by Arika Okrent
To Derrick
CONTENTS
Nine Hundred Languages, Nine Hundred Years
1. Scaring the Mundanes
2. A History of Failure
John Wilkins and the Language of Truth
3. The Six-Hundred-Page Rewrite
4. A Calculus of Thought
5. A Hierarchy of the Universe
6. The Word for “Shit”
7. Knowing What You Mean to Say
Ludwik Zamenhof and the Language of Peace
8. A Linguistic Handshake
9. Un Nuov Glot
10. Trouble in Volapükland
11. A Nudist, a Gay Ornithologist, a Railroad Enthusiast, and a Punk Cannabis Smoker Walk into a Bar …
12. Crank Pride
Charles Bliss and the Language of Symbols
13. Word Magic
14. Hit by a Personality Tornado
15. Those Queer and Mysterious Chinese Characters
16. The Spacemen Speak
17. The Catastrophic Results of Her Ignorance
James Cooke Brown and the Language of Logic
18. The Whorfian Hypothesis
19. A Formula for Success
20. Suitable Apologies
21. Meaning Quicksand
22. To Menstruate Joyfully
The Klingons, the Conlangers, and the Art of Language
23. Flaws or Features?
24. The Go-To Linguist
25. What Are They Doing?
26. The Secret Vice
Appendix A: The List of Languages
Appendix B: Language Samples
Notes
Acknowledgments
Scaring
the Mundanes
Klingon speakers, those who have devoted themselves to the study of a language invented for the Star Trek franchise, inhabit the lowest possible rung on the geek ladder. Dungeons & Dragons players, ham radio operators, robot engineers, computer programmers, comic book collectors—they all look down on Klingon speakers. Even the most ardent Star Trek fanatics, the Trekkies, who dress up in costume every day, who can recite scripts of entire episodes, who collect Star Trek paraphernalia with mad devotion, consider Klingon speakers beneath them. When a discussion of Klingon appeared on Slashdot.org—the Web site billed as “News for Nerds”—the topic inspired comments like “I'm sorry but it's people like this that give science fiction a bad name.” Another said that Klingon speakers “provide excellent reasons for forced sterilization. Then again being able to speak Klingon pretty much does this without surgery.”
Mark Shoulson, who has a wife and two children, doesn't enjoy being talked about this way. “It's okay to laugh about it, because it's funny. It's legitimate to laugh. Klingon has entertainment as part of its face value. But I do get annoyed at some of the ruder stuff.” Mark was my unofficial guide to the world of Klingon. When I met him, we lived in the same New Jersey town. I discovered this browsing the Internet, where I also found that he was assistant director of the Klingon Language Institute (KLI) and editor of the Klingon translation of Hamlet. I wrote him, and he e-mailed me back the same day, saying he was so excited by the prospect of another Klingon speaker so close by that he didn't even finish reading my message before he responded.
I wasn't yet a Klingon speaker, and I wasn't really planning on becoming one. I was a linguist who had developed a side interest in the subject of artificial languages, and I wanted to talk to Mark for research purposes. People really spoke Klingon—so claimed the Klingon Language Institute materials anyway—and I wasn't sure what that meant. When people “spoke” Klingon, was it playacting? Spitting out little words and phrases and putting on a show? A charades-like guessing game where someone sort of cobbled together a message and someone else sort of understood it? Or was it actual language use?
If it was the latter, then this was something I needed to see for myself, because that would make Klingon something so remarkable as to be almost unheard of—a consciously invented language that had been brought to life.
Although we like to call language mankind's greatest invention, it wasn't invented at all. The languages we speak were not created according to any plan or design. Who invented French? Who invented Portuguese? No one. They just happened. They arose. Someone said something a certain way, someone else picked up on it, and someone else embellished. A tendency turned into a habit, and somewhere along the way a system came to be. This is how pidgins, slangs, and dialects are born; this is the way English, Russian, and Japanese were born. This is the way all natural languages are born—organically, spontaneously.
The variety of shape, pattern, and color found in the languages of the world is a testament to the wonder of nature, to the breathtaking array of possibilities that can emerge, tangled and wild, from the fertile human endowments of brain and larynx, intelligence and social skills. The job of the linguist, like that of the biologist or the botanist, is not to tell us how nature should behave, or what its creations should look like, but to describe those creations in all their messy glory and try to figure out what they can teach us about life, the world, and, especially in the case of linguistics, the workings of the human mind.
In libraries organized according to the Library of Congress call number system, linguists can usually be found in the stacks classified in the first half of the Ps, anywhere from subclass P, which covers general linguistics, to subclass PN, where “literature” starts. When I was in graduate school, I used to wander this territory, in a procrastinatory haze, noting how the languages covered by the intervening categories became more and more “exotic” the farther I got from PA (Greek and Latin). I would first pass through aisles and aisles of Romance languages, then Germanic, Scandinavian, English, Slavic. There at the end of the Slavic section, at PG9501, things would start to get interesting, with Albanian, followed by the offerings of PH—the Finno-Ugrics (Veps, Estonian, Udmurt, Hungarian), the mysterious Basque. By the time I got to PL, I would be far from Europe, drifting through Asia and Africa, lingering over A Grammar of the Hoava Language, Western Solomons or The Southern Bauchi Group of Chadic Languages: A Survey Report.
The final subclass, PM, was a tour through the New World, starting with the Eskimo languages of Greenland and Alaska and proceeding southward through Tlingit, Kickapoo, and Navajo to the Mayan and Aztecan languages of Mexico and Central America, down across the Amazon, through the Andes and the plains of Brazil, until I reached the islands off the southernmost tip of South America with Yámana-English: A Dictionary of the Speech of Tierra del Fuego. From there, there was nowhere to go but to the borders of language itself—the contact, or “mixed,” languages, the pidgins and creoles of the PM7800s: Spanish Contact Vernaculars in the Philippine Islands; Le Créole de Breaux Bridge, Louisiane: étude morphosyntaxique, textes, vocabulaire.
At the very end of this lush orchid garden of languages there was one more section, where linguists don't generally care to visit—a few lonely shelves of faded plastic flowers, the artificial languages. The Klingon Dictionary was here, among other books on languages I had never heard of: Babm, aUI, Nal Bino, Leno Gi-Nasu, Tutonish, Ehmay Ghee Chah. These were not lighthearted language games, like pig Latin, or the spontaneous results of in-group communication, like Cockney rhyming slang or surfer jargon. They were invented on purpose, cut from whole cloth, set down on paper, start to finish, by one person. They had chapters and chapters of grammar and
extensive dictionaries. They were testaments not to the wonder of nature but to the human impulse to master nature. They were deliberate, painstakingly crafted attempts to tame language by making it more orderly, more rational, less burdened with inconsistencies and irregularities. There were hundreds of them. And they were all failures, dead in the water, spoken by no one.
Well, of course they were. If you plant a plastic flower, will it grow? So I was skeptical about the claims that Klingon—Klingon?—had really defied the odds and sprouted roots. In the name of research, I registered for the annual Klingon conference, or qep'a', to occur in Phoenix at the end of the summer. I wanted to be prepared, and so I arranged to meet with Mark.
For our first meeting Mark showed up in a T-shirt with the International Phonetic Alphabet printed on it, and I soon discovered that all his T-shirts were a form of self-expression. In fact, everything he owns somehow advertises his interests to the world. On his minivan he has a KLI license plate holder and an LNX sticker (proclaiming himself a user of the Linux operating system). On the vest he wears most days, he displays his three Klingon certification pins; membership pins for the Dozenal Society (“they advocate switching to a base 12 system from the base 10 system we use for numbering”), Mensa (“it's a way for insecure people to feel better about themselves”), and the Triple Nine Society (“a more extreme kind of Mensa”); and a button he made that says “If you can read this you are standing too close” in Braille.
I usually met with Mark at a kosher pizza place. He's an Orthodox Jew who follows all the rules, but jokes that he would be an atheist “if I weren't such a scaredy-cat.” He is slender and jittery, one knee constantly bouncing as he talks in a speedy patter. His eyes convey both friendliness and sadness, as if he hopes you will like him but wouldn't be surprised if you punched him. He never finished his Ph.D. in computer science, and he has had trouble holding down a job, to which he credits his attention deficit disorder (“It's not an excuse; it's an explanation”). He cares for his children while his wife, a physician, works, and he teaches computer programming part-time at a yeshiva in Newark. While many bright people like Mark tend to blame the world for not rewarding them more heartily for their smarts, he accepts his own responsibility in the matter. He knows a lot, but not much of it is career making. He is, as he might put it, a polymath of esoterica. His other interests include knot making, typography, mathematical knitting, and calendrical systems. We flew to Phoenix together, and when the plane took off, he pulled a book out of his duffel bag titled Science from Your Airplane Window.
Mark is an extreme case of the Klingon-speaker type—a computer guy with an interest in languages and a slightly hurt pride in his status as an outsider. He doesn't fear being called a geek, even by the geekiest, because what is happening with Klingon is just too damn interesting. “So-called normal society,” Mark says, “spends all these resources figuring out new and exciting ways to drape cloth on our bodies. What's so bad about having fun with this little language?” While his life has been marked by some unpleasant run-ins with so-called normal society, he has no desire to appease it. The part of the qep'a' he was most looking forward to was going out to restaurants with the participants (some in costume), speaking Klingon, and “scaring the mundanes.”
I wasn't looking forward to that as much. Not as brave as Mark, and probably more of a mundane myself, I felt conflicted about whether to call the conference hotel to request the special conference rate. In order to do this, I would have to, as the registration materials stated, identify myself as a conference attendee. I rehearsed in my head: “Hi, I'm with the Klingon conference …” I tried to get up the nerve to call, but in the end I reserved my room online from a comfortable cushion of anonymity.
And then I got to work on my verb charts and lists of affixes. I needed to study in order to pass the first language certification exam. The Klingon Language Institute, what you might call the academy of the Klingon language, runs the qep'a' and also administers the Klingon Language Certification Program. Passing the first certification exam earns you a bronze pin and the title of taghwI' (beginner). The second test confers a silver pin and the title ghojwI' (intermediate), and the third test earns a gold pin and the title po'wI' (advanced).
I didn't know about the tests until Mark told me. I had been casually studying the Klingon dictionary, intending to familiarize myself with the grammar from a clinical distance. But the idea of a test stirred something in me. A feeling every school-loving egghead who ever got a secret thrill from a spelling quiz knows. I was going to take that test and pass it. To get ready, I began the KLI's online postal course. I completed the first lesson and e-mailed it in. It came back with the words that sealed my fate: “Perfect—first time I've seen someone get every question right. Keep it up!” I felt the drug of overachievement rush through my veins. I didn't want to pass that test anymore. I wanted to ace it.
A History
of Failure
I did take the test, and (I'm rather proud to say) I did ace it. That achievement, however, is not the beginning of the story I wish to tell with this book, but the end of it. The true significance of what I saw and participated in at the conference, the lessons the Klingon phenomenon can teach us about how language does and doesn't work (trust me on this), can be fully appreciated only in the context of the long, strange history of language invention, a history that encompasses more than nine hundred languages created over the last nine hundred years, a history of human ambition, ingenuity, and struggle that, in a way, culminates with Klingon. You can get a brief overview of this history in appendix A, where I have provided a list of five hundred of these languages.
The earliest documented invented language is the Lingua Ignota of Hildegard von Bingen, a twelfth-century German nun. Scholars have long puzzled over the purpose of this language, presented in a manuscript as a list of about a thousand words, with Latin and German translations. Because Hildegard was known to experience visions, which she recorded in theological texts, it has been assumed that her Lingua Ignota was some type of glossolalia, or “speaking in tongues.” But the product of glossolalia tends to be a string of repetitious nonsense, without system or organization, and without any sign of deliberate planning. Though Hildegard's language may have been motivated by some kind of divine inspiration, the fact that it was written down, with the words carefully organized into meaningful categories and with some structural relationships between words indicated by endings, makes it look more like the intentional work of an inventor with a plan than the channelings of a spiritual medium.
The purpose of Hildegard's language may be lost to history, but through the chancy luck of document preservation the language survives. How many others were not so lucky? The nine hundred languages, over nine hundred years, we do have evidence for suggest that the urge to invent languages is as old and persistent as language itself.
It is at least as old and persistent as the urge to complain about language. The primary motivation for inventing a new language has been to improve upon natural language, to eliminate its design flaws, or rather the flaws it has developed for lack of conscious design. Looked at from an engineering perspective, language is kind of a disaster. We have words that mean more than one thing, meanings that have more than one word for them, and some things we'd like to say that, no matter how hard we struggle, seem impossible to put into words. We have irregular verbs, idioms, and exceptions to every grammatical rule—all of which make languages unnecessarily hard to learn. We misunderstand each other all the time; our messages are ambiguous despite our best efforts to be clear. Most of us are content to live with these problems, but over the centuries a bold idea has bloomed again and again in the minds of those who think these problems can be solved: Why not build a better language?
The history of invented languages is, for the most part, a history of failure. Many of the languages involved years of work and sacrifice. They were fueled by vain dreams of fame and recognition, or by humble hopes that the world co
uld be made a better place through language, or, most often, by a combination of the two.
Language inventors, it hardly needs to be said, have usually been eccentric types. Often a plan for an improved language was not the only, or the most unusual, idea an inventor pursued. Paulin Gagne, the creator of Monopanglosse (1858), was well-known in Paris for, among other things, proposing that the French help out the famine-struck Algerians by donating their own bodies for food (or just an arm or leg, if one preferred not to die for the cause). Joseph Schipfer, who presented his Communicationssprache in 1839, when he was nearly eighty years old, also worked to promote his idea for preventing people from being accidentally buried alive (a common concern in the nineteenth century). Schipfer had been a relatively prosperous landowner in the German town of Niederwalluf who served on a state government council for a time. He moved among nobles and acted as an adviser to the prince of Salm-Salm. But by 1830 his fortunes had changed and he had somehow lost his estate. He continued to work, as he said, “for the general welfare of mankind,” by petitioning government officials to consider his proposals for the prevention of premature burial, the establishment of mortuaries in small villages, the improvement of fire brigades, and the promotion of his language, Communicationssprache. He asked only that the duchy take on the cost of printing his Communicationssprache grammar and that any profits received from sales of the booklet go to aid the distressed people in France who had recently been afflicted by a major flooding of the Rhône.
