In which a relative pronoun about which I know nothing turns out to show up even in the most illiterate tweets imaginable.
Yesterday we met the various forms of the relative pronoun lequel:
We saw how when it’s the object of the preposition à, we get various derived forms:
There’s a similar set for the situation where it is the object of the preposition de. Here’s the paradigm:
You don’t think anyone ever actually uses these? Neither did I–Laura Lawless says that these are the hardest pronouns in French for English speakers, and I believe it. I didn’t think that French people used them much, either. Then I did a Twitter search. Holy cow–they’re everywhere! How did I manage not to run into these before?
Just because you have a sweet voice doesn’t mean that you won’t use a relative pronoun here and there. Or poison someone.
I’m a sucker for female singer-songwriters with a certain kind of voice. Ingrid Michaelson has it. Yael Naïm, too. Regina Spektor has it, sometimes. Carole King has it sometimes now that she’s older, but didn’t when she was younger.
Recently I’ve found a French-Canadian woman who has it in spades. Ingrid St-Pierre is a woman from Quebec who studied psychology, then went on to become a singer. Why she didn’t win when she competed on the Canadian equivalent of “The Voice,” I’ll never know; she has had a successful recording career, just having released her third album; gets daily airtime on Canadian radio; and is touring like crazy.
Her songs are generally serious, but she has one very funny one, Pâtes au basilic (“Basil pasta”), that is really quite cute. See the video above–it’s about a psycho-killer ex-girlfriend. The Zipf’s Law connection for the day: the first verse of the song uses a type of word that I’m not very comfortable with. It can function as a relativizer, i.e. it can mark a relative clause; it can also be used to ask questions. (Hence the fact that it is commonly called an interrogative something-or-other.) In this case, it’s a marker of a relative object, i.e. it’s standing in for a relativized thing, and the thing that is modified by the relative clause is the object, rather than the subject, of the verb.
Enough grammatical terminology–let’s turn to Ingrid’s song.
Mon amour, je t’ai préparé des pâtes au basilic
My love, I’ve made you basil pasta
j’ai pris soin d’y mélanger les trucs auxquels t’es allergique
I’ve taken care to mix in all of the things that you’re allergic to
faut surtout pas t’inquiéter pour l’arrière goût qui pique
It’s especially important that you not worry about that last taste that burns
j’espère que j’ai bien dosé les gouttes d’arsenic
I hope that I’ve regulated well the taste of arsenic
(Translation by me, so take it with a grain of salt.) There are sooo many things that we could talk about just in this one verse, but let’s stick with the relative.
The word auxquels is related to the word lequel and its different gender-related and number-related forms. For starters, let’s review those:
We typically see those forms when the word is being used as an interrogative (Je veux un de ces livres. Lequel? “I want one of these books. Which one?”) or as a subject relative. However, even with object relatives, we can see this form in the feminine singular: J’aime la femme à laquelle je pense en ce moment “I love the woman about whom I’m thinking at this moment.” When the word is being used to relativize an object, we’ll typically have a preposition in front of it, and if that preposition is à, then that undergoes the typical à + le = au and à + les = aux mergers. So, that’s how we get auxquels in the song. We have lesquels for trucs “things,” and we’re talking about the person being allergic “to” those things. À plus les gives us aux, so we have les trucs auxquels t’es allergique–“The things to which you’re allergic.” For the sake of completeness, here’s the full paradigm:
There’s a similar set for the situation where the preposition is de, but let’s do those another time. In the meantime, enjoy the Ingrid St-Pierre video.
One of the really frustrating things about French for me is being able to do obscure things like read about the semantics of agentive verbs in French, but not being able to use !@#%$ pronouns correctly.
Here’s something that I got wrong on an assessment test on the Lawless French web site. It turns out that if a pro-form (a cover term for pronouns, pro-verbs, etc.) is replacing an infinitive or a relative clause, you are probably going to replace it with le or l’. The way that Laura Lawless puts it is that you’re using the pro-form to stand in for a “previously mentioned complete idea.” If I understood Laura’s lesson correctly, replacement of an infinitive with a pro-form works like this:
Ils veulent frapper le quartier général? Do they want to strike the headquarters? Oui, je le pense. Yes, I think so.
Replacement of a relative clause works like this:
Tu veux que Daech soit puni? Do you want Islamic State to be punished? Oui, je le souhaite bien. Yes, I really want it.
I just sent this email to a coworker: The data sets are linked to from this article. If you’re a native speaker of English, that sentence probably doesn’t look particularly unusual, and you probably agree that it could be paraphrased as There are some data sets. There are links to the data sets. The links are from.
If you’re not a native speaker, though, you might well have stumbled on this sentence due to the sequence to from:
The data sets are linked to from this article.
How can to from possibly be meaningful? It works because of one of the most important observations in the history of linguistics. In a 1957 book, Verbal Behavior, the famous psychologist B.F. Skinner, the father of behaviorism, maintained that the syntax of English could be described by something called a finite state machine. Finite state machines basically describe the possible sequences of something–words, in this case. In a review that he wrote in 1959, Noam Chomsky poked a huge hole in Skinner’s claim. He made the point that syntax is not about sequences, per se, at all–rather, it’s about structures. The data sets are linked to from this article works because the sequence to from doesn’t figure into how that sentence is produced or interpreted. Rather, the sentence is composed of a set of structures: [[The data sets] [[are [linked to] [from [this article]]]]. The sentence is not a sequence of words; to the extent that it’s a sequence of anything, it’s a sequence of phrases (syntactic structures), and it’s really not so much about the sequence of anything as it is about structure.
Within that sentence, linked to is what most people would call an idiom. Rather than a preposition, it contains what English-language linguists call a particle. (To see how it’s different from a preposition, consider these pairs of sentences:
Curious George went to the store.
To the store went Curious George.
No problem–both of those are perfectly acceptable English. Now think about these:
Curious George linked to the blog post.
* To the blog post linked Curious George.
The asterisk (*) is the linguist’s way of indicating that * To the blog post linked Curious George is completely unacceptable–you just can’t say that in English. Why? It’s because in go to, the to is a preposition. In link to, it is a particle. Particles and prepositions behave differently. One of the ways in which they behave differently is that prepositions and their objects have some ability to move away from their verb, as in To the store went Curious George. Particles can’t do that. So, the native speaker of English has no problem with the to from in The data sets are linked to from this article–there really isn’t any other way that the native speaker can analyze it. If you want more information on what I’ve called idioms (verb + particle), as well as other English constructions that use particles, see this article on the Linguistics Girl blog.
Chomsky went on to become the most important linguist of the 20th century. Not the best linguist of the 20th century–but, unquestionably the most important linguist of the 20th century. He redefined what the field was about, in almost every respect. Remember this cartoon from a couple days ago? It was about him. I can tell you that only a vanishingly small number of linguists are the subjects of cartoons—we just don’t typically get very famous. “Movement phenomena” like the examples that we saw in this post were a big part of the motivation for his theories, and there are movement phenomena in French, as well as in English. We’ll see some movement phenomena in the formation of various types of questions, in particular. But, more on that later–time for dinner. For now, let’s just remind ourselves that the Curious George books were originally written in French.
In hopes of getting me able to pass the DALF, we’ve been looking at verbs whose infinitive ends with IR. We’ve looked at regular IR verbs, like finir.
We’ve looked at irregular verbs like courir, dormir, partir, sentir, and sortir:
Now let’s look at yet another set of irregular IR verbs. This time, we’re going to figure out a way to remember which verbs belong to this class:
First, what’s unusual about this class? It’s the endings–they are the same as for ER verbs, which the IR verb endings usually differ from quite a bit.
Now, how can we remember these? It turns out that finding patterns in this kind of data is what linguists do all day. Here, the pattern appears to be related to the consonantal structure of the verb roots. To understand what’s going on, you need to know a few things about the sounds of language.
To simplify quite a bit: speech sounds are produced by making air leave the lungs through the mouth. Look in the mirror while you make the sound ah. Close your mouth and try to make the sound ah. Doesn’t work.
Consonants are made by obstructing the flow of air through the mouth. Look in the mirror while you say bah-bah-bah. See how the flow of air is obstructed completely when you make the sound that we represent with the letter b?
Different consonants are made by obstructing the flow of air at different places. Look in the mirror while you make the sounds bah and kah. Does your mouth look the same, or different?
Now that you have some of the basics of how consonants work, let’s look at the sounds in the roots of these verbs. You notice that (1) there is a cluster of consonants (i.e., more than one); the second consonant is r; and the first consonant is one of f or v. Look in the mirror while you make the sounds fah and vah. You’ll notice that the obstruction for these consonants is made with the lips and teeth. (We’ll talk about how you differ between the f and the v some other time.) Consonants that are produced with an obstruction made by the lips and teeth (actually, just one lip) are called labiodental consonants, or labiodentals.
It turns out that French has exactly two labiodentals: the sound that we usually spell with the letter f, and the sound that we usually spell with the letter v. (In the languages of the world, there are two other labiodental consonants. We don’t have a way to spell them in English, but you probably have one of them–the labiodental nasal–in the English word emphasis.) So, we can say that you see this particular pattern of verb endings when a verb has a consonant cluster in the middle, the first consonant is a labiodental, and the second consonant is r.
I know of three verbs that don’t have the labiodental-r root but that do have this pattern in the present indicative. However, they behave differently from the others with respect to their past participles. Those verbs are cueillir (to pick, to gather), acceuillir (to receive, to greet), and recueillir (to collect, to gather). The present indicative is like the labiodental-r verbs that we’ve seen.
However, the past participle of these verbs is different from the labiodental-r verbs: couvert versus ceuilli. There are also a couple of verbs that have -aillir in the stem that have the same present tense pattern, maybe–one of my Bescherelles has a note about how even famous writers sometimes don’t follow this pattern for those verbs.
So, with a little bit of linguistics, you don’t have to memorize the fact that it’s verbs with fr and vr in the root that have this conjugation–all you have to do is remember that it’s verbs with a consonant cluster in the root where the first consonant in the cluster is a labiodental. Fun, huh?
It’s sort of a postmodern cliché that the media exerts tremendous influence over what, and how, we think. I didn’t take this seriously until I was in Paris last summer. We went through a period of pretty serious anti-Semitic violence–a synagogue was attacked by a mob during services, Jewish businesses were bombed, cars in a Jewish neighborhood were set afire. A young woman was raped. This was reported on my favorite American news channel as follows: “There was unrest in Paris yesterday.” Really?! To my astonishment, the most reliable source of news about what was going on turned out to be Twitter.
I thought again about how different media have different takes on what is newsworthy during the recent coup in Burkina Faso. There wasn’t much news coverage of it in the United States, but it was covered quite heavily in the French media. In fact, Radio France International’s podcast about French words used it to establish the context for a discussion of the word dissoudre, “to dissolve,” as in the rebels dissolving the government.
Dissoudre turns out to fit nicely into our recent discussions of verb conjugations. In general, verbs ending with -re tend to be at least somewhat irregular. In that way, dissoudre is a doozy. Let’s look at the present tense:
Where does the LV come from? Where does it go? The mysteries of morphology. Here are some verbs that are conjugated like dissoudre. These might be the only three that follow this pattern; they share other oddities, including irregular past participles and possibly not having passé simple or imperfect subjunctive forms.
I’ve always been attracted to depth over breadth. Visiting a new city, I might eat in the same restaurant every night, trying to explore the entire menu. Discovering a new bookstore, I’m unlikely to only visit the sections that I’m interested in and know that I’ll buy from, but very likely to walk around the entire store, seeing what it’s strong in (in Denver, the former Borders in Northglenn for judo, the Tattered Cover for history, Barnes and Noble for obscure French books; in Paris, Gibert Jeune for theoretical semantics, Attika for bilingual French/English novels, and Gibert Joseph for cheese, kids’ books, and general linguistics). This makes me a super-boring person to visit a new city–or a new bookstore–with, but I love the feeling of knowing a place deeply, and prefer it to knowing lots of places more shallowly.
I’d always been interested in an in-depth exploration of the cafes of Paris, but had trouble finding a good, and preferably literary, guide to them. Then today I read a chapter in John Baxter’s Five nights in Paris: After dark in the City of Lights on just that topic. Baxter starts by debunking the myth that Parisian writers work in cafes. He says that Hemingway was the last writer of importance to actually write in cafes in Paris. He also, however, quotes a friend as saying that only one of her writer friends still writes in a Parisian cafe. There’s a clear inference from this: writing in Paris cafes has certainly been popular, and people still do it. I will even confess to having spent a pleasant afternoon or two sitting on the terrasse of a Paris cafe working on a (not very interesting, unfortunately) book myself. He lists a number of cafes frequented by writers, musicians, or other folks of interest; I’ll round it out a bit with material from Graham Robb’s Parisians: An adventure history of Paris.
Les Deux Magots: one of the most famous cafes in Paris. It was opened in 1885 in the former location of a silk store. According to the Paris-Bistro.com web site, the name comes from the two magot, or seated Oriental figurines, that are mounted on the wall and are the last vestiges of the silk shop. Expect to pay about double the cost of a coffee or beer anywhere else in town for the privilege of hanging out in the same place as Rimbaud, Mallarmé, André Breton, Paul Eluard, Simone de Beauvoir,Jean-Paul Sartre, Ernest Hemingway, Albert Camus, Pablo Picasso, James Joyce, and Bertolt Brecht, once did (list from Wikipedia and the Paris-Bistro.com web site). I was really surprised at how small it was on the inside–it’s easy to imagine the air choking with cigarette smoke and the smell of espresso. 6th arrondissement.
Cafe Flore: right up there with Les Deux Magots in the fame department, and still popular. Like Les Deux Magots, it was built in the 1880s. Habitués have included Pablo Picasso and Zhou Enlai. Adam Gopnik‘s essay A tale of two cafes (reprinted in his Paris to the Moon, which I can’t recommend highly enough–my favorite book about Paris) contains a variety of wildly speculative explanations for why Les Deux Magots stopped being the cool place to be while the Flore remained popular; all or none of them may be true. 6th arrondissement.
Cafe Beaubourg: Edmund White hung out here. As Baxter relates, and White himself says in his memoir Inside a Pearl: My years in Paris, part of the attraction was walking by the air intake of the Institut de Recherche et Coordination Acoustique/Musique afterwards, so that his dog could poop in it–a dispute over being refused an interview. 4th arrondissement, in the Marais.
Café Fleurus: I haven’t been able to find much in the way of information about this one, but it appears that Gertrude Stein lived right up the street, at 27 rue de Fleurus. 14th arrondissement.
Wepler: This was a favorite of Henry Miller. The character Joey in Miller’s book Quiet Days in Clichy has a relationship with a prostitute that he meets there. 18th arrondissement.
Tournon: This was a favorite of post-war African-American expats in Paris, as well as the early male-female transsexual April Ashley. 6th arrondissement.
As Baxter points out, these days Paris cafes are about food as least as much as coffee, but I wouldn’t necessarily recommend eating at any of these. A number of the cafes that I’ve listed are in the 6th arrondissement. If a cafe tour takes you there, I would recommend that you eat at Au Pied de Fouet. This is an island of affordable meals in the midst of a sea of super-overpriced places, and the food is some of my favorite stuff in Paris, particularly for French stuff (yes, Paris has a bazillion great restaurants serving things other than French food).
For a Zipf’s Law connection, let’s look at the vocabulary items that appear in some of the cafe names:
la closerie: a small fenced-in field; a house in an enclosed grounds.
lila: I think it means “lilac,” but strangely, I can’t verify that.
Do you have a cafe to add to my list? How about mentioning it in the Comments? I’ve focused here on cafes with some literary history; you can find a list of other cafes here. Some of them look pretty interesting.