This morning I had my first Polish dream, marzenie. And because I am not much of a dreamer, marzyciel, that is to say, using the instrumental case, nie jestem wielkim marzycielem, it wasn’t much of a dream. It was not located in Poland. There was no Polish spoken. Instead, it was a dream rather of Polish class, in which Professor Polakiewicz returned a homework assignment to me with a grade of C-.
I have never dreamed before of C-s. And the class was much larger than my actual class, and was held outdoors, under the oak tree by Number 2 green, where were deposited in the old days the piles of sand and humus with which we treated the greens for their winter dormancy, and the seats were folding chairs, as at a picnic or a graduation, and I returned to mine with this unsatisfactory diploma, feeling a vague sense of reproof. But, on the whole, no big deal.
In reality, I had received my midterm grade report on Tuesday evening after the quiz—pretty comfortably above C- –so that if an omen, my dream was both belated and mistaken, as my dreams and dream life are wont to be. But it does raise this interesting question: if your life is routinely better than your dreams, is that a good thing?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Jak szybko
Not much progress to report during spring break week. Retrogression, perhaps, but I did not hit the beaches of the Baltic Sea (Morze Baltyckie), which would be cold at this time of year—and are never none too warm. This week, our second week back, I am completely whelmed by waves of homework, dashed and stunned and discouraged and exasperated by the complexity of this language. But not drowned yet.
I calculate the hours: @300 in, with only 9700 more to go. That, of course, assumes that one has talent and that the equation talent + 10,000 hours of practice = expertise is, in fact, accurate. We shall see. Before spring break, our last minutes of class were devoted to singing in Polish one of the few ethnic songs I remember from my childhood: Jak szybko mijaja chwile (“how quickly pass the moments”). Knowing the melody, pretty and sad, I was asked to solo, which I did, prettily and sadly: “how swiftly flows the time—the years, the days, the moments.” The years are short, no doubt, but the hours are long.
I calculate the hours: @300 in, with only 9700 more to go. That, of course, assumes that one has talent and that the equation talent + 10,000 hours of practice = expertise is, in fact, accurate. We shall see. Before spring break, our last minutes of class were devoted to singing in Polish one of the few ethnic songs I remember from my childhood: Jak szybko mijaja chwile (“how quickly pass the moments”). Knowing the melody, pretty and sad, I was asked to solo, which I did, prettily and sadly: “how swiftly flows the time—the years, the days, the moments.” The years are short, no doubt, but the hours are long.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
WTJ
What the jebac! Sometimes that’s all you can say.
So this week we have been learning to tell time, which means we’ve begun to learn the Polish number system. Normally, with less intricate languages, you take up counting in week one or two, along with the alphabet. Not so, and rightfully, with Polish. Were you to encounter the arcana that is Polish numeracy in “week one, the first” (jedna, pierwsza agreeing in number and gender with tygodnia, “week”) you would have any number of reasons to abandon the enterprise immediately. Our instructor, who regularly insists that Polish operates with mathematical precision, has granted that on the topic of number, well, it’s “hairy”—a term I don’t recall from algebra. The author of our textbook, Oscar Swan, in his Polish Grammar, devotes an entire chapter to its problems and nuances: “Numerals are a kind of determiner…whose declension and use are complex enough to merit special treatment.” (p. 189) Ironic that the language’s claim to a pristine mathematics founders on the subject of number. Not that languages aren’t regular and orderly; only that they are history as well, and history is a effing mess.
The number 1 is simple enough, taking regular adjectival endings depending on the gender (and, surprise! the number) of the noun: jeden (m.), jedna (f.), and jedno (n.). Jeden pies (one dog), jedna ryba (one fish), jedno zwierze (one animal). A fairly straightforward trinity of genders subsumed under a recognizable One. Oddly, there is a plural adjectival form of “one,” jedne, illogical but made grammatically necessary by certain nouns in Polish that exist only as plurals. For example, the word for “door” in Polish, drzwi, is a plural form derived, if I recall correctly, from its reference to French doors, which are double. (It might also derive from the problem of trying to pronounce what would seem to be the singular, drzw.) This complication we cannot blame on the number system itself, but on exceptional nouns, of which there are not a few. Mezczyzna and kolega, “man” and “colleague,” are masculine nouns with feminine endings; so that they take masculine modifiers, even as the words themselves decline as feminine nouns. Ergo, jeden mezczyzna and jeden kolega, not jedna mezczyzna and jedna kolega, as you might expect. But I digress.
The number 2 offers two forms, dwa (for masculine and neuter nouns) and dwie (for feminine nouns). Why the masculine and neuter are collapsed before what appears to be a feminine ending and why dwie looks not in the least feminine are not altogether clear. It’s hairy, I presume, and only gets hairier. As our text notes, “The numbers dwa/dwie, trzy [3], cztery [4] take the Nominative plural of the quantified noun…. Numbers 5 and above take the Genitive plural.” (p. 114) Fascinating. As if, at a certain point, specifically 5, number acquires a somewhat different conceptual or perceptual character. You have one dog, two cats, three kids, four parking tickets, but you have five—or more, up to 900 in Polish—of anything else. At the height of the Cold War, then President Jimmy Carter tried to negotiate reductions in nuclear stockpiles with the Soviet Premier Leonid Brezhnev. He argued that fewer, higher quality weapons (missiles with MIRVed warheads) would be preferable to mass quantities of single, large kiloton warheads. Brezhnev replied, “Quantity has a quality all of its own,” which I thought at the time one of the wittiest and profoundest things I’d ever read—wit and profundity not being something you’d normally expect from a Central Committee Chairman. And here, he may only have been uttering a commonplace of Slavic grammar.
And how about this, though hardly the last word on the hirsute punctiliousness of Polish enumeracy: “In longer compound numerals, in principle all items are declined.” (Swan, Grammar, p. 199) That is to say, when you have a large number descriptor, 10,587 things to remember about the Polish language, the individual numbers embedded in the compound numeral—ten thousand, five hundred, eighty, and seven—all have to agree in gender and case with the thing enumerated. By illustration, Professor Polakiewicz related that once when he was teaching in Poland at Lublin, he attended a State of the University Address by the rector. In listing the university’s many achievements during the year, including numbers of students, of degrees awarded, credit hours taught, etc. etc. the rector paused, stumbled, erred, corrected, back-tracked, but eventually survived that ridiculous obstacle course of data, probably at last to considerable applause, not for the loftiness of the rhetoric, but for the mere correctness of his grammar. When the chief academic officer of a major university struggles minutes at a time with the niceties of his own language, second-language learners take heed.
p.s. One of Swan’s paragraph headings: “Five ways of saying ‘three students.’”
So this week we have been learning to tell time, which means we’ve begun to learn the Polish number system. Normally, with less intricate languages, you take up counting in week one or two, along with the alphabet. Not so, and rightfully, with Polish. Were you to encounter the arcana that is Polish numeracy in “week one, the first” (jedna, pierwsza agreeing in number and gender with tygodnia, “week”) you would have any number of reasons to abandon the enterprise immediately. Our instructor, who regularly insists that Polish operates with mathematical precision, has granted that on the topic of number, well, it’s “hairy”—a term I don’t recall from algebra. The author of our textbook, Oscar Swan, in his Polish Grammar, devotes an entire chapter to its problems and nuances: “Numerals are a kind of determiner…whose declension and use are complex enough to merit special treatment.” (p. 189) Ironic that the language’s claim to a pristine mathematics founders on the subject of number. Not that languages aren’t regular and orderly; only that they are history as well, and history is a effing mess.
The number 1 is simple enough, taking regular adjectival endings depending on the gender (and, surprise! the number) of the noun: jeden (m.), jedna (f.), and jedno (n.). Jeden pies (one dog), jedna ryba (one fish), jedno zwierze (one animal). A fairly straightforward trinity of genders subsumed under a recognizable One. Oddly, there is a plural adjectival form of “one,” jedne, illogical but made grammatically necessary by certain nouns in Polish that exist only as plurals. For example, the word for “door” in Polish, drzwi, is a plural form derived, if I recall correctly, from its reference to French doors, which are double. (It might also derive from the problem of trying to pronounce what would seem to be the singular, drzw.) This complication we cannot blame on the number system itself, but on exceptional nouns, of which there are not a few. Mezczyzna and kolega, “man” and “colleague,” are masculine nouns with feminine endings; so that they take masculine modifiers, even as the words themselves decline as feminine nouns. Ergo, jeden mezczyzna and jeden kolega, not jedna mezczyzna and jedna kolega, as you might expect. But I digress.
The number 2 offers two forms, dwa (for masculine and neuter nouns) and dwie (for feminine nouns). Why the masculine and neuter are collapsed before what appears to be a feminine ending and why dwie looks not in the least feminine are not altogether clear. It’s hairy, I presume, and only gets hairier. As our text notes, “The numbers dwa/dwie, trzy [3], cztery [4] take the Nominative plural of the quantified noun…. Numbers 5 and above take the Genitive plural.” (p. 114) Fascinating. As if, at a certain point, specifically 5, number acquires a somewhat different conceptual or perceptual character. You have one dog, two cats, three kids, four parking tickets, but you have five—or more, up to 900 in Polish—of anything else. At the height of the Cold War, then President Jimmy Carter tried to negotiate reductions in nuclear stockpiles with the Soviet Premier Leonid Brezhnev. He argued that fewer, higher quality weapons (missiles with MIRVed warheads) would be preferable to mass quantities of single, large kiloton warheads. Brezhnev replied, “Quantity has a quality all of its own,” which I thought at the time one of the wittiest and profoundest things I’d ever read—wit and profundity not being something you’d normally expect from a Central Committee Chairman. And here, he may only have been uttering a commonplace of Slavic grammar.
And how about this, though hardly the last word on the hirsute punctiliousness of Polish enumeracy: “In longer compound numerals, in principle all items are declined.” (Swan, Grammar, p. 199) That is to say, when you have a large number descriptor, 10,587 things to remember about the Polish language, the individual numbers embedded in the compound numeral—ten thousand, five hundred, eighty, and seven—all have to agree in gender and case with the thing enumerated. By illustration, Professor Polakiewicz related that once when he was teaching in Poland at Lublin, he attended a State of the University Address by the rector. In listing the university’s many achievements during the year, including numbers of students, of degrees awarded, credit hours taught, etc. etc. the rector paused, stumbled, erred, corrected, back-tracked, but eventually survived that ridiculous obstacle course of data, probably at last to considerable applause, not for the loftiness of the rhetoric, but for the mere correctness of his grammar. When the chief academic officer of a major university struggles minutes at a time with the niceties of his own language, second-language learners take heed.
p.s. One of Swan’s paragraph headings: “Five ways of saying ‘three students.’”
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Staying Scottish?
With some perplexity, tinged with a little distress, I observe that my sister blog, “Becoming Polish,” has ceased publication without warning or explanation. Being a pessimist, and a dark one—but not the darkest—I fervently trust that the “life and times of a Scottish girl in love with a Polish boy” closed not at the end of her life and times (please, please), but of her love with a Polish boy. So sorry, my dear. Polish boys can be difficult. Perhaps she simply tired of blogging, became too busy. Who can know for sure? She probably didn’t, in that short space of time, succeed in becoming Polish—but if she did, I want her secret.
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