I took the day off of work today to open a French bank account, which for various reasons turns out to be crucial to my ability to function here, even for just a few weeks at a time. I walked into the bank and learned that you don’t just walk into a bank and open an account–you walk into a bank and make an appointment to open an account. This actually isn’t as crazy as it sounds, since it gives the bank a chance to prepare the paperwork ahead of time (e.g., I have to fill out an American W-9 to open an account in a French bank, believe it or not), and it lets you find out what kind of documentation you will need to provide, not all of which would have occurred to me (e.g., I have to bring a copy of my employment contract).
Zipf’s Law struck, of course. It came in the form of the word justificatif, which is written proof or written evidence. I have to provide a justificatif d’addresse–written proof of address. For some reason, I have enormous amounts of trouble pronouncing this word, which the bank clerk was very kind to say slowly for me when I stumbled over it repeatedly–ju-sti-fi-ca-tif. When I left, she said that my French is great, to which I responded that I wish it were, but it isn’t, to which she responded: “Well…for an American.” Smiles all around.
During the summer time, it stays light really late in Paris. The sun didn’t set until around 10 PM in June, and I tend to go to sleep early, so I never really saw my own neighborhood in the dark. Now that it’s December, the days are quite short, so when I went outside early yesterday evening for a stroll, I saw the entire neighborhood lit up, for the first time. With the electric signs shining in all of the storefronts, I noticed places that had never caught my attention before–even within a block or two of my apartment! Zipf’s Law strikes during an evening stroll as often as it does any other time–here are some pictures of signs with words that I had to look up. Scroll down for the full range of words that I just didn’t know.
The traditional French store is a little mom-and-pop operation. A French neighborhood will have a boulangerie, where you get your bread; a patisserie, where you buy your pastries; a fromagerie, for cheese; a fruit and vegetable stand; a wine shop; a butcher…you get the idea. Parisian kitchens are pretty small, without much storage space, so you go grocery-shopping pretty frequently, and make lots of small purchases at the local shops.
As in most places, the supermarket appeared quite a while ago in France. In Paris, it’s most often a Monoprix. You can find pretty much everything you need there, and not just food, but clothes, school supplies, on and on. I go to the Monoprix once or twice a week, as there are a few things that I don’t know where else to buy–the giant 0.78 kilo jars of Nutella, for instance, or giant jars of cassoulet. It’s convenient in terms of having everything under one roof, but: it is a miserable experience. Shopping in a Parisian supermarket is a blood sport: you stand in line at the deli counter (if that’s the right word for the part of the store where you buy deli meats, but also grilled cuttlefish, duck Spam, blood sausages…and let’s agree to forget the time that I almost found myself in the middle of a fight in the deli line, when I suddenly realized that the British tourist for whom I was mindlessly translating was deliberately egging on a pissed-off French family man), you shuffle with hordes of other people through the coffee aisle, and finally…endless, endless lines for the cash register. I now know why Parisians always look so glum–they’re exhausted from standing in line at the Monoprix.
There’s a way out of the hell of supermarket checkout lines: shop at the little mom-and-pop specialty stores that dot your neighborhood. Go to my little fruit and vegetable stand across the street, where the seller will ask you when you’re going to eat his produce and then give you an assortment of more- and less-ripe things meant to last until you come visit her again. (Sorry for the gender confusion–they’re a couple, and I’m too scatter-brained from sleep deprivation to fix this.) Walk to the next subway stop to go to the cheese shop, where you can ask for a recommendation of a seasonal cheese and be offered a taste of something in season from a guy who actually does know what cheeses are in season. Go to the little bakery on the corner, where the lady at the counter will very kindly correct your pronunciation of champêtre at no extra charge. As soon as I figure out where else to buy giant things of Nutella and cassoulet-in-a-jar, I’ll be done with Monoprix for good.
Some words that came up in the course of buying my very in-season beaufort:
jadis: formerly; in olden days; long ago. Fabriqué en Savoie et en Haute-Savoie, le beaufort est un fromage de garde, dont l’origine historique est liée aux grandes difficultés de communication qui caractérisaient jadis les régions montagneuses durant l’hiver. (Note that no one has ever been able to tell me what a fromage de garde is.)
I grow weary of technical terminology. I love World War I poetry in English, and thought that I would look at some in French. Guillaume Apollinaire was a (very) famous French poet who fought in the artillery and in the trenches in WWI. He suffered a head wound in 1916, never really recovered from it, and in his weakened condition, died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Here is one of his poems, Exercice.
Vers un village d l’arrière
S’en allaient quatre bombardiers
Ils étaient couvert de poussière
Depuis la tête jusqu’aux pieds
Ils regardaient la vaste plaine
En parlant entre eux du passé
Et ne se retournaient qu’à peine
Quand un obus avait toussé
Tous quatre de la classe seize
Parlaient d’antan non d’avenir
Ainsi se prolongeait l’ascèse
Qui les exerçait à mourir
• la poussière: dust.
• la plaine: plain.
• se retourner: (tourner la tête) turn around, do a double take; (changer de sens, de position) turn over, toss and turn; (se mettre à l’envers) turn over, overturn
• la peine: punishment, sorrow, trouble—but, that’s not what it means here—see the next entry.
• à peine: scarcely, hardly
• un obus: shell (artillery).
• tousser: to cough
• d’antan: of yesteryear, of long ago
• se prolonger: continue; perpetuate itself; persist; linger; go on; be continued; be extended
• ascèse: This word is a tough one. It’s not in any of my French-English dictionaries. In Anne Greet’s translation (see below), it’s rendered as “ascesis.” I found it in a monolingual (French-French) dictionary; the definition seemed to be something like asceticism.
• exercer: to train, exercise, practice
What should we make of the past imperfect tense that is used throughout the poem?
Greet’s notes suggest that it produces a detachment between the poet and the four men: “The poet…is not part of the graphic little scene he is painting. The verbs, in third person and imperfect tense, indicate that he is an omniscient observer. This role produces a…fine balance in the poem between compassion and detachment.”
Towards a village in the rear
Marched four bombardiers
And they were covered with dirt
From head to foot
They stared at the vast plain
As they talked about the past
And they barely looked around
When a shell made a coughing sound
All four of class sixteen
Spoke of the past not future time
Thus the ascesis dragged on
That practiced them in dying
At conferences in my professional field, the number two topic of conversation over beers is how poorly funded scientific research is in the United States right now. The number one topic of conversation is complaining about our reviewing loads. Reviewing papers is one of the constant burdens in academia, but you don’t want to say no to a request to review, as being invited to review papers is one of the things that marks your transition into a fully-functioning professional. So, we all have constant requests to review conference papers, journal articles, grants, book chapters, book proposals, books—on and on.
I have a paper to review for a French workshop, which led to me getting this email:
Voici un article à relire pour la JE ATALA Ethique et TAL. Vous avez jusqu’au 20 octobre pour m’envoyer votre retour (accepté ou non, avec un commentaire). Les articles ne sont pas anonymes, mais votre relecture le sera (vous êtes deux relecteurs par papiers).
First of all, Zipf’s Law brings us some vocabulary issues, as usual:
relire: normally, this is to reread, read over, or to proofread. Here it is “review,” in the sense in which we use that word in academia—to read and provide an assessment.
le retour: basically, return—but, in this case, it’s an event that is the argument of another event—pour m’envoyer votre retour.
la relecture: normally, this is a rereading, proofreading/editing/revision, or a reinterpretation. In this case, it’s a review in the academic sense—your assessment of the submission.
One of the fun things about today’s words is that they’re phonetically quite interesting. Note the high front rounded vowel in relecture and the mid front rounded vowel in relecteur, both of them before r—these are words that will basically be impossible for an American (like, say, me) to pronounce. Another fun point is that the e after the initial r in all of these words can be deleted in the spoken form (click through to WordReference.com for the transcriptions), leading to an initial rl cluster—if you think that the French r is tough for Americans to pronounce, try putting it in a consonant cluster!
Next, there are some grammatical issues:
What is the function of the le in votre relecture le sera?
Note the use of par to mean “per.” In a previous post, we looked at the use of par to mean “by”—here we have another sense.
You might be wondering how you could possibly review an article that’s not written in your native language. In fact, scientific papers are routinely reviewed by non-native speakers, at least in English. It’s the international language of science today, and many reviewers are not native speakers. Without these non-native-speaker reviewers, the system couldn’t possibly handle the strain of the amount of reviewing that needs to be done.
One of the things that tickles me about written French is the accents. I love writing them. So, when I got an email this morning about a computer security flaw, the beginning actually made me smile:
Hier a été révélée une faille de sécurité…
(Yesterday a security flaw was revealed…) That’s a high density of accents aigus! Let’s see what Zipf’s Law brings us in this email. First, there’s the subject line:
Une faille nommée poodle
la faille: a flaw or loophole; in geology, a fault or rift.
nommé: named, called.
Hier a été révélée une faille de sécurité de SSL v3 qui affecte principalement les postes clients (bref, votre ordi) et pourrait permettre à un attaquant (au hasard entre votre ordi et votre banque) de vous forcer à utiliser ce protocole SSLv3 pour récupérer quelques informations intéressantes sensées être cryptées (mot de passe, code de carte bleue).
révéler: to reveal
se révéler: to turn out, prove to be, reveal itself; to come to fame
le poste client: this one has engendered a lot of chat on translation fora (forums?). The consensus is that depending on context, it can be either a workstation or a client (in the computing sense of that term).
un attaquant: attacker, assailant
au hasard: random, aimlessly
récupérer: get back, retrieve, salvage, recover
une information: in this case: detail, data
sensé: this one turns out not to be straightforward. I wrote to a native speaker about it, who had this to say: “Well, “sensé” (sensible, meaningful) is a word which is often confused with “censé” (supposed, assumed), the first one being quite common,
and the second mostly used in specific constructs. Also, “sensé” is
easily traced back to “sens”, whereas “censé” needs to go back to
Latin [as in English “census”] or linked to words whose meanings are
more distant, such as “recenser”, or of a higher register (“censément”).
Here [the author] should have written “censées”, meaning “supposed to be”.”