Michele Berdy
Luckily for us, Michele Berdy continues to write her weekly column about Russian language usage in The Moscow Times newspaper. Here are her writings and musings from the end of last year.
Happy New Year everyone!
С новым годом!
--
Friday, December 29, 2006. Issue 3570
The Year of the Flying PigBy Michele A. Berdy
Успокоительные средства: tranquilizers
I love New Year's resolutions. Every year, I enjoy the utterly ludicrous belief that I can improve myself. Despite decades of proof to the contrary, this year for sure I can banish bad habits, exercise four times a week, back up computer files regularly, and become a kind, generous, and loving soul whose Russian is perfect.
Yeah, right. When pigs fly!
All the same, 2006 was such a tough year for Russia politically, socially and linguistically that I feel I ought to make an effort. Если хочешь изменить мир, сначала изменись сам. (If you want to change the world, change yourself first.) That's the theory, anyway. Here goes:
1. When I come across a word in Russian I don't know, before I get out four dictionaries and spend an hour on an Internet search, I resolve to say the word out loud. Then I will recognize копэкинг as co-packing, мол as mall, and секвестр as whatever the Duma wants it to mean.
2. I will embrace descriptive grammar. No more will I mentally red-pencil Russian news reports, changing такие случаи я не знаю to таких случаев я не знаю (I don't know any cases like that), because I accept -- truly I do! -- that language changes and you don't need the genitive case with a negated verb anymore. Долой прескриптивную грамматику! (Down with prescriptive grammar!) I shout, not even mentally correcting it to предписывающая грамматика (which is the same thing, only in real Russian).
3. I resolve to stop making up Russian words. I won't call an alarm clock разбудильник because Russians already call it будильник, even though clearly the point of an alarm clock is that it разбудит тебя (will wake you up) instead of будит тебя (tries to wake you up).
4. I will stop indulging in faulty folk etymology and asserting that деепричастия are signs of Divine Intervention (from Deus -- God -- and причастие -- communion), and instead, accept that these are adverbial participles and master their formation and use. How proud I will be to announce in dulcet tones: Желая скорее уехать домой, я быстро работала. (Wishing to go home as soon as possible, I worked fast.) And how embarrassed I will be if I continue to try to form participles out of the words that cannot be made into adverbial participles, like ждать (wait), петь (sing), писать (write), and печь (bake).
5. I resolve never to ask why ждать, петь, писать, and печь can't be made into adverbial participles. They just can't be.
6. I will be a good girl and take my medicine every day, and stop demonstrating my remarkable facility with Russian obscenity on Moscow roads. When the jerks in jeeps cut me off, missing my fender by a millimeter, I'll smile and say Так не надо (You shouldn't do that), instead of what I usually scream, which is: @#*(&@#*%&@(#.
7. I will stop shouting at the television news, adding the 15 aspects of the story that the newscasters are leaving out. Они же не виноваты. (It's not their fault). Besides, they can't hear me. But the neighbors can, and they're getting tired of it.
8. When I go to the United States and discuss Russia with friends and colleagues, I will stop arguing the point of view I don't believe in only because they are arguing an extreme and un-nuanced version of the point of view I do believe in, because somehow I end up sounding like the people I scream at when I see them on television news shows.
9. I will stop worrying that, if my government does something the Russian government doesn't like, I will have my visa revoked, my registration torn up, and my taxes for the last 25 years audited. I mean, that just couldn't happen, right?
Come on, lighten up! It's the holidays!
--
Friday, December 22, 2006. Issue 3567
Keeping You GuessingBy Michele A. Berdy
Гадать на кофейной гуще/на бобах: to read tea leaves
Feeling a little lost? Confused? Remember when you used to pick up the paper, read the news, and feel like you actually understood what was going on? Well, those days are long gone. Today, when you finish reading a news report, you end up with more questions than answers.
Which brings us to a word and its derivatives you see all the time these days: гадать (to guess, to tell fortunes).
The first thing you need to remember about this productive little word is where the stress lies: firmly on the last syllable. You do not want to confuse гадать with гадить -- stress on first syllable -- since that word means "to make a mess" -- including the kind a puppy makes on the rug. We are seeking clarity, not a can of worms.
Then you must pay attention to the prefix. You are first confronted with загадка (mystery). Я ничего не понимаю. Это полная загадка. (I don't understand a thing. It's a complete mystery.) Then you develop догадка (conjecture, guess). У меня одни догадки. (I can only guess.) Догадки are stabs in the dark, much less grounded in analysis than предположение (supposition) or прогноз (prognosis). Это прогнозы или всего лишь догадки? (Is this a sound prognosis or guesswork?)
When you are swimming in a sea of theories, far from the shore of facts, you can say теряться в догадках (literally, to be lost in conjectures). Я понятия не имею. Я теряюсь в догадках. (I have no idea. I'm way over my head.) Or you can just say: Я теряюсь. (I'm at a loss.) If you are so lost you are getting upset -- which is the way I feel every morning after reading the news -- you can say: Я в растерянности. (I'm totally at sea.)
As your guesses get warm-warmer-hot, you can use the verb догадываться/догадаться (to figure something out). Here you need to pay attention not only to the prefix, but to aspect. Yes, I know you hate aspect, but obscurity is worse. When you use the imperfective form, догадываться, it means you're still trying to crack this nut. Я не знаю. Я просто догадываюсь. (I don't know. I'm just guessing.) When you use the perfective form, догадаться, it means you've nailed that sucker. Я догадался, о чём идёт речь. (I figured out what's going on.)
When you hit the nail on the head, someone might call you догадливый (perceptive).
-- Я знаю, почему ты пришёл.
-- Эх, какая ты догадливая! ( -- I know why you've come. -- You're quick on the uptake, aren't you?)
At this point you can switch to a new prefix with the verb разгадать (to solve a mystery). You might use this word when you have solved some kind of scientific puzzle: Генетики разгадали секрет долголетия. (Geneticists have solved the mystery of long life.) Or when you are divining something unscientifically: Моя подруга хорошо разгадывает кроссворды. (My friend is good at crossword puzzles.) Or, less commonly, when you have gotten to the bottom of someone: Наконец-то я разгадал этого странного человека. (I finally figured out this strange person.)
These days, news commentators constantly use the unadorned гадать. Что на самом деле случилось? Можно только гадать. (What really happened? We can only speculate.)
Or worse: гадать на кофейной гуще or на бобах. These are two forms of fortune telling that use coffee grounds and beans. Russians have always practiced and believed in this kind of fortune-telling -- especially young women during the Christmas season, to see if the new year would bring a bridegroom. But today the expression means "to guess without any basis in fact" -- what we English-speakers call "reading tea leaves." Мы не можем понять, что происходит. Остаётся только гадать на кофейной гуще. (We can't understand what's going on. All we can do is read tea leaves.)
Coffee or tea, anyone?
--
Friday, December 15, 2006. Issue 3562
The Many Ways to Make MischiefBy Michele A. Berdy
Шальные деньги: a windfall, easy money
As this difficult year winds down, it's hard not to spend hours lamenting the state of the world. Not long ago in a private moment of exasperation, a journalist colleague described the behavior of some world leaders as adolescent. I had to agree; I can think of a number of heads of state whom I'd like to expel, suspend, ground or at the very least send to bed without supper. In Russian there is a very good word for this kind of behavior: шалить.
Шалить originally meant to go wild or crazy. Today, the verb and its derivatives convey wild and unacceptable behavior ranging from the playful to the dangerous. The trick is making sure you're talking about the right kind of nuisance.
You can use шалить to refer to children or teens being mischievous. Дети шалят. (The kids are misbehaving.) It can also be used in colloquial Russian to describe anything that is functioning badly: Часы шалят. (My watch isn't working right.) Нервы шалят. (My nerves are acting up.)
You can say, Шалишь! to mean "You're joking!" Ты выиграл конкурс?! Шалишь! (You won the contest?! You're kidding!) It can also be used less commonly to mean "No way!" В прошлый раз в концертный зал все проходили без билетов, а сейчас -- шалишь! (The last time everyone got into the concert hall without tickets, but now -- no way!)
Mischief and bad behavior are шалости, which usually have the connotation of pranks or benign mischief. You might also sigh "мужские шалости" (literally "male mischief") when your significant other reverts to adolescent behavior. In English, we usually say: Boys will be boys.
Mischief-makers are шалуны. These playful folks are not to be confused with шалопаи -- good for nothings, a word that sounds like it is derived from шалить, but which etymologists think is from the French word chenapan. Он -- молодой, талантливый, но шалопай. (He's young and talented, but a loafer.)
And the loafer шалопай is not to be confused with Шалтай-Болтай, the translator Samuel Marshak's wonderful invented word for Humpty Dumpty.
And Шалтай-Болтай shouldn't be confused with шаляй-валяй, which means doing something haphazardly.
But шалить has a darker side. In the old days, the misbehavior conveyed by шалить could mean danger: Ночью по большим дорогам шалят. (At night you can be robbed on the main roads.)
Шалить has two adjectival forms: One conveys playfulness and the other conveys a more sinister wildness. When you want to describe playful children, you call them шаловливые. Шальной is the adjective that means "gone wild" in a bad sense. It can mean someone who has lost his mind: Как шальной ходил по комнате. (He paced the room like a madman.) Шальные поступки are extreme, wild actions.
Шальная пуля is a stray bullet, that is, a bullet that has gone wild. Причиной взрыва в восточной части города стала шальная пуля. (The explosion in the eastern part of the city was set off by a stray bullet.)
Шальные деньги is "easy money," a windfall. In English, a windfall is a good thing. In Russian, it can be suspect: Шальные деньги приносят несчастье. (A windfall brings nothing but misery.) But it can also be used neutrally to describe, say, Russian petrodollars: Шальные нефтяные деньги будут инвестированы в "человеческий капитал" -- здравоохранение, образование и ипотеку. (The windfall of oil money is going to be invested in "human capital" -- health care, education, and mortgages.)
So, when describing heads of state, you choose: Are they шаловливые or шальные?
Michele A. Berdy is a Moscow-based translator and interpreter.--
Friday, December 8, 2006. Issue 3557
How This One WorksBy Michele A. Berdy
Как: how, when, like, as, since, as soon as, both; are you kidding?
A very good translator I know once said that when translating Russian into English, it's not the big words that are the killers (because you can find English equivalents); and it's not the "untranslatable" words and concepts (though they may wound you slightly as you struggle to convey them). No, you are most likely to be done in by the tiny, little, everyday words.
Like как. The simplest of words, one of the first words you learned in Russian 101. It means "how": Как вы поживаете? (How are you?)
Except when it means "what": Как вы думаете? (What do you think?) Here, the problem is not so much translating into English, but speaking in Russian. We English speakers tend to impose our grammar on Russian and ask Что ты думаешь? Что ты говорил? (what do you think; what did you say). While not absolutely wrong, it often doesn't sound quite right. That что where there should be как is the verbal equivalent of having "foreigner" tattooed on your forehead.
You also need different words and constructions when translating как in comparisons. Sometimes it can be simply rendered "as" or "like": Он голодный как волк! (He's as hungry as a wolf!) But in comparative expressions with "как..., так и" you can either use the construction "as... so," or, more colloquially, rephrase the sentence altogether: Как жил, так и помер (He died the way he lived, literally, "as he lived, so he died").
Another usage of "как... так и" can be translated as "both": Как мальчики, так и девочки стали пить пиво. (Both boys and girls have started to drink beer.)
In another case, как might be translated as "when" or "as soon as": Как придёшь домой, позвони мне. (Call me as soon as you get home.)
And in yet another case, как might be rendered as "since": Прошло два года, как мы поженились. (Two years have gone by since we got married.)
As a question, как can express everything from simple lack of comprehension to astonished horror or anger. Let's take the instructive case of Vanya, the irresponsible coworker.
At the lowest emotional level, как can be used for clarifying information. It's what you ask in a neutral tone when you aren't sure you heard someone right:
-- Ваня позвонил. Сегодня его не будет. Заболел.
-- Как? Кто позвонил?
("Vanya called. He's not going to be in today. He's sick." "Sorry? Who called?")
But it can also convey surprise:
-- Ваня заболел. Говорит, у него температура.
-- Как это? Вчера он был совершенно здоров.
("Vanya's sick. He said he had a fever." "Really? He was perfectly fine yesterday.")
Or ire:
-- Он позвонил и сказал, что вчера не закончил отчёт.
-- Как?! Он же обещал!
("He called and said he didn't finish the report yesterday." "What?! He promised he'd do it!")
You could mix and match participles -- ещё and как -- to convey the really big trouble Vanya is going to be in:
-- Ваню, наверное, будут ругать?
-- Ещё как! Шеф хочет его уволить.
("Do you think Vanya is going to get yelled at?" "And how! The boss wants to fire him.")
Or yet another participle combination -- как же -- to indicate agreement.
-- Ты помнишь Ваню?
-- Как же, как же. Как он? Устроился он на работу?
("Remember Vanya?" "Of course I remember him. How is he? Did he find a new job?")
Michele A. Berdy is a Moscow-based translator and interpreter.--
Friday, December 1, 2006. Issue 3552
Democracy for EverymanBy Michele A. Berdy
Суверенная демократия: sovereign democracy
Every once in a while I go on a linguistic self-improvement campaign, a mini-program of enlightenment designed to expand my horizons and raise my political consciousness. "Yo, Berdy," says I, "'tis better to light a candle than curse the darkness of your ignorance."
This time I decided to shine a light on демократия (democracy). First, I discovered that Russian doesn't really need the word. It comes from Greek via French and German, and is a synonym for народовластие, a nice, old Russian word that says what it means: that power (власть) is in the hands of the people (народ).
Now, in Russia it has been qualified as суверенная демократия (sovereign democracy). I read a zillion gigabytes on this term before finally finding the definitive definition, as it were, by Vladislav Surkov, deputy head of President Vladimir Putin's administration and the man who coined the term. It is: образ политической жизни общества, при котором власти, их органы и действия выбираются, формируются и направляются исключительно российской нацией во всём её многообразии и целостности ради достижения материального благосостояния, свободы и справедливости всеми гражданами, социальными группами и народами, её образующими (the model of the political life of society in which the authorities, their structures and actions are chosen, formed and directed exclusively by the diverse Russian nation as a whole to achieve material well being, freedom and justice for all citizens and social and ethnic groups that comprise it).
Got that? Well, how about this free translation: the political and economic system made by Russians for the benefit of Russians without any foreign interference. That pretty much sums it up.
Having shed some light on that issue, I forged ahead to the conundrum of демократический and демократичный, two of those paronymous words that are the bane of my existence. This is sometimes not problematic, since both words can sometimes be translated as "democratic." But my candle began to sputter when I tried to grasp the usage. Демократический describes something democratic in the sense of a political system. So you can have демократические страны (democratic countries), демократические институты (democratic institutions) and демократическое государство (a democratic state).
Демократичный describes something democratic in nature. Here we are not talking about social and political institutions, but a non-dictatorial approach. So you could say: Наш коллектив -- демократичный. Мы все участвуем в принятии решений. (Our office is democratic: We all take part in decision making.)
But it can also mean democratic in the sense of "open to everyone." Самый демократичный форум в рунете! (The most democratic site on RuNet!). It's a site where all can participate.
From democratic in the sense of "open to everyone," it's just a hop to "affordable for everyone." В нашем ресторане самые демократичные цены! (Our restaurant has prices everyone can afford, literally "the most democratic prices.") And then a skip to a synonym for "inexpensive": Самая демократичная машина! Производители вывели на российский рынок свою самую недорогую модель. (The car for everyone, literally "the most democratic car!" The manufacturers have introduced their most inexpensive model to the Russian market.) And then a final jump to a euphemism for "people with modest incomes": Мини-отели претендуют на демократичный сегмент рынка. (Mini-hotels are going after the lower-income market segment.)
And that's when my candle went out. Now I think: Nope, 'tis better to praise the darkness.
Michele A. Berdy is a Moscow-based translator and interpreter.--
Friday, November 24, 2006. Issue 3547
When a Goose Is Not a GooseBy Michele A. Berdy
Ну ты и гусь!: You sly dog!
You would think that animals and birds would be the same all over the world. Logically, a mule is stubborn, regardless of his place of residence. But that would be too easy. We humans see the world through our own cultural and linguistic prisms. And that means that one man's turkey is another man's chicken.
Or take the goose. In English-speaking countries, a goose is considered one of God's daftest creatures. One meaning of the word "goose" is "a silly person." But in Russian, гусь (goose) is a sly little devil.
I can't speak with great authority about the IQ of geese, although intuitively I would not entrust, say, the preparation of my tax return to a goose -- or to any other barnyard animal, for that matter. But I can attest to the fact that they are nasty, sneaky creatures. You don't want to turn your back (or backside) to a goose. A goose won't goose you, he'll nip you -- hard.
In Russian гусь is used figuratively to refer to a sneaky, untrustworthy person -- what we usually call a rat in English. You could call someone гусь лапчатый (literally, a web-footed goose): Этот гусь лапчатый обманул меня. А ведь он казался таким приятным молодым человеком. (That rat deceived me. And he had seemed like such a nice young man.) Or you could say: Ну ты и гусь! Вёл переговоры с нашей фирмой, а заключил контракт с другой! (You sneak! You negotiated with our company and then signed a contract with another!) Or you could snarl at someone: Ты советовал мне не посылать резюме в эту фирму, а потом сам устроился туда на работу! 'орош гусь! (You told me not to send my resume to that company and then you got a job there! You dirtbag!)
Since geese can be such nasty creatures, the last thing you want to do is get them riled. This bit of common sense has found its way into various versions of the expression не дразнить гусей (literally, don't tease geese). Зачем ты надела норковую шубу на встречу с рабочими? Зачем гусей дразнить? (Why on earth did you put on your mink coat to go meet with the workers? Why rub them the wrong way?)
You can use another expression to indicate that someone is not your sort: гусь свинье не товарищ (literally, the goose is no friend of the pig). Подчинённый решил выпить с начальником. Тот ему отвечал, что это невозможно -- гусь свинье не товарищ. (An employee decided to have a drink with his boss. His boss said that he couldn't possibly do that -- they weren't in the same league.)
While in English and Russian a reaction to fear or cold is гусиная кожа (goose flesh), in other cases, the languages have the same expressions, but use different fowl or images. Как с гуся вода (literally, like water off a goose) is the Russian version of "like water off a duck's back." The expression that came to English via a Greek fable, "to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs," involves a chicken in Russian: зарезать курицу, несущую золотые яйца (to slaughter the chicken who lays golden eggs). Fine wrinkles around the eyes are crow's feet in English and гусиные лапки (literally, goose's feet) in Russian. And идти гуськом (literally, to walk like a goose) is to walk single file in English.
But the low-down, sneaky, nasty goose has given Russian one lovely expression, unfortunately now quite obscure: гусиная дорога (literally, goose trail), a folk term for the Milky Way (Млечный путь). In Russian folk tradition, it was the path in the sky that geese used to orient themselves when migrating.
But maybe I just like it because when geese are on the wing, they can't bite your backside.
Michele A. Berdy is a Moscow-based translator and interpreter.
Labels: Michele Berdy, phrases, Russian language, usage, vocabulary
Michele Berdy - October columns
Where oh where have I been?! I don't know!
Где же я была?! Я не знаю!
Here are all of Michele's
Moscow Times columns for the month of October....starting with the most recent, so that they will appear on the blog in the usual (backward) order.
Enjoy!
Friday, October 27, 2006. Issue 3528.
The Sounds of Silence -- German StyleBy Michele A. Berdy
Немецкая слобода: the Foreign Quarter (a section of old Moscow)
One of the joys of Russian 101 is learning how to form nouns for people out of the names of their countries. Англия -- англичанин (England -- Englishman), Америка -- американец (America -- American), Франция -- француз (France -- Frenchman) ... Just when you think you've got the hang of it, the teacher says: Германия (Germany) and you cheerfully produce "германец," only to discover that, once again, you've been foiled by the Great and Powerful Wizard of Russian.
So how did Germans come to be called немцы in Russian? Simple: long, long ago, there was a word in old Russian that meant "unable to speak." When the first foreigners appeared, nattering away in their language and unable to speak a word of Russian, Russians logically applied this word to them.
Немцы was a kind of generic term that originally referred to all foreigners from Western Europe. Неметчина ("land of the Nemtsy") didn't really mean Germany; it meant "foreign lands to the West." Немецкое платье -- which sounds like "a German dress" -- meant Western European clothing (for men or women). And in Moscow немецкая слобода wasn't really the "German quarter" (although there were plenty of Germans who lived there), but more accurately "the foreign quarter."
Similarly, the expression что русскому здорово, то немцу смерть (today literally "what is healthy for a Russian is death to a German") first referred to foreigners in general. In English we usually say "one man's meat is another man's poison" -- which is what virtually all foreigners say in astonishment the first time they try a scalding hot баня, or steam bath. Well, maybe we aren't quite that polite or literate. Sometimes we say: Гены у них другие, что ли? (Do they have different genes or what?)
Over time the old word for немец got split into немец as foreigners/Germans and немой as "mute, unable to speak." The verb неметь can mean to lose the power of speech either literally -- больной немеет (the patient is losing the ability to speak) -- or figuratively from fear or horror: Я онемел от ужаса. (I was speechless with horror.)
The adjective немой can be used poetically in rather lovely phrases like немая ночь (silent night) or немая печаль (wordless sorrow). It can also be used less lyrically: Он глух и нем к просьбам, не хочет слышать и не отвечает. (He is deaf and mute to requests; he doesn't want to hear them and doesn't answer.) You also hear it in a little rhyme on table manners for children: Когда я ем, я глух и нем! (literally, "when I eat, I'm deaf and mute"). In the United States we hear a different dinner table litany: Don't talk with your mouth full!
Неметь is also the verb you use to describe something that has lost feeling or gone numb. In Russian, limbs lose the power of speech; in English, they take a snooze: Я отсидел ногу, и она онемела. (I sat on my leg too long and it fell asleep.)
Russia has always had a large German population, reflected in hundreds of depictions of Germans in Russian literature. Although the image of Germans is varied, the adjectives mostly frequently applied to them are честные (honest), основательные (thorough), and above all -- аккуратные (precise, exact). Несмотря на то, что сам человек русский, он хочет быть аккуратен, как немец. (Despite the fact that he's Russian, he wants to be as meticulous as a German.)
Today we like to think we are above such gross stereotypes as tidy Germans, sloppy Russians and mute foreigners. But before you get on a cultural high horse, you might recall the word that was once commonly used in English to describe a mute person: "dumb." People with speech impairments needed to point out that the inability to speak was not a sign of a lack of intelligence before that linguistic stereotype started to disappear.
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Friday, October 20, 2006. Issue 3523.
Talking About People From Over ThereBy Michele A. Berdy
Заморские гости: foreigners, visitors from beyond the seas
The very first time an ancient Slav looked out of his wooden hut and saw someone -- or a group of someones -- dressed differently and speaking a language he didn't understand, he needed to invent a new word. How else could he describe these newcomers to the gang at the local watering hole? Over the centuries, Russians have used a variety of words to describe foreigners and foreign lands.
Now, now, children; play nice. Most of these neutral words use either the prefix ино- (other) or за- (beyond). A good old adjective is заморский (literally, from beyond the seas), which today is used either to conjure up images of fairy tale or fantastical lands -- associated in the Russian imagination with Nikolai Roerich's lovely canvas "Заморские гости" ("Visitors from Beyond the Seas") -- or to describe neutrally a country's overseas territories. You know you are being hyped when a restaurant offers you заморские деликатесы (gourmet foods from lands beyond the seas) -- and you know you ought to check your cash supply before ordering. On the other hand, заморские владения Франции are simply the French Overseas Territories.
Sometimes journalists and PR folks play around with these associations and you can find humorous combinations, such as a firm that advertises itself as Заморские гости: аудит и консалтинг (Visitors From Beyond the Seas: Auditing and Consulting). Sometimes I like to joke around with this myself. When people ask me, Вы не гость из Прибалтики? (Are you a visitor from one of the Baltic states?) I tell them, Нет, я -- заморский гость. (No, I'm a visitor from beyond the seas.)
Other за- words have been made from рубеж and граница (both meaning border or boundary) to produce зарубежье and заграница and the adjectives зарубежный and заграничный. As adjectives they are usually translated as "foreign" and as nouns -- "abroad." Since the break up of the Soviet Union, the concept of "abroad" has been further defined as "ближнее и дальнее зарубежье," which translators have taken to rendering as "the near and far abroad." To which I respond: Say what? "The" abroad? Even my spell checker is having a heart attack.
Ближнее зарубежье simply means the former Soviet republics. So sayeth the Moscow State University Department of Geography, and that's gospel for me. Дальнее зарубежье is every place else. So наши представители в ближнем и дальнем зарубежье is quite simply "our representatives in the former Soviet republics and other foreign countries." Yes, I know this is a few more words, but come on, folks, it's at least English and comprehensible, two highly desirable qualities in a translation.
Now that I've gotten that off my chest, let's move on to the ино- foreigners. The old word инородец (literally, someone of another clan) was the word used in Tsarist times to describe ethnic minorities, especially from the East. Today this word can be used neutrally to describe non-Russians, but I have found it used pejoratively on web sites you don't want to read and I don't want to quote. I've mentally marked it as a word I should use with great care.
Another word for a foreigner is выходец (literally, someone who has come from): В центре Москвы убит выходец из Киргизии. (A man from Kyrgyzstan was killed in the center of Moscow.) It can be used to describe any kind of professional or personal origin: Он христианин, выходец из семьи арабских иммигрантов. (He's a Christian from a family of Arab immigrants.)
Иноземец (literally, someone from another land) is archaic and has been replaced by иностранец (literally, someone from another country). Kids call foreign countries за бугром (literally "beyond the hillock") -- something like the American reference to Europe as "on the other side of the pond." In their slang, people and things foreign are забугорные.
Which I guess makes me a hillbilly.
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Friday, October 13, 2006. Issue 3518.
It's Awkward in Everyone's LanguageBy Michele A. Berdy
Соболезнования: condolences
It is always hard to find words of sympathy. Everything seems heinously banal or inappropriately personal, overly formal or far too colloquial. You wish to commiserate but fear you are imposing; you want to offer support and comfort, but worry you may be causing more anguish. Regardless of nationality, we all struggle in our own languages to find the "right words." And it is even harder when we struggle to find the right words in a foreign language and culture, where we risk saying something that is inappropriate or even insulting.
In Russia, as in English-speaking countries, culture has given us a helping hand, providing us with a number of standard phrases and words. They may be somewhat ritualized, but at least we know they are culturally appropriate.
In Russian, as in English, one tactfully tries not to use the word смерть (death). Instead you might say or write: Я слышал, что у вас большое горе/несчастье (I heard that you have suffered a deep sorrow/misfortune.) Or: Вы понесли большую утрату. (I was sorry to hear of your great loss.) In a letter of condolence you might write formally: Вас постигла тяжёлая утрата. (I was sorry to hear of your terrible loss.) Or acknowledge that the loss was irreplaceable: Меня опечалила новость о вашей невосполнимой потере. (I was saddened to hear of your irreparable loss.)
The most common and appropriate expression of sympathy in Russian is an offer of your condolences: Примите мои глубокие соболезнования. (Please accept my deepest sympathy.) Or you could say: Я хотел бы выразить свои искренние соболезнования. (I would like to extend my sincere condolences.) There is also a verb, соболезновать (literally "to grieve together with"), but it is very rarely used, even in formal correspondence: Я вам соболезную. (I offer you my condolences.)
Unfortunately, you can't easily say in Russian what we most commonly say in English: I'm sorry. In English it conveys profound regret over what has happened and a sense of shared pain and grief. In English-language films badly translated into Russian, you can hear the travesty of "Извините" for "I'm sorry," which either sounds as if the person is apologizing for the death or asking to be excused from the room: -- В прошлом году мой муж умер. -- Извините. (-- Last year my husband died. -- Excuse me.) The closest way to express this in Russian is Я вам сочувствую от всей души (I want to say how sorry I am from the bottom of my heart, literally, "I sympathize with all my soul"). You could also say: Мне так жаль (I'm so regretful), but since you could use this in Russian for misfortunes of far less magnitude, it usually sounds woefully inadequate.
If you want to let someone know that you share their grief, you might say: Я очень переживаю за вас. (I'm so distressed for you.) Or the formal: Я разделяю вашу печаль. (I share your sorrow.) Or the very formal: Я скорблю вместе с вами. (I mourn with you.) Theoretically, you could also say: Я понимаю ваше горе (I understand your grief), but Russians -- like English-speakers -- hesitate to say this, recognizing that grief and loss cannot ever be truly shared or understood.
In Russian, it is appropriate to simply express horror or sadness. Какое горе! (What a tragedy.) Как печально! (This is so sad.) Какая ужасная потеря! (What a terrible loss.). Or you might commiserate by sharing your own feelings: Я не могу в это поверить. (I can't believe it.)
If you are sure this would be appropriate, you might say: Я молюсь за вас. (I pray for you.) Or you can simply confess that words fail you: Я не могу найти слов утешения. (I can't find words of comfort.)
Perhaps the most common Russian expression of commiseration, and the most welcome, is also the most simple: Чем я могу вам помочь? (How can I help you?)
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Friday, October 6, 2006. Issue 3513.
Moscow's Fall Is a Women's SummerBy Michele A. Berdy
Бабье лето: Indian summer
Judging by literature and poetry, Russians are of two minds about autumn (осень). Or maybe there are just two kinds of Russian autumn. There's the good kind, which is described as ясная (clear), яркая (bright), светлая (light) and золотая (golden). It's golden because the Russian forests are filled with birches and aspens, although for climatic or botanical reasons that elude me, even the maple leaves in Moscow usually turn yellow and not orange or red.
If you like the fall, you're in good company. The poet Alexander Pushkin famously preferred autumn to all the other seasons: Сказать вам откровенно/Из годовых времён я рад лишь ей одной (To tell you honestly/Of all the seasons this one alone brings me joy). Not to mention millions of Russian peasants: With the brutally hard work in the fields over and plenty of food, the fall was a bountiful and restful time of year, marked by particularly festive church holidays. Осень -- пора престольных праздников, и народ в это время прибран, доволен. (Autumn is a time of saint's days, and during this season people are tidy and content.)
But the bad kind of Russian autumn is very bad indeed, and citified Russian writers have found it profoundly depressing. The bad autumn is мокрая (wet), сырая (damp), унылая (dreary), туманная (foggy), грустная (sad), тоскливая (depressing), безжалостная (cruel) ... дожди студёные и грязь чуть не по колено (the rain is freezing and the mud is nearly up to your knees). Once Maxim Gorky dourly noted: Осень была ранняя, дождлива, холодна, богата болезнями и самоубийствами. (Autumn was early, rainy, and cold, rich in illness and suicides.)
Осень doesn't have such good associations with Russian city folk today. Осеннее настроение (an autumnal mood) is a feeling of melancholy and hopelessness. Or someone might sigh any time of the year: У меня осень в душе (There's autumn in my soul). Осеннее обострение (literally, "fall flare ups") refers to the purported tendency for the mentally unstable to get totally unhinged this time of year. Today, this phrase is used in newspaper stories describing a worsening of any kind of situation that happens to take place in the fall: Осеннее обострение в Тбилиси. Между Россией и Грузией разразился нешуточный скандал. (Autumn relapse in Tbilisi: A serious row has erupted between Russia and Georgia.)
This year, at least, Muscovites can't complain too much. So far we've had the good kind of autumn with one of the longest and warmest periods of бабье лето (Indian summer) on record. The phrase бабье лето (literally, "women's summer") is understood as any period of warm and sunny days after the first cold snap in the fall, or (less commonly) the time just before old age when a woman regains the vibrancy and beauty of youth.
Why it is called бабье лето seems to be a bit of a linguistic mystery. One source posits that it referred to the period of "women's work" after the harvest, when the village women spent relatively relaxed days and evenings preserving the harvest and weaving cloth. Another source cites the belief that women could magically change the weather, turning cold autumn days unseasonably warm. Yet a third etymologist -- with a lyrical nature -- notes that бабье лето is the fine spider's web that covers the fields and woods before a dry autumn and is reminiscent of a woman's first strands of gray hair. And a fourth states that the phrase came from the image of sun that could warm even a crone's bones, and notes that it originally referred to the hottest time of year in early June.
Today's folk and joke etymologists have a different explanation: Какие бабы, такое и лето. (With these kinds of women, we get this kind of summer.)
Well, that's a cheering thought. Apparently this year the women in Moscow are fabulous.
Michele A. Berdy is a Moscow-based translator and interpreter.
