the system was adopted and used for a number of years, quite a few ballets were recorded in this notation system. Regisseur, Nicolai Sergueyev, brought thirty or so Stepanov scores to England from Russia from which he revived several works for ballet companies. These scores are now housed in the Harvard Library Theatre Collection in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Leonide Massine (dancer and principal choreographer of the Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes from 1915 to 1921) used the Stepanov system as a tool for choreographic development and expected his choreography students to be able to master the system well enough to read his movement studies. Vaslav Nijinski based his own system on that of Stepanov. Example 5 is from the Prince’s variation in Act III of The Sleeping Beauty. Dr. Hutchinson Guest wrote a ‘translation’ of the notation in words specifically for this chapter, using French ballet terms. One can imagine that a description in common English would be a long text and take a lot of time to write. The arms for the last section have not been included: The Prince’s Variation, Act III in Sleeping Beauty Waltz time. Measures 1–8: start in fifth position, right foot front, facing the left front corner (croisé), the arms in low fifth. Entrechat quatre, entrechat six turning 1/4 to face croisé the other side. Repeat entrechat quatre, entrechat six turning 1/4 to face croisé again. Next a pas de poisson turning to face the right wall, landing on the right foot in arabesque. Immediately spring up into an assemblé turning to face the left front corner again. Repeat the pas de poisson and the assemblé. Measures 9–16: repeat measures 1–4 but end landing croisé on the right foot in attitude, but with the arms down. Now travelling forward with a temps levé (hop) into a small jeté en avant followed by a larger jeté into attitude, the arms in the low open (welcoming) gesture. A glissade en avant follows leading into a jeté en avant in attitude. Measures 17–24: the dancer now travels backward on the same room diagonal with a glissade turning around to the right into a cabriole en arrière landing on the right foot and facing the front left corner, followed by an assemblé, right foot front. A pas de poisson landing on the left foot

writing dance

365

Example 5. Stepanov notation. (Example 74a from Guest (1989); printed with permission from Ann Hutchinson Guest.)

366

joukje kolff is followed by the glissade turning to the right and travelling backward on the room diagonal. The last four measures are then repeated.3

Stepanov uses a nine-line staff divided into three sections, the two top lines are for the head and body, the following three lines for the arms and the bottom four lines for the legs. Right and left limbs are indicated by direction (up or down) of the stem of the note. Directions of limbs are indicated by placement of the music notes on the staff. As in music, whole notes, quarter notes, et cetera, are used. They have an oblong shape to show contact with the ground and are round for gestures in the air. Timing is not as obvious as one might think. There seems to be confusion over whether the position indicated is reached at the end of the duration of the note or at the beginning. According to Guest, the position was reached at the moment the note begins in the Stepanov system. This indeed poses a problem. How does one notate the timing of the first movement? The Twentieth Century: From Dance to Movement Notation Systems The twentieth century has seen the development of Modern Dance: from Isadora Duncan to Martha Graham, Doris Humphrey, Merce Cunningham and the Judson Church Postmodern dance happenings. These artists rebelled against established classical ballet and renewed dance, inventing and introducing a different use of body parts, new movements, music, theatre spaces, sets and costumes. Consequently, anything can now happen in a dance, support can be on any part of the body, the torso can be involved in many ways, any type of prop may be used, movements may not even be set. As a result notating has become more complicated. We now need a flexible system able to describe all movement. Labanotation: An Abstract System The basic principles of what Laban called “Schrift Tanz” (the staff and direction symbols, for example) were devised by Rudolf von Laban and were first published in 1928. The system has been developed further by others and is now called Labanotation in the United States 3

By Ann Hutchinson Guest, February 2009.

writing dance

367

and England and Kinetography Laban in Germany and France. The names stand for slightly different ‘dialects’ in the system. I have learned Labanotation. Notation was only one aspect of Laban’s many activities in Germany, Switzerland and England. His Space Harmony theories and practice still have an enormous influence on dance today. Laban was interested in the roots of movement, in motivation and dynamics and in affinities between shape patterns in space and dynamics, called Effort/Shape qualities. Many dances, excerpts and classroom combinations have been notated in Labanotation and there are various publications of dances and books about the system, most of them produced by Ann Hutchinson Guest, who dedicated most of her life to the advancement of the system. The Dance Notation Bureau in New York houses many dances and arranges permissions and score hire for those wanting to access the scores for educational purposes, research or formal stagings. Practitioners of Labanotation around the world discuss the system and its uses at the biennial conference organized by the International Council of Kinetography Laban (ickl). It is there that changes or additions to the system can be proposed and decided. Because of its use in many different situations, the system has been advanced to be able to describe many types of movements appropriately and in great detail. Labanotation, as well as other dance notation systems, is used descriptively. A prescriptive use would be interesting and not impossible. Most choreographers are not literate in the system or have found it too cumbersome to work with in creating dances. The simpler form of Labanotation, called Motif, in which symbols describe a concept, such as travelling, jumping or balancing, can be used more easily to prescribe an outline for a dance and it is indeed used to that purpose.4 Labanotation is read along a staff that runs from the bottom of the page to the top. The staff is divided into columns and, as far as possible, it reflects the symmetry of the body. The two center columns are used for indications of support, so a symbol in the right support column will usually indicate a step of the right foot (support on other parts of the body, e.g., hands, is also indicated here). The other columns represent parts of the body, as indicated in Example 6. Movements of the right leg and arm are written on the right of the center line, movements of

4

For more information see Guest & Curran (2007).

368

joukje kolff

Example 6. Labanotation: the staff.

Example 7. Labanotation: the symbols.

the left on the left. There are also torso and head columns and columns for fingers, eyes and other parts can be inserted as needed. For clarity columns can be left blank. Direction symbols indicate the direction of limbs or travel. The column in which a direction symbol is placed, sometimes along with the sign for a certain body part, will make clear which part is moving. Travel is indicated when a direction sign is placed in one of the support columns. The direction symbols are shown in Example 7. The shape of the symbol indicates the direction on the horizontal plane, while its shading indicates the vertical level. High level is indicated using slanted lines, middle by a dot in the center of the symbol and low level by the black symbols. The length of the symbols indicates the duration of the movement. A notation for a walk with simple arm gestures is shown in Example 8. The symbols in the arm columns here are longer than those in the support columns, indicating a longer duration. The vertical center line is divided into regular beats using short strokes, four beats in this example, and the time signature is given at the start of the excerpt. Measure and beat

writing dance

369

Example 8. Labanotation.

numbers can also be given and, generally, the staff is divided into bars with lines across the staff (here only one bar is given). In this example the feet start together with arms hanging down. There is one step on each beat starting with the right foot; the right arm moves forward and the left to the side (to shoulder level) in the first two beats; on beat three and four both arms move up to a vertical position. Signs for body parts are used to indicate a relationship to a body part, e.g., in touching. They are necessary for movements of the torso, head and parts of the arms and legs (e.g., lower leg or hand). The main parts can be seen in Example 9. Example 10 shows page 17 from the score of Trio A by Yvonne Rainer, notated by Melanie Clarke and Joukje Kolff. Here is a description in words of what happens in the first part of this example: Before the beginning of the staff, the reader is reminded that the legs/feet are held parallel (not turned out) and that the s/he is facing the audience. Subsequent steps on the spot on the right and left are indicated, while turning 180º (the turn sign is further out to the right of the staff ). The resulting facing away from the audience is indicated. The dancer then does a deep plié (bending the knees), the arms moving slightly away to the side. Led by the fingertips and palms of the hands facing forward, the arms move up, while the legs come out of plié, continuing up to relevé (on toes). Any other type of movement such as turning, jumping and torso tilts can also be indicated in Labanotation. For more information about the Labanotation system please refer to Guest (2005).

370

joukje kolff

Example 9. Labanotation: the body parts.

Example 10. Labanotation.

writing dance

371

Benesh: A Visual System (Abstracted Stick Figure System) The Benesh system was devised in London by Joan and Rudolf Benesh and presented in the publication An Introduction to Benesh Dance Notation in 1956. Although first devised to notate ballet, the system has been applied to other types of movement and has been developed in order to do so. The Royal Ballet adopted the system and is one of the few companies in the world that employs full-time notators. The Royal Academy of Dance in London now houses the Benesh Institute of Choreology, established in 1962 to provide notator and reconstructor training. Use has spread around the world and many scores have been written. Benesh adopted the five-line music staff to represent the body, as can be seen in Example 11. The bottom line represents the floor, and subsequently higher lines represent the knees, the waist, the shoulders and top of the head. It seems a handicap that there is not a line for the hips, but the system has provided for movements of these joints in other ways. Here is a ‘translation’ of Example 11, written by Liz Cunliffe: Excerpt from Swan Lake Act II: Two Leading Swans recorded in Benesh Movement Notation. The notation shows one leading swan entering from the upstage left wing mirrored by the other leading swan. They travel forward along semicircular paths passing one another upstage centre to finish downstage in the left and right corners of the stage. This information is written beneath the stave. The information written in the stave shows a time signature of three beats to the bar (Tempo di Valse). There is a two bar introduction then during the next four bars the leading swans execute the following movement phrase: posé temps levé in third arabesque, step forward and galop arms in second position, step run and grand jeté arms passing through bras bas and first into second arabesque, coupé under arms returning to first position. In Bars 7–10, the phrase is repeated on the other side. In Bars 11–13 the movement phrase is again repeated but with subtle differences in the movements of the head and in the directions faced.5

As opposed to the Saint-Léon system, the Benesh figure is always seen from the back, so we, as readers, do not have to reverse left and right in our minds. Movement lines give a visual representation. Signs indicate

5

By Liz Cunliffe, February 2009.

Example 11. Benesh Movement Notation. (Excerpt from Swan Lake Act II: Two Leading Swans; printed with permission from The Benesh Institute in London.)

372 joukje kolff

writing dance

373

whether an extremity (hand or foot) is in front of (vertical stroke) or behind (black dot) the lateral plane of the body or whether it is on the plane (horizontal stroke). Placement of the mid-joints, the elbow or knee, is indicated by crossing the strokes and by an ‘x’ instead of the black dot. Bending is thus indicated. Timing is indicated by putting the figures under the music notation or by using Benesh’s set of signs for beats and subdivisions of beats. Walking, rotating, turning and jumping are also accommodated. Ann Hutchinson Guest said of visual systems based on stick figure drawings: “Visual systems are based on the idea that all dance is visual, that movements are designed to ‘make pictures’. This may have been true of classical ballet with its vocabulary of selected, clearly defined positions, but not all movement has ‘picture making’ as its purpose, and to try to describe such action in those terms is to force movement into a straight jacket and thereby change its nature.” (Guest 1989: 64). One might wonder whether this cannot be said of all movement notation systems as we can only notate what we see. Labanotation also describes gestures generally as a flow of positions, although motion description (leaving the exact destination undefined) is also a possibility. In both systems movements for different limbs can overlap, although Liz Cunliffe, director of the Benesh Institute, states that “the over-riding objective is to show as clearly as possible how one action co-ordinates with another”.6 And both systems can describe movement in various ways and in more or less detail in order to reflect the purpose of the recording or convey the choreographic intention.7 Cunliffe writes: “An interesting difference between bmn and Labanotation is the fundamental point from which they reference time: bmn uses the moment of arrival in a position, Labanotation uses the moment when a gesture begins. Although both systems can specify both the start and end of an action, within the structure of their systems Benesh is generally less specific about the timing of the start of an action.”8 Eshkol-Wachman: An Abstract Symbol System The Eshkol-Wachman system was first published in London in 1958. Noa Eshkol studied Labanotation with Sigurd Leeder. Ann Hutchinson 6 7 8

From correspondence with Liz Cunliffe, October 2007. From correspondence with Liz Cunliffe, October 2007. From correspondence with Liz Cunliffe, October 2007.

374

joukje kolff

Guest writes that Eshkol found Leeder’s presentation of the system “too free and unformulated” (Guest 1989: 118). She was interested in intervals in movement comparable to intervals in music. To her and Abraham Wachmann, an architect, movement should be described without regard to dynamics, expression or intention. Indeed the system is geometrically based, using numbers to indicate direction and amount of each limb’s movement. The body is seen as a series of connected rods. Since describing all movements, in even a simple action as bending the legs, involved quite a few numbers and signs, the system incorporated some conventions and abbreviations; thus the action can be treated in a more, or a less, detailed manner. The Movement Notation Society, the official organization devoted to Eshkol-Wachman movement notation, is based in Israel, but use of the system has spread across the world. Eshkol-Wachman notation does not include separate signs for parts of the body, but has a staff, read from left to right, with rows for the limbs. Only the rows of those limbs that move need to be shown. Eshkol-Wachman sees all movement of a single limb as circular. There are three types of circular movement and each is indicated with a different symbol: 1. Rotary movement, indicated using ∩ 2. Plane movement, indicated using an arrow ¤ 3. Curved movement, indicated using ∧ In rotary movement the limb moves about its longitudinal axis, so the axis of the movement is inside the limb. The axis of plane movement runs at a 90° angle to the longitudinal axis of the limb. The limb thus moves in a plane. And the axis of curved movement is at an acute angle with the longitudinal axis of the limb, so the action of the limb creates a conical shape. Along the staff, the above signs are written to show the type of circular movement. The row the sign is in will make clear which body part is referred to. Additionally one can write a number to indicate the amount of movement around the circle. The 360° of the circle are usually divided up in eight parts and numbered 0–7, so 1 = 45°. But the unit can also be 30°, or any other degree, so long as it is an aliquot division of 360. Assuming the unit is 45°, number 4 would indicate circular movement of 180°, for example, rotating the lower arm 180°

writing dance

375

Example 12. Eshkol-Wachman notation. (Printed with permission from The Movement Notation Society.)

376

joukje kolff

Example 13. Eshkol-Wachman: positions.

from a position where the palm of the hand faces inward resulting in it facing outward. The numbers can also be used for indicating a position. In this case, the numbers are written one above the other and are enclosed within brackets. The one on top indicates vertical direction, the one below expresses the horizontal coordinate. Example 13 shows the positions. Imagine that the center of this globe is put on the joint of a moving limb to determine its direction. Downward is 0 and forward is 0. The direction of forward depends on whether it is judged using an ‘absolute’ system of reference or a ‘body-related’ one. An ‘absolute’ horizontal zero (forward) is selected at the beginning of a work. It is a direction relative to the surrounding space, e.g., the audience, and, for the rest of the piece, this is the ultimate direction for reference. The orientation is indicated by a space labeled “Front”. Turns of the body as a whole are related to it. Movements and positions of the parts of the body can also be written either in relation to the ‘absolute’ system of reference, or ‘body related’.9 Timing is indicated by vertical divisions in the staff, which correlate with musical beats. A movement starts in the beat where it is indicated and lasts until another indication is given or until a thick or double line occurs.

9

From correspondence with John Harries, October 2007.

writing dance

377

Support is represented by a short T in the foot row, indicating contact with the floor. Example 12 gives an idea of what the notation looks like. The following is a description of the first movements in this example, written by John Harries The dance is scored for three dancers. The metronome mark indicates 126 time units to a minute. The starting position is upright standing, with the head and neck (which move as one) inclined forward (45 degrees). The arms are downward, with the palm sides facing forward. On the upbeat, the left leg is flexed as the right foot leaves the ground, the foot dorsiflexing. The right lower leg is downward, relaxed, and the thigh moves into the right diagonal. During a single time unit (column) head and neck are brought, still inclined, into the right forward diagonal as the right forearm is turned outward, and the right heel first taps the ground (rapid contact and release), and the thigh is then brought into the left forward diagonal. Over the next two time units, head and neck move into the left forward diagonal; the right forearm begins to rise upward. The right heel taps the ground, then the thigh is carried to the right as the left leg is straightened and then flexed again. (The whole forearm movement continues through five time units). Over three time units, head and neck move to the right side, still inclined, and the right forearm continues its upward movement through 45 degrees. The right heel taps the ground, and the foot is then relaxed, as the left leg straightens fully; the right thigh is brought round to the left so that it touches the left thigh. Over four time units, head and neck are brought to the left side, still inclined. The right arm is raised 45 degrees, so that the forearm is now horizontal. The right toes now tap the ground, then as the left leg flexes the right leg is brought to the right diagonal, and is horizontal; then the thigh is lowered through 45 degrees and the lower leg is relaxed. This ends the phrase, two columns from the end of the first line of the score.10

What I appreciate in the system is that, generally, an indication of motion is given, thus not focusing on positions when motion is meant. It seemed to me that this would cause a situation in which, if one misreads one movement, all subsequent movements will be in the wrong place. However, I am assured that at points where one might need to check, a “mute” position is inserted in the score.11

10 11

By John Harries, February 2009. From correspondence with John Harries, October 2007.

378

joukje kolff

Eshkol-Wachman notation has been adopted by scholars studying animal behaviour. Although Labanotation has also been adapted for the description of animal movements such as spiders, many publications can be found using Eshkol-Wachman to show movements of, for example, birds and crabs. The system has also interested those attempting to formally represent movement in a computer. A significant disadvantage of the Eshkol-Wachman system is that it is so abstract and visually unlike the human body in motion, that it does not immediately appeal to dancers, who do not tend to think about their movement in terms of numbers and degrees of circling. However, John Harries wrote: “Practical experience shows that for dancers who have actually learned to read EW this is not a problem. The system becomes transparent, and they are able to focus on the visual and physical aspect of bodily movement.”12 Value of Dance Notation One reason for the fact that notating dance is unpopular among most dancers, is, first, they have not grown up with notation as a daily tool, and, second, the body in motion is complicated to document fully and notating a dance is generally thought to be cumbersome, timeconsuming, and therefore expensive. Another reason might be that dance has not always been valued as an art form nor has documentation of it. Also, one might wonder if, by recording the movements of a dance, one has actually recorded the dance piece itself. Sometimes the story line of the dance piece is most important, thus various versions exist of Cinderella, Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty. Or the development of the dynamics and virtuosity in the piece is what makes the piece what it is. Indeed could not thirty-two fouettés be substituted by another impressive accomplishment and still make the point of displaying a grand virtuosic feat (Anderson 1975)? If the choice of movement is arbitrary, what is the point in notating it? Whether it is useful to notate a dance depends on what one values in a dance work and on the dance work itself. There have been periods, as in the late nineteenth century in dance, when the movement itself was not the main point of the piece

12

From correspondence with John Harries, October 2007.

writing dance

379

and was subordinate to the story, music, costumes and design. It is this view of dance that makes notation insufficient and unpopular and can cause an existing notation system to be abandoned, which is what happened with the Stepanov method. With the advent of the twentieth century Modern dance, which involved examination in and renewal of movement , the movement itself became more important, and so we see an increased interest in notation in this period. Now, with the advent of video, the pressure to use notation has declined. On a more positive note, many notation scores already exist and are in demand for reconstructions. The heritage they provide for future generations and their educational value would be impossible without notation. Also, by learning a dance notation system and therefore analyzing movement, one acquires a better understanding and awareness of movement. If children would learn notation from a young age, along with dancing itself, it would probably become a natural part of their equipment, as music notation is for music students.13, 14 References Anderson, Jack 1975. Idealists, Materialists, and the Thirty-Two Foetus. In Copeland, R. & Cohen M. (eds.) 1983. What is dance? Oxford University Press. Benesh, Rudolf & Joan Benesh 1983. Reading dance, the birth of choreology. London: Souvenir Press Ltd. Farnell, Brenda 1996. Movement notation systems. In Daniels, P. T. and Bright, W. (eds.) 1996. The world’s writing systems, pp. 855–879. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Eshkol, Noa & Wachmann, Abraham 1958. Movement notation. London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Eshkol, Noa 1979. Movement notations: a comparative study of Labanotation (Kinetography Laban) and Eshkol-Wachman movement notation. Israel: The Movement Notation Society. Faulkes, Zen 2003. Extracted from http://panam2.panam.edu/~zfaulkes/ew_page .html.

13 Indeed, children respond well to the learning of Motif (Guest & Curran 2007). Its use has spread to Japan, Mexico as well as the USA. The recently established dance program by the New York City Board of Education includes the Motif symbols from the Movement Alphabet and is now taught in all its schools. 14 The following are some useful websites: www.benesh.org (Benesh Institute) www.dancebooks.co.uk www.dancenotation.org (Dance Notation Bureau) www.ickl.org (International Council of Kinetography Laban) www.lodc.org (Language of Dance Centre)

380

joukje kolff

Goodman, Nelson 1988. Languages of art: an approach to a theory of symbols. Hackett Publishing Co. Guest, Ann Hutchinson 1984. Dance notation: the process of recording movement on paper. London: Dance Books. —— 1989. Choreo-graphics: a comparison of dance notation systems from the fifteenth century to the present. London: Gordon and Breach. —— 2005. Labanotation: the system of analyzing and recording movement. Routledge. Guest, Ann Hutchinson & Curran, Tina 2007. Your move. (Second edition) London: Routledge.

AUTHOR INDEX Western first names have been abbreviated. Diacritics and markings for tone have been largely omitted. Abu Bakr, A. M., 74, 88 Aguizy, O., see El-Aguizy Aikhenvald, A. Y., 143, 172, 173 Akkeren, R., 156, 172 Albertz, R., 89 Albright, W. F., 80, 88 Allam, M. Z., 319, 323 Altenmüller, H., 237, 250 Amdework Mitiku, 188, 194 Ames, R. T., 285, 312 Amha, A., 179–198 Anders, F., 165, 172 Anderson, J., 378, 379 Ariga, Chieko, 40, 42 Asher, F. M., 210, 217 Asher, R. E., 180, 183, 194, 221, 234 Asres, Yenesew, 179, 194 Attinger, P., 24 Aulie, E., 58, 67 Aulie, W., 58, 67 Aveni, A. F., 69, 175, 279 Ayele Bekerie, 179, 194 Azzoni, A., 85, 88 Backhaus, P., 201, 205 Bade, B. L., 155, 177 Baines, J., 249, 250 Balbir, N., 217 Bandini-König, D., 213, 217 Barrera Vásquez, A., 43, 50, 55, 58, 67, 140, 172 Barrois, R. R., 157, 172 Barthel, T. S., 155, 172, 174, 278, 329, 340 Bautze, J. K., 217 Baxter, W. H., 285, 297, 310 Baye Yimam, 179, 183, 186, 192, 195 Behr, W., 281–316 Behrens, L., 287, 311 Beliaev, D., 177 Bell, H. I., 321, 323 Beltrán, B., 131, 153, 157, 176, 253, 279 Bender, M. L., 183, 186, 195 Bender, B. W., 341 Benesh, J., 379

Benesh, R., 371, 379 Berger-El Naggar, C., 224, 234 Bernal, M., 179, 195 Betrò, M. C., 88 Biggs, R. D., 11, 24 Black, J. A., 24 Blench, R., 177 Blundell, D., 114 Boltz, W. G., 287, 291, 293, 295, 300, 311 Boodberg, P. A., 291, 293, 296, 311 Boot, E., 43–70, 129–178, 253–280 Bopearachchi, O., 217 Borchers, D., 1, 5 Boremanse, D., 137, 173 Borger, R., 10, 12, 13, 24 Borges, V., Castillo, 48, 69 Bottéro, F., 291, 295, 311 Branner, D. P., 101, 113 Brasseur de Bourbourg, Abbé Ch. E., 44, 45, 67 Braswell, G., 177 Bresciani, E., 88, 236, 250 Breyer, F. A. K., 237, 250 Bricker, V. R., 45, 48, 67, 131, 138, 155, 173, 270, 278 Bright, W., 1–5, 24, 48, 67, 115, 195, 250, 379 Browder, J. K., 158, 173 Brown, C. H., 130, 145, 151, 152, 173, 256, 266, 269, 278 Brown, J. M., 327, 329, 330, 340 Bruce, R. D., 137, 173 Bryce, T., 118, 127 Buccellati, G., 117, 127 Bumann, W., 313 Bush, F., 119, 127 Bynon, J., 325 Campbell, L., 130, 131, 133, 137, 138, 140, 142, 145, 153, 166, 167, 173, 175 Carpenter, J. T., 35, 42 Carrasco, D., 177 Carrier, C., 224, 234 Cerny, J., 317, 323 Chang Bi-yu, 114

382

author index

Chang, Yu-hung, 93, 104, 113 Chappell, H., 313 Charlot, J., 163, 176 Chen Jie, 314 Cheng, R. L., 99, 113 Choi, Y.-H., 152, 173 Chuchiak IV, J. F., 45, 69 Chung, K. S., 93, 113 Ci Jiwei, 311 Cialowicz, K. M., 91 Ciudad Ruiz, A., 174, 278 Civil, M., 24 Clarysee, W., 212, 217 Claudi, U., 324 Cochavi-Rainey, Z., 80, 91 Coe, M. D., 44–46, 48, 54, 67, 253, 258, 266, 267, 278 Cogolludo, Fr. D. López de, 44, 67 Cohen, M., 379 Colas, P. R., 62, 67 Cole, M., 201, 204, 205 Cooper, R. L., 184, 191, 195 Copeland, R., 379 Coulmas, F., 100, 102, 113, 179, 183, 195, 287, 311 Cowley, R., 183, 195 Cruse, D. A., 311 Cruz-Uribe, E., 319, 323 Culler, J., 313 Curnow, T. J., 133, 173 Curran, T., 367, 379, 380

Dietrich-Loretz, M., 347, 355 Diringer, D., 1, 5, 179, 181, 188 Dixon, R. M. W., 143, 172, 173 Djamouri, R., 311 Dong Zhongsi, 113 Downing, P., 311 Drewes, A. J., 179, 195 Dreyer, G., 237, 250 Dücker, B., 324

Dahlin, A., 131, 170, 173 Dahlin, B. H., 131, 170, 173 Dakin, K., 133, 142, 169, 173 Damerow, P., 24, 25 Damm, H., 327, 331, 340 Daniels, P. T., 1–5, 48, 67, 115, 179, 195, 237, 250, 300, 311, 379 Davidson, J. W., 97, 113 Davletshin, A., 158, 177 de Voogt, see Voogt Deane, P. D., 287, 311 DeFrancis, J., 1, 5, 337, 340 Depuydt, L., 237, 248, 250 Derchain, Ph., 86, 91 DeSilva, M. W. Sugathapala, 197, 198, 205 Devauchelle, D., 249, 250 Dieleman, J., 86, 89, 320, 321 Dienhart, J. M., 43, 50, 53, 57–59, 68, 135, 137, 138, 140, 142, 145, 147, 150–152, 173, 304, 311

Falk, H., 207–219 Fang-long Shih, 114 Farber, W., 352, 355 Farmer, S., 207, 217 Farnell, B., 357, 379 Faulkes, Z., 379 Fell, D., 114 Fialko, V., 157, 168, 174, 175 Fields, V. M., 174, 176 Finkel, I. L., 9–25 Fischer-Elfert, H.-W., 79, 89, 317, 323 Fléchelle, C., 227, 230, 234 Ford, A., 176 Forrer, M., 35, 42 Förstemann, E. W., 44, 68, 154, 174 Francfort, H.-P., 207, 217 Frank, R., 304, 311 Freidel, D., 149, 157, 176 Fritz, S., 198, 205 Führer, B., 281, 283, 306, 311 Fukui Katsuyoshi, 195, 196

Edel, E., 80, 89 Edmonson, M. S., 44, 68, 268, 278 Edzard, D. O., 24, 127 Eide, T., 224, 234 Eiland, H., 305, 311 Eisei Hurimoto, 195, 196 El-Aguizy, O., 245, 250, 251 Elias, D. L., 181, 195 Emmrich, Th., 304, 311 Englund, R. K., 24, 25 Engsheden, Å, 85, 89 Eoyang, E., 282, 311 Erichsen, W., 84, 89, 245, 250 Ernst, W., 251 Eshkol, N., 357, 373–376, 378, 379 Estrada-Belli, F., 43, 68 Ethnologue, 94, 113 Evans, S. T., 152, 173 Evans. H. M., 290, 311 Eyre, C. J., 249–251 Eyre, J., 249, 250, 251

author index Gallo, P., 88, 89 Gardiner, A. H., 76, 89, 239, 240, 250 Gassmann, R. H., 283, 312 Gauthier, H., 318, 323 Geeraerts, D., 269, 278 Gelb, I. J., 1, 4, 5 Gestermann, L., 251 Getachew Haile, 179, 181, 183, 188, 195 Glassner, J.-J., 24 Goedicke, H., 236, 250 Goldenberg, G., 250 Goldwasser, O., 239, 250 Golénischeff, W., 319, 323 Gong, Y., 24 Goodman, N., 380 Goody, J., 1, 5 Graham, I., 63, 68, 136, 154, 162, 174, 276 Green, M. W., 24 Greene Robertson, M., 174 Griffith, F. Ll., 223, 234, 320, 323 Grove, D. C., 167, 176 Grube, N., 43, 55, 56, 59, 61, 68, 69, 129, 130, 155, 158, 160, 168, 174, 175, 255, 256, 272, 278 Gu Dong Ming, 285, 312 Guest, A. Hutchinson, 357–361, 363–367, 369, 373, 374, 379, 380 Guinan, A. K., 21, 24 Gutiérrez Solana, N., 162, 177 Haft, Ll., 114 Hägg, T., 224, 234 Haider, P. W., 78, 89, 91, 318, 323 Haile-Gabriel Dagne, 189, 195 Hall, D. L., 285, 312 Halloran de Hoogshagen, H., 151, 174 Hanks, W. F., 68, 69 Hannig, R., 323 Hansell, M. D., 93, 102, 113 Hansen, R. D., 167, 174 Harlow, G. E., 167, 176 Haspelmath, M., 167, 174 Haugen, E., 93, 97, 100, 103, 113, 148, 152, 174 Hawass, Z., 323 Head, S. W., 183, 195 Helck, W., 79–81, 89, 90, 251 Hellmuth, N. M., 144, 174 Helmke, C. G. B., 48, 68 Hernández, C., 272, 279 Heyler, A., 224, 234 Hintze, F., 225, 234 Hinüber, O., 208, 213, 217

383

Hoch, J. E., 76, 77, 80, 89, 317, 323 Hock, H. H., 100, 114 Hoffmann, F., 322, 323, 325 Hofmann, I., 233, 234 Hoogshagen, H., see Halloran de Hoogshagen Hoogshagen, S., 151, 174 Hopkins, N. A., 136, 172, 174 Hospers, J. H., 287, 312 Houston, S. D., 1, 5, 46, 52, 57, 68, 129–131, 136, 137, 147, 150, 154, 155, 173, 174, 177, 253, 256, 260, 263, 265, 268, 275, 278 Hsiao Pai-ling, 298, 313 Hsieh, Feng-fan, 104, 114 Hsieh, S. Ching-yu, 96, 114 Hsu, see Hui-li Hu Xiaoxin, 294, 312 Huang, Shuanfan, 95, 114 Hudson, G., 179, 195 Hui-li Hsu, 96, 114 Hunger, H., 16, 24 Illius, B., 174, 278 Imbelloni, J., 329, 341 Inagaki, S., 31, 42 Inomata, T., 173, 174 Izre’el, Sh., 78, 89, 322 James, G., 114 Janert, K. L., 213, 215, 217 Jansen, M., 165, 172 Janssen, J. J., 82, 89 Jensen, H., 179–181, 183, 195 Jespersen, B., 291, 312 Jiang Xuewang, 303, 312 Jin Lixin, 294, 312 Johnson, S., 100, 114 Jones, G. D., 130, 174 Jones, L., 177 Joseph, B. D., 100, 114 Justeson, J. S., 51, 52, 68, 131, 133, 138, 153, 157, 175, 253, 278 Kahl, J., 237, 250 Kammerzell F., 1, 5 Kampen, M. E., 162, 175 Kaneshiro, S., 327, 329–337, 340, 341 Kaper, O., xi, 66, 68 Kaplony-Heckel, U., 249, 250 Karttunen, F., 152, 156, 175 Kaufman, T. S., 43, 50, 52, 53, 57–59, 68, 129–133, 135–147, 150–153, 155,

384

author index

156, 166, 167, 169, 173, 175, 177, 253, 256, 257, 265, 266, 268, 269, 272, 278 Kelly-Buccellati, M., 117, 127 Kerr, J., 53, 136, 143, 144, 147, 156, 157, 162, 175 Kettunen, H. J., 48, 68 Kilgarriff, A., 269, 278 Kittler, F., 251 Klein, D. E., 287, 312 Klein, J. S., 304, 312 Klengel, H., 118, 127 Klepousnioutou, E., 287, 312 Kloeter, see Klöter Klompmakers, I., 38, 42 Klöter, H., 93–115 Knigge, C., 87, 89 Knorozov, Y., 45, 46, 51, 267, 268 Koenig, Y., 75, 88, 89 Kolff, J., ix, 357–380 Kottsieper, I., 83–85, 89, 319 Krebernik, M., 24 Krecher, J., 12, 24 Kristan-Graham, C., 164, 175 Kuiper, K., 102, 114 Kurth, D., 241, 250 Labat, R., 12, 13, 24 Lacadena García-Gallo, A., 48, 57, 59, 68, 69, 129–132, 134, 135, 143, 144, 147, 157, 167, 172, 175, 253, 256, 265, 278, 279 Lambert, W. G., 24 Lambscher, M., 174, 278 Landa, fr. D. de, 45–47, 51, 67, 69, 266–268, 279 Landes, Chr., 217 Lange, E., 318, 323 Laporte, J. P., 157, 168, 175 Larson, J. A., 323, 324 Leacock, C., 255, 269, 279 Leclant, J., 224, 234 Ledderose, L., 298, 312 Lehiste, I., 100, 114, 152, 175 Leitz, Chr., 241, 250, 318, 323 Lesko, L. H., 319, 323 Li Wen-Chao, 282, 312 Li, Chin-an, 93, 114 Li, P. Jen-kuei, 94, 114 Li Yun, 293, 312 Lieberman, S. J., 24 Lipinski, E., 250 Lippert, S. L., 85, 88 Li Haixia, 312 Loewe, M., 311

Looper, M. G., 47, 48, 59, 60, 69, 131, 133, 146–148, 153, 155, 156, 169, 175 Loprieno, A., 227, 228, 234, 304, 312 Louden, B., 304, 312 Lounsbury, F., 44, 48, 55, 56, 69, 141, 175, 260, 279 Love, B., 174 Macadam, M. F. L., 229, 234 Macri, M. J., 47, 48, 69, 131, 133, 146–148, 153, 155, 156, 169, 175, 176 Mair, V. H., 114 Marcus, H., 195 Marestaing, P., 236, 250 Marslen-Wilson, W., 305, 314 Martin, S., 55, 56, 58, 59, 61, 69, 143, 168, 175, 176, 270, 279 Masayoshi Shibatana, 98, 114 Masayoshi Shigeta, 114, 195, 196 Masini, F., 114 Mathews, P., 50, 51, 69 Matthews, R. J., 24 Mattingly, I. G., 298, 312, 313 Mattos, G. L., 101, 114 Maul, S. M., 20, 24 Mayrhofer, M., 213, 217 McAuley, Th. E., 113 McCulloh, Jr., J. H., 46, 69 McGee, R. J., 137, 175 McNab, C., 191, 195 Meng Guangdao, 313 Meeks, D., 236, 250 Meheretu Adnew, 188, 195 Meléndez, L., 131, 133, 141, 144, 146, 153, 172, 175 Menchetti, A., 88, 90, 236, 250 Mendel, D., 324 Michaud, E., 207, 217 Milbrath, S., 53, 69 Miller, M., 143, 176, 270, 279 Miqier, 109, 115 Mitchiner, M., 208, 217 Möller, G., 86, 90, 236, 250 Montgomery, J., 48, 49, 69, 161, 277, 279 Mora-Marín, D. F., 43, 69, 172 Moran, W. L., 127 Morenz, L., 74, 90, 237, 250 Morris, A. A., 163, 176 Morris, E. H., 163, 176 Most, G. W., 24 Murphy, G. L., 287, 312 Nakamura Hajime, 285, 313 Naseema Mohamed, 197, 205

author index Nelson, Z., 154, 155, 174 Neu, E., 118, 127, 347 Newland, A. R., 42 Nims, Ch. F., 83–85, 90, 91, 319, 324 Nissen, H. J., 24, 25 Nock, A. D., 321, 323 Noegel, S. B., 304, 312, 313 Norman, J., 101, 114 Norman, W. M., 131, 143, 144, 175 Novotná, Z., 102, 103, 114 Nunberg, G., 287, 313 O’Neill, P. G., 27, 42 Odendahl, W., 284, 305, 308, 313 Oelsner, J., 25 Olivelle, P., 217 Osing, J., 74, 88 Otto, S., 89 Pallan, C., 131, 133, 141, 144, 146, 153, 172, 175 Pan Wuyun, 300, 313 Panman, O., 287, 313 Parpola, A., 207, 217 Paul, H., 93, 114 Pearce, L. E., 16, 25 Pernigotti, S., 88 Pestman, P. W., 239, 251 Peust, C., 74, 87, 90, 228, 234, 242, 251, 317, 324 Peyraube, A., 111, 114 Pierce, R. H., 224, 234 Pollock, H. E. D., 136, 176 Porten, B., 322, 324 Posener, G., 75, 90 Priese, K.-H., 224, 228, 234 Proskouriakoff, T., 160, 176 Pulcini, V., 100, 115 Pulleyblank, E. G., 283, 313 Qui Xigui, 101, 114, 303, 313 Quack, J., 73–92, 235–251, 317–325 Quizar, R., 131, 170, 173 Rafinesque, C. S., 44, 46, 69 Ravin, Y., 255, 269, 279 Reents-Budet, D., 139, 174, 176 Reilly, K. F., 167, 176 Reintges, C., 291, 312 Restall, M., 45, 69 Ricci, L., 179, 195 Rice, D. S., 68, 69 Richter, R., 180, 184, 195 Ricoeur, P., 310, 313

385

Ridruejo, E., 114 Riese, B., 155, 156, 176 Riesenberg, S. H., 327, 329–337, 340, 341 Rilly, C., 221–234 Ritner, R. K., 321, 324 Robertson, J., 52, 57, 68, 129, 131, 174, 177, 253, 256, 265, 268, 278 Robertson, see Greene Robertson Roeder, H., 324 Roetz, H., 311, 312 Rollinger, R., 91 Rosemont Jr., H., 285, 313 Rubenson, S., 195 Ruiz, A. C., 68 Ruiz, see Ciudad Ruiz Ryholt, K. S. B., 76, 90, 323 Sachs, Chr., 217 Sagart, L., 283, 285, 289, 293, 294, 300, 313 Salvini, M., 117, 127 Sampson, G., 183, 195 Sander-Hansen, C. E., 304, 313 Sanders, Seth L., 1, 5 Sarfert, E., 327, 340 Sass, B., 76, 90 Saturno, W. A., 129, 145, 146, 153, 157, 167, 176, 253, 279 Sauneron, S., 86, 90 Scharfe de Stairs, E. F., 151, 176 Scharfe, H., 215, 217 Schele, L., 149, 154, 157, 159, 162, 176, 257, 259, 260, 262, 279 Schenkel, W., 80, 90, 236, 237, 239, 251 Schmidt, P. J., 164, 176 Schneider, Th., 73, 75–78, 80, 81, 89, 90, 92, 251, 318, 323, 324 Schoors, A., 251 Schweitzer, S. D., 77, 91, 237, 238, 240, 251 Scribner, S., 201, 204, 205 Sear, D. R., 208, 217 Seeley, C., 27, 30, 42, 98, 114 Seitz, R., 167, 176 Sen, S., 213, 217 Sessions, S., 177 Sethe, K., 75, 91 Seymour, Ph. H. K., 290, 311 Sharer, R. J., 167, 176 Shaugnessy, E., 311 Shi Feng, 313 Shibatani, Masayoshi, see Masayoshi Shirane, Haruo, 36, 42 Shisha-Halevy, A., 250, 317, 324

386

author index

Sigrist, M., 92 Siméon, R., 148, 152, 155, 156, 176 Simon, M., 31, 42 Simpson, J. M. Y., 195, 234 Sims-Williams, N., 212, 217 Singer, I., 123, 127 Sisson, V. B., 167, 176 Sivan, D., 80, 91 Smith, A. G., 334–336, 341, 343 Smith, J. S., 98, 115 Smith, M., 82, 91, 321, 324 Smith, R. E, 160, 176 Soden, see Von Soden Sohn, Ho-Min, 327, 334, 335, 336, 337, 338, 339, 340, 341, 343 Solana, N., see Gutiérrez Solana Soldt, W. F. van, xi, 117–127, 345–355 Spiegelberg, W., 86, 91 Spriggs, M., 177 Sproat, R., 207, 217 Stadler, M. A., 322, 324 Stairs, E. F., see Scharfe de Stairs Stairs, G. A., 151, 176 Steiner, R. C., 78, 83–85, 90, 91, 318, 319, 324 Steinkeller, P., 117, 127 Steinthal, H., 300, 313 Sternberg-el Hotabi, H., 251 Stuart, D., 43, 46, 52–55, 57, 58, 64, 68, 69, 129, 131, 135–137, 141, 145–147, 150, 153, 154, 168, 174, 176, 177, 253, 258, 261, 266, 268, 272, 273, 275, 277–279 Stuart, G., 44, 48, 69 Su Jinzhi, 283, 313 Tacke, N., 82, 91 Taddese Beyene, 183, 195 Takács, G., 73, 91 Tani, M., 269, 279 Taube, K. A., 53, 69, 145, 155, 158, 167, 171, 176, 177 Tawerilmang, A. F., 339–341 Taylor, J. R., 255, 269, 279, 287, 313 Teeter, E., 323, 324 Thiel, H. J., 120, 127 Thilenius, G., 340 Thissen, H.-J., 91, 250, 321, 324, 325 Thomasson, S. G., 177 Thompson, D. J., 212, 217 Thompson, H., 320, 321, 323 Thompson, J. E. S., 46, 47, 58, 69, 129, 160, 177, 256, 266, 268, 279 Thompson, S., 114 Timm, S., 25

Török, L., 224, 234 Tremlett, P., 114 Trigger, B. G., 233, 234 Truschnegg, B., 91 Tsao, Feng-fu, 95, 104, 115 Uhlig, S., 184, 195 Ulmer, G., 313 Unger, U., 291, 313 Upward, C., 100, 115 Vail, G., 272, 279 van der Veken, see Veken van Soldt, see Soldt Van Stone, M., 48, 54, 62, 67, 69, 258, 261, 266, 267 Vargas de la Peña, L., 48, 69 Veken, G. van der, 85, 89 Verhoeven, U., 86, 91, 236, 251 Vernus, P., 237, 251, 319, 325 Vitharana, V., 197, 205 Vittmann, G., 85, 91, 245, 251, 319, 322, 324, 325 Vleeming, S. P., 83, 89, 92, 236, 251, 319, 321, 325 Vomberg, P., 323 Von Euw, E., 63, 68, 136, 174 Von Soden, W., 352, 355 Von Winning, H., 148, 162, 177 Voogt, A. J. de, 1–5, 67, 172, 179, 197–205, 281, 327–343 Wang Jian, 304, 313 Wachmann, A., 357, 374, 379 Wäfler, M., 24 Wald, R. F., 260, 279 Walker, C. B. F., 25 Wang, W. S. Y., 101, 115 Ward, W., 82, 92 Weijini, 109, 115 Webster, D., 53, 69 Wegner, I., 117, 118, 127 Weippert, M., 25 Weninger S., 1, 5 Werness, M. D., 160, 162, 177 Wesselius J. W., 83, 92, 319, 325 Westendorf, W., 90, 243, 251 Whittaker, G., 155, 156, 177 Wichmann, S., 48, 57, 68, 70, 129–131, 133–135, 137, 138, 140, 142–146, 151, 152, 166, 169, 173–175, 177, 256, 266, 269, 278, 279 Widmer, G., 321, 325 Wiedenhof, J., 27, 93, 291, 314 Wilhelm, G., 117, 118, 127

author index Willems, H., 251 Wilson, P., 87, 90, 92 Winkel, M., xi, 27–42 Winter, M., 291, 314 Witthuhn, O., 323 Witzel, M., 207, 208, 213, 217 Woodard, R. D., 48, 67, 70, 173, 278 Wossene Yifru, 179, 195 Wright, D., 293, 314 Wu Zhenwu, 297, 314 Wyllie, C. E., 162, 177 Xiamen University, 104, 115 Yao Rongsong, 93, 115 Yalew Ingidayehu, 189, 196 Yanada, S., 27, 42 Yardeni, A., 322, 324 Yon, M., 122, 127, 354, 355 Yoyotte, J., 86, 90, 319, 325 Yu Min, 291, 314

387

Zauzich, K. Th., 91, 92, 246, 248–251, 319, 325 Zeidler, J., 80, 81, 92, 251 Zender, M. U., 50, 51, 59, 69, 137, 150, 177 Zhao Yuanren, 283, 284, 313, 314 Zhang Guangyu, 96, 115 Zhang Hao, 293, 314 Zhang Taiyan, 300, 314 Zheng Xianzhang, 303, 314 Zhou Wei, 306, 308, 314 Zhou Xiaolin, 312, 314 Zhou Yuanlong, 306, 308, 314 Zhu Liqun, 99, 115 Zibelius-Chen, K., 319, 325 Zimmermann, G., 47, 70 Zivie, A-P., 76, 92 Zwartjes, O., 114 Zwicky, A., 304, 314 Zwicky, E. D., 304, 314

LANGUAGE (GROUP) AND SCRIPT INDEX Abyssinian, see Fidäl Acateco, Acateca, 137, 139, 140, 141, 143 Afar, 193 Afro-Asiatic, 73, 90, 229, 324, 325 Agnwa, 193 Akkadian, 9–13, 19–23, 78, 117–120, 123–127, 207, 322, 347–355 American English, see English American Indian, see also Indian, North American, 75 Amharic, see also Fidäl, 179, 180, 183–188, 191, 195 Anyua, 194 Arabian, see Arabic, Old South Arabian (OSA) Arabic, 49, 188, 191, 193, 197, 204, 211, 222, 232, 350 Aramaic, 83, 85, 90–92, 207–209, 217, 319, 320, 322, 324, 325 Assyrian, 10, 21, 347, 348 Athabascan, 288 Austroasiatic, 300 Austronesian, 94, 99, 114, 327 Awacateca, 139 Awateco, 141, 144, 150 Awngi, 193 Babylonian, 10, 19, 21, 24, 122, 126, 347, 348, 352 Benesh, 357, 371, 373, 379 Brahmi, 181, 215, 216 Burmese, 301 Canaanite, 80, 318, 349 Caroline Islands, 4, 327–343 Caucasian, 347 Ch’ol, Ch’olan (Eastern), see also proto-Ch’olan, 135, 175, 265, 267, 268 Ch’oltí’, 57, 135, 138, 140, 144, 147, 150, 253, 265 Ch’ortí’, 57, 58, 135–137, 139–141, 147, 253, 265 Chinese, 1, 4, 27, 29–31, 34, 38–42, 93–115, 281–314 Chontal, 138, 147, 279 Chuj, 136, 139–141, 143, 144, 150 Coptic, 81, 82, 84, 88, 188, 230, 246, 322

Cretan, 78, 318 Cuneiform, 1, 2, 4, 9–25, 78, 80, 81, 89, 117–127, 207, 209, 237, 242, 322, 345–355 Cushitic, 179, 180, 193, 194 Dawro, 193 Demotic, 82–92, 225, 226, 229, 235–251, 319–325 Devanagari, 80, 81 Dhivehi, 197–205 Dhivehi Akuru, Dives Akuru, 197 DIRI, 14–16, 24 Dives Akuru, see Dhivehi Akuru Dravidian, 213 Dutch, 100, 114, 352 Easter Island, 329, 330 Egyptian, 4, 66, 68, 73–92, 221–234, 235–251, 291, 304, 312, 317–325 Elamite, 23, 24, 207 English, 21, 36, 38, 48, 53, 75, 96, 100, 101, 105, 107, 109, 111, 112, 115, 129, 143, 172, 173, 191, 192, 197, 198, 200–203, 222, 223, 241, 256, 274, 277, 279, 282, 304, 311, 324, 337, 338, 341, 364 epi-Olmec, see also Isthmian, 157, 253, 278 Eshkol-Wachmann, 357, 373–379 Ethio-Semitic, 179, 180, 193 Ethiopian, Ethiopic, see Fidäl Eveyla Akuru, 197 Faraulep writing, 332, 333 Feuillet, 360–362, 364 Fidäl, 4, 179–198 Formosan, see also Taiwanese, 94–96, 114 French, 4, 24, 100, 176, 191, 222, 223, 241, 342, 359, 364 Fuamulaku, 198, 199 Ge-ez, see Fidäl Gedeo, 193 German, 4, 75, 100, 114, 223, 248 gibberish, 85, 319 Greater K’iche’an, see also K’iche’, 135, 141

language (group) and script index Greater Mamean, see also Mam, 141, 144 Greek, 78, 85–90, 180, 181, 188, 208–212, 214, 217, 222, 226, 229, 230, 236, 304, 320–322 Hanyu Pinyin, 113 Hanzi, see also Chinese, 98, 101 Hadiyya, 193 Hakka, 95, 96, 99, 114 Harappan, 207, 217 Harari, 191, 193, 194 Hebrew, 79, 188, 313, 320, 324, 352 Hieratic, 86, 229, 235–239, 244, 245, 247, 249, 250, 317, 323 Hindu-Arabic, 188 Hirakana, see Kana Hittite, 78, 118, 122, 123, 127, 345, 347, 348 Huasteco, Huastecan, 131, 139, 141, 150 Huave, 151, 152, 176 Hurrian, 76, 117–121, 126, 127, 347, 350 Indian, see also American Indian, 80, 181, 212, 216, 225, 226, 230–232 Indic, 197, 209 Indo-Arian, 117 Indo-European, 197, 213, 224, 286 Iranian, 23, 92, 208, 212–214 Isthmian, see also epi-Olmec, 157, 253, 278, 279 Italian, 100, 115, 191, 359 Itza’, 44, 130, 138, 140, 141, 144, 150, 164 Ixil, 139, 141, 145, 172 Jacateco, 137 Japanese, see Kana K’iche’, K’iche’an, see also Great K’iche’an, 135, 138, 139, 141, 145, 147, 150, 151 Kachin, 301 Kambata, 193 Kana, Hiragana, Katakana, 27–42, 98, 107, 108 Kanbun, see also Chinese, 30, 38–40 Kanji, 27, 31–33, 97, 98, 110 Kanjikana-majiribun, 27 Kaqchikel, 139, 142, 145, 147, 150 Karkamis, 118, 122 Katakana, see Kana Kebena, 193, 194 Keficho, 193 Keftiu, 318

389

Kharosthi, 181, 209, 216, 217 Kinetography Laban, see also Labanotation, 367, 379 Koorete, 193 Kunama, 191 Labanotation, 357, 366–370, 373, 378–380 Lacandon, 135, 137, 140, 141, 150, 173, 175 Latin, see also Roman, 180, 192–194, 211, 22, 223, 224 Linear A, 318 Luwian, 76 Majangir, 193 Malayo-Polynesian, 335 Maldivian language, see Dhivehi Maldivian script, see Taana Mam, Mamean, see also Greater Mamean, 139, 141, 144, 150 Mandarin, 95–101, 104, 108–115, 282, 284, 301, 307, 313 Mandarin Phonetic Symbols (MPS), 98, 99, 107 Marek’o, 194 Mayan, 43–70, 129–177, 253–279 Medieval Central Asian, 302 Medieval Chinese (MC), 101, 113, 283, 292, 294–299 Meroitic, see also proto-Meroitic, 1, 4, 86, 221–234, 321, 322 Mesoamerican, 131, 152 Mikir, 301 Min, see Taiwanese Southern Min Mittani, 118, 122, 126, 347 Mixe-Zoquean, 135, 137, 138, 140, 142, 143, 145, 151–154, 157, 166, 167, 171, 177, 253, 279 Mixe, 138, 151, 174 Mocho’, 139, 140, 143, 144, 147, 150, 151 Modern Standard Mandarin (MSM), see also Mandarin, 284, 285, 291–299, 301, 302 Moji-e, 31–34, 42 Mopan, 135, 138, 139, 141, 144, 150 Náhuatl, 142, 143, 147, 148, 152–157, 159, 168–171, 175, 176 Napatan, see also Meroitic, 225–231, 234 New Persian, see Persian Nilo-Saharan, 179, 193, 194, 224, 229 Nilotic, 180, 194

390

language (group) and script index

North American, see also American Indian, 93 North-West Semitic, see Semitic Northern East Sudanic, 224, 232 Nubian, see also Old Nubian, 74, 76, 223, 224, 319, 321, 323 Nuer, 193 Old Nubian, see also Nubian, 223, 232 Old South Arabian (OSA), 181 Old Yi, see Yi Olmec, 166, 167, 176, 177 Omotic, 179, 193, 194 Oromiffa, 193 Oromo, 191 Otomanguean, 153 Persian, 85, 213, 226 Perso-Arabic, 197 Pinyin, see Hanyu Pinyin Popoluca de Otula, 151 Popoluca de Sayula, 151 Popti’, 137, 139–141, 143, 144, 150, 151 Poqomam, 142, 145, 150 Poqomchi’, 142, 145, 147, 150 Portuguese, 100, 184 Prakrit, 209 proto-Ch’olan, 151 proto-Elamite, see also Elamite, 23, 24, 207 proto-Mayan, see also Mayan, 57, 130, 136, 138–145, 147, 150–152, 156, 166, 173, 256, 257, 265, 268, 278 proto-Meroitic, 319 proto-Mixe-Zoquean, see also Mixe-Zoquean, 137, 138, 140, 142, 143, 145, 151, 152 proto-Sinaitic, 233 proto-Zoquean, pre-proto-Zoquean, 135, 137, 140, 142, 143, 145, 146 Ptolemaic, 87, 90, 92, 226, 236, 242, 247 Q’eqchi’, 135, 139, 140, 143, 145, 150, 268 Qanjob’al, 137, 139–141, 143, 144, 150, 268 Roman, 3, 49, 98, 99, 107, 109, 112, 115, 191, 194, 197, 201, 202, 204 Sabaean, 179–181, 194 Sacapulteco, 145 Saint-Léon, 362, 363, 371 Sanskrit, 207–217, 302, 303 Semitic, 11, 12, 73–82, 85, 86, 89–91, 117, 121, 123, 179–181, 183, 184, 188,

190, 193–195, 197, 241, 242, 250, 317–320, 323–325, 348, 355 Sidama, 193 sign language, 357 Silte, 193 Singhalese, 197 Sinitic, 95, 96, 99, 313 Sino-Japanese, 33 Sino-Sui, 301 Sino-Tibetan, 301, 313 Sino-Vietnamese, 301 Sipacapense, 139, 141, 145, 149 Somali, 191, 193 Sorobun, 30 South Semitic, see Semitic Southern Min, see Taiwanese Southern Min Sténochorégraphie, 362 Stepanov, 362, 364–366, 379 Sumerian, 9–11, 13, 14, 19–24, 118, 123, 208, 347–351, 353, 354 Sumero-Akkadian, 207 Suri, 193 Tzeltal, 136, 139, 140, 143, 144, 147, 150, 268 Tzotzil, 139–141, 147, 148, 150, 268 Taana, 197–205 Tai-Kadaiic, 288 Taiwanese Southern Min (TSM), 95, 99, 104, 109, 110, 111, 113, 115 Tangut, 301 Teco, 139, 141, 144, 150 Teotihuacan, 142, 148, 157–160, 168–171, 173, 177 Thaana, see Taana Tibetan, 231, 301 Tigre, 191 Tigrigna, 180, 188, 191, 193 Tojolab’al, 136, 139, 140, 143, 144, 150, 268 Totonac, 153, 169 Trukese, 327, 331 Tuzanteco, 139–141, 143, 144, 147, 151 Tzeltal, 136, 139–141, 143, 144, 147, 150, 268 Tzutujil, 139, 142, 145, 150 Ugarit, Ugaritic, 118, 121–127, 345–355 Ulithian, 327 Uspanteco, 141, 145, 147, 150 Uto-Aztecan, 142, 143, 153, 154, 171, 173 Vedic, 213

language (group) and script index

391

Wolaitta, 191, 193 Woleai, see Caroline Islands Woleaian, 327, 331, 334–341

Yucatec, Yucateco, 43, 44, 58, 64, 130, 134, 135, 137, 138, 140, 141, 143, 144, 147, 150, 152, 161, 265–268, 272

Xamtanga, 193

Zapotec, 164–166, 169 Zoque de Chiapas, 151 Zoquean, see also Mixe-Zoquean, proto-Zoquean, 135, 143

Yeniseian, 288 Yi, 301

SUBJECT INDEX abbreviation, 27, 59, 60, 113, 140, 141, 147, 154, 156, 157, 242, 256, 265, 272, 274, 354, 358, 359, 374 abugida, see also alphasyllabary, 183, 185, 190 adaptation, adapt, adaptable, 1, 9, 27, 75, 86, 88, 117–119, 126, 135, 180, 214, 221, 230, 233, 253, 260, 331, 335, 339, 349, 358, 378 adoption, 27, 133, 142, 143, 145, 148, 170, 171, 257, 361 administration, administrative, 9, 17, 25, 110, 179, 191, 200, 207, 209, 227, 235, 244, 249, 305, 327, 334, 345, 347, 349, 350 aesthetic, 41, 42, 304 allophone, allophonetic, 119, 121, 302, 349 alpha-syllabary, alphasyllabic, see also abugida, 183, 197, 198, 224, 225, 230–232, 301 ambiguity, ambiguous, see also disambiguate, 3, 9, 10, 50, 66, 73, 221, 222, 226, 228, 229, 231–233, 243, 244, 249, 285, 312, 335, 336 ambiphonetic, 297 anacyclical text, 308 animal, animated, 34, 47, 50, 52, 53, 56, 57, 62, 66, 136, 137, 151, 164, 165, 171, 239, 245, 318, 378 anthropomorphic, 47, 53, 56, 57, 59, 62, 65, 66 anthroponym, anthroponymic, 232, 234 appropriation, appropriated, 30, 40, 42, 244, 287, 337, 340 archaeology, archaeological 58, 68, 69, 127, 131, 138–142, 157, 160, 164, 174–177, 226, 250, 253, 255, 345 archaic, 24, 25, 111, 195, 311, 313 assimilation, assimilated, 100, 104, 113, 244 auxiliary script, 99, 106, 107 bamboo, 294, 298 bilingual, see also multilingual, 89, 90, 93, 118, 173, 201, 202, 204, 323, 341 bi-script, biscriptual, see also multilingual, 97, 160

bird, 14, 15, 47, 55, 69, 138, 156, 226, 291, 378 birth, birth day, birth name, 156, 165, 166 board game, see game book pedlar, see pedlar borrowed, borrowing, 3, 23, 27, 73, 75, 85, 88, 93–115, 119, 140, 142, 151, 153, 167, 170, 173, 174, 185, 188, 347 borrowed form/meaning/graph definition, 104 boundary between script and picture, 31 word boundary, 186, 228, 338 bronze, 210, 291, 298 Bronze Age, 123, 345 bureaucracy, bureaucratic, 123, 239, 345, 347, 349 boustrophedon, 183 calendar, calendrical, 34, 35, 39, 44, 52, 62, 68, 69, 157, 160, 161, 165, 260, 266, 278 calligraphy, calligraphic, 30, 162 canoe, 330, 333 card game, see game cartouche, 41, 161, 162, 169, 224, 225, 266, 268 cephalomorphic, see also head-shaped, 47, 50, 51, 57–59, 62, 65, 67 character ambiphonetic, 297 homosomatic associative, 296, 312 intrasyntactic, 301, 302 mutually commenting, 293 phonosemantic, associative, 107, 293, 297, 298, 300, 308, 309, 312 circle, see also square and triangle, 36, 183, 185, 198, 241, 298, 362, 374 classifier, 239, 250 clay, 9, 123, 210, 322 cnws, v, xi, 173, 278 code switching, 201, 202, 349 coexistence, coexist, 80, 94, 204 colophon, 14, 17, 350, 354 comma, see also punctuation, 32, 33, 186 communication, communicative, 1, 30, 97, 241, 333–336

subject index compound, compounding, 14–16, 46, 100, 109, 111, 162, 285, 290, 303 computer, 100, 112, 114, 200, 241, 278, 378 conundrum, 19, 304–306 cryptography, 9, 14, 17, 21, 25 cultic text, 118, 350 cursive, 27, 28, 30, 33, 41, 223–226, 228, 235–237, 243, 244, 247, 322 damage, damaged, 61, 62 decipherment, 44–46, 50, 55–58, 68, 69, 136, 158, 175, 177, 217, 223, 241, 244, 248, 249, 263, 267, 271, 272, 278 undeciphered, 145, 229 deer, 153, 161, 165, 166, 296 default, 77, 110 determinative, 10, 12, 15, 19, 22, 74, 75, 78, 85, 87, 109, 226–229, 233, 239–248, 268, 348 determiner, 294, 309 diacritic, diactrical, 177, 181, 198, 200, 223, 242, 247, 248, 297, 335 digit, see also numeral, 188 digraph, 113, 223, 230, 231 direction of writing, 88, 133, 181, 183, 283, 306 direction of contact, influence, development, 3, 93, 94, 96, 97, 98, 113, 157 direction symbols (dance), 358, 366, 368, 371, 374, 376 disambiguate, see also ambiguity, 3, 269, 285, 295 divider sentence-divider, 186 word-divider, 78, 85, 186, 224, 228 word-list divider, 186 donor language, 78, 96, 100, 104–111, 133, 143, 148, 171 dot dot for determinative, 247 dot divider, 186 dot for doubling, 136 dot in Labanotation, 368, 373 dot numeral, 44, 165, 257 dummy, 106, 231, 232, 250 education, educated, educational, see also school, 10, 11, 19, 42, 62, 66, 93–96, 99, 104, 112, 115, 173, 180, 184, 189, 191–193, 195, 196, 317, 341, 360, 367, 379 ejective, 180, 185

393

epigraphy, epigrapher, epigraphic, 45, 46, 48–50, 52, 55, 62, 129, 131, 133, 134, 137–139, 150, 155, 173, 176, 217, 222, 241, 242, 256, 257, 265, 266, 277 epithet, 134, 146, 156, 161, 170, 319 exclamation, 98, 186 execration texts, 74, 87, 90 fish, 52, 53, 333 full-body, 47, 52, 57–62, 65, 66 game, 3 ball game, 157 board game, xi, 31, 308 card game, 198 geminatae, geminated, gemination, 119, 120, 192, 198, 215, 216, 226, 338 gesture, 64, 66, 361, 362, 364, 366, 368, 373 glottal stop, 45, 48, 124, 125, 175, 279, 285, 349 God, 12, 15, 17, 21–23, 44, 53, 58–62, 68, 69, 83, 84, 88, 136, 146, 150, 155, 156, 167, 170, 174, 177, 223, 227, 232, 236, 258, 260, 270, 274, 278, 318–320 grammatology, 1, 4, 287, 313 graphosection, 306, 308 groan-inducing, 19 hahaphony, 304 handedness, 64, 67 hierarchy, 96, 97, 202, 203, 262, 263, 274, 277, 288, 289, 304, 305 homographic, 223, 226 homology, 286–288 homonym, 52, 53, 57, 66, 221, 253, 255, 256, 263, 265, 266, 274, 277, 286, 287, 304, 312, 313 quasi-homonym, 39 homophone, homophonic, homophonous, homophony, 57, 66, 68, 101, 263, 277, 278, 283, 284, 286, 304, 306 homophonophoric, 295 homophonous, 101 homosomatic, 296, 311 horse, 35, 101 humor, 31, 40, 100, 283 iambic, 300 iconography, 49, 61, 66, 143, 148, 167, 168, 171, 173, 176, 177 ideograms, 10, 21, 74, 102, 227, 239

394

subject index

ideographic writing, see also logographic writing, 102, 221, 228 implosive, 192 infix, infixed signs, 23, 46, 129, 256, 288 inherent vowel, 75, 198, 231 interjection, 75, 243 intrasyntactic, 301, 302 inventory, 43, 45–47, 62, 66, 79, 123, 126, 162, 167, 245, 253, 254, 327, 342 jeu d’écriture, see also games, ludic, play, 2, 3, 42 jokingly, 283 king, 9, 17, 21, 49, 50, 55, 59, 61, 62, 66, 69, 74, 76, 86, 117, 118, 122, 123, 138, 140, 147, 149 150, 158, 160, 167, 168, 174–176, 214, 223, 224, 227, 228, 250, 258, 260, 263, 274, 275, 278, 303, 317, 347, 348, 352 kingdom, 43, 49, 73–77, 79, 81–83, 85, 87, 89, 90, 127, 223–225, 227, 230, 240, 242, 244, 246, 317, 318, 323 leaf, 57, 58, 136, 212, 243 leather, see also skin, 212–214, 236, 322 left-handed, see handedness lexicon, see also vocabulary, 24, 90, 92, 114, 238, 277, 287, 296, 312, 313 ligature, 84, 241, 303 lingua franca, 96, 118 literacy, 9, 95–97, 99, 102, 112, 173, 192, 204, 205, 250, 279, 311, 347 loan graph, 101, 106, 107 loanshift, 100, 152 loan translation, 100, 111, 114, 168 loanwords, 73–92, 93–115, 117–127, 129–177, 179–196, 197–205, 207–217 logogram, 10, 20, 21, 48, 57, 102, 129, 148, 227, 239, 240, 256, 264, 272, 273, 276, 279, 348, 351–355 logograph, logographic, 20, 25, 45, 46, 48, 50, 51, 52, 55, 56, 59, 66, 98, 102, 105, 129, 137, 148, 158, 160, 207, 255, 256, 263, 265, 266, 268, 272, 274, 285, 291, 300, 301, 304, 306, 351 logosyllabic, 45, 46, 207, 255 logosyllabographic, 305 ludic, see also play, games, 42, 281, 304, 306 mass communication, see communication metaphor, 58, 221, 303, 313

metonymies, metonymic, metonymical, 293, 303, 305 mind, 9, 36, 68, 88, 287, 297, 298, 308, 354, 371 mirror, mirrored, 49, 269, 293, 302, 308, 309, 314, 371 misleading, 101, 103, 216 missionary, 94, 99, 114, 184, 191, 193, 331 mixed, intermixed, 27, 129, 130, 190, 230, 235, 255, 317, 320 monkey, 52, 53, 164, 166 monovalency, 221, 230, 231 moon, 15, 17, 21, 53, 150, 282, 293, 308 multilingual, multiscriptual, see also bilingual, 93, 97, 114, 115, 205, 312 multiplicity, multiple, 255, 266, 268, 269, 287, 290 narrative, 43, 53, 59, 61, 64, 145, 162–165, 169, 171, 278, 279, 305, 310 neutral, neutrally, 55, 64, 77, 198, 211, 232 niche, 245, 302, 324 numeral, numeric, numerical, see also ordinal, 10, 23, 25, 39, 44, 49, 112, 161, 162, 164, 165, 186, 188, 194, 197 obscure, 5, 16, 19, 225, 226, 302 obsolete, 27, 42, 254, 256, 268 onomatopoeic, 27, 53, 55, 66 oracle bone, 291, 310, 312 ordinal, see also numeral, 257–259, 262, 263, 274, 277 origin, 16, 28, 40, 78, 83, 86, 90, 104, 110, 129, 135, 136, 140, 142, 143, 145, 148, 152, 154, 155, 157, 158, 160, 162–164, 166, 168–171, 175, 179, 210, 228, 230, 238, 253, 255, 257, 263, 311, 318, 329 originate, xi, 13, 14, 27, 33, 43, 118, 179, 210, 228, 294, 296, 360 orthography, orthographic, 12, 13, 23, 24, 69, 73–75, 77, 79–84, 86–88, 92, 99, 100, 103, 114, 118, 119, 125, 127, 129, 174, 194, 201, 204, 216, 222, 223, 229, 230, 232, 234, 236, 238, 247, 251, 256, 278, 286, 304, 312, 314, 319, 321, 322, 334–341, 343 ostracon, 88–90, 236, 250, 317, 323, 324 paint, painter, painted, 43, 44, 49, 61, 64, 67, 135, 139, 142, 146, 162, 163, 165, 173, 176, 266 paleography, 184, 195, 236, 250, 298, 311, 312, 314

subject index papyrus, 78, 84, 87, 89–92, 217, 230, 235, 236, 248–251, 317–321, 323–325 parchment, 179, 184, 185 parody, 38 particle, 19, 23, 39, 80, 98, 294 pedlar, iv, 32–34 pen, see also writing implement, 64, 210, 211, 213–215 philology, philologist, 1, 2, 5, 101, 234, 311, 312, 323 phoneme inventory, see also inventory, 118, 126, 327, 354 phonetic complements, 10, 14, 50–52, 57–59, 75, 76, 137, 158, 160, 238, 243, 244, 246, 266, 268, 269, 348 phonophoric, 294, 297, 298, 300, 301, 307, 309, 310, 312–314 phonosemantic, 107, 293, 297, 298, 300, 308, 309, 312 pictograph, pictographic, 9, 16, 291, 297, 298, 311 play, playful, playing, wordplay, interplay, xi, 1–3, 5, 30, 31, 36, 41, 42, 66, 68, 93, 102, 112, 157, 198, 283, 308, 312, 313 pluriconsonantal, 74, 77, 79, 238, 247 poetry, poet, poetic, 2, 30, 34, 189, 191, 198, 281, 282, 284, 301, 306, 308, 309, 312, 314 polygraphy, 221–223, 228, 229, 231, 233, 242 polysemy, polysemous, 221–234, 235–251, 253–279, 281–314 polyvalency, polyvalence, 221–234, 253–279 popular, 30, 31, 36, 38, 39, 41, 42, 96, 197, 216, 236, 295, 339, 360 practical, practicalities, 41, 77, 241, 289, 318, 340, 361, 378 prediction, predictive, predictable, 77, 80, 290, 308, 336, 349 priest, 44, 89, 174, 184, 223, 235, 308, 351 printing, 30, 31, 41, 188, 200, 240, 241 pronunciation, 17, 19, 23, 27, 39, 50, 75, 77, 78, 81–85, 87, 95, 98, 118, 120, 121, 155, 223, 232, 237, 246, 284, 285, 293, 294, 296, 302, 313, 339, 349 prose, 283, 285 prosodic, see also stress, tone, 289 pun, punning, 9, 17, 19, 20, 22, 30, 311–314, 322 punctuation, see also comma, divider, question mark, 186 pyramid, 75, 225, 226

395

queen, 69, 175, 224, 225, 234 question mark, question particle, 80, 186 rebus, 17, 287, 292, 297 reconstruction, reconstructed, 16, 53, 57, 129, 136, 137, 142–144, 147, 150, 151, 166, 224, 239, 256, 257, 260, 265, 268, 285, 303, 305, 313, 330, 332, 357, 371, 379 recursiveness, 298 redundancy, redundant, 188, 194, 238 rhyme, rhyming, 282, 283, 288, 290, 301, 312 riddle, 184, 304, 311, 312 sarcasm mark, 186 school, schooltext, see also education, 11, 19, 36, 73, 78, 98, 99, 188–191, 195, 201, 202, 204, 211, 249, 274, 303, 349, 350, 355, 364, 379 scribal practice, convention, 11, 136, 175, 279 seal, 24, 117, 298, 312 secret writing, see cryptography sentence-divider, see divider shorthand, 231 sign inventory, see inventory skin, 50, 61, 212, 217 slang, 96 sociolinguistic, 94, 96 sound inventory, see inventory spiral, 306 square, 133, 161, 162, 169, 281 standard, standardized, 27, 30, 33, 40, 42, 48, 62, 95, 99, 118, 185, 188, 211, 227, 236, 254, 282, 284, 294, 337, 338, 352 stress (linguistic), see also prosodic, 45, 51, 81, 129, 130, 140, 246 stroke, 9, 74, 186, 188, 192, 229, 240, 244, 246, 248, 306, 362, 368, 373 substitution, 43–70 syllable inventory, see inventory syllabogram, syllabographic, 48, 129, 306, 348, 354, 355 synonym, synonymy, 255, 266, 274, 277, 286, 287, 302, 310, 311 tablet, 11–13, 16, 19, 21, 62, 89, 122, 123, 210, 257, 318, 322, 354 tattoo, 330, 340 tone, see also prosodic, 112, 114, 222, 284 toponym, 67, 139, 155, 156, 353, 354 triangle, 286, 303 trigraph, see digraph typewriter, 200

396

subject index

undeciphered, see decipherment unreadable, 235–251 unwritten, 101, 106, 107 versatility, 2, 5, 204, 283, 355 video, 357, 379 vocabulary, see also lexicon, 49, 67, 68, 73, 78, 87, 91, 143, 173–176, 245, 277, 322, 373

wax, 210 wood, 19, 49, 210 woodblock printing, see printing word-divider, see divider word boundary, see also divider, 228, 338 wordlist, see lexicon, vocabulary writing implement, see also pen, 64, 239 zodiac, 34, 35 zoomorphic, 47, 60, 62, 65, 66, 138