John M. Ford was a poet. Aspects, his last almost-a-book, is about language. It’s also about pain, and friendship, and kink, and parliamentary procedure; but I want to talk about the language. The languages, and the dialects, and the words, and the names. Each of these is deployed to effect; the effects may bear some contemplation.
(To be clear, Aspects is also about trains and poetry and spies and board games and really nice hotels. It’s a John M. Ford book.)
This post is for people who have read Aspects. If you haven’t, go read it. Then come back here. I am going to go into detail about some, ah, aspects of the book.
Mind you, I’m not going to spoil the story. I couldn’t spoil the ending if I tried...! But I will spoil the secret title of this essay. It’s really named The Conlang of Pierre Menard. More on that later.
Let me start with the names. The first names we encounter – well, the first names we encounter are the city of Lystourel and the Republic of Lescoray, and we’ll get back to those. The first personal names we encounter are Chase and Varic (p5). Chase is usual as names go. Varic is not, but not-usual in the way of fantasy names, right?
We then get mention of Brook and Rose, and then a mess of parliamentarians: Winterhill, Longlight, Redlance, Cable, Saltworthy, Bowenshield, Whetstone... Which starts to look like a pattern. It isn’t a rigid pattern. We meet Leyva the porter, and Deriano – but that’s called out as an “assumed Quercian name” (p25). And Varic still doesn’t fit. But overall, names are simple nouns or descriptions. And, looking back, this also goes for place-names: Willowpark Square, the Silverthread district, Cold Street.
You notice this, reading, and you cast back to see if the pattern holds. Are the meanings meant? Are you meant to hear Chase as a chase, Brook as a brook? (Is that why it’s not the more-familiar “Brooks”?) Is this all just a coincidence?
With impeccable timing, Ford leads us to ask these questions and then, within a page, answers them – with another question. “What does Varic mean?” asks Longlight (p28). Which is to say, she expects names to have meanings. So should we.
(“Varic” describes a rocky coast or a difficult landing. It’s not obviously tied to any root we know. We’ll get back to etymologies, too.)
Why this convention of words-as-names? It’s part of the world, to be sure. We know that children are named for their appearance (Bluely, Jadey for eye color) or in hope or expectation (Grace, Gaily) (p198). And then it lets Ford play with allusion. Much of the story concerns how stony our Coron Varic keeps his borders.
But we might infer a historical reason as well. Several references establish that Quercia is the not-Rome of this world’s history, 1100 years ago. Quercian is the not-Latin classical language. But “quercus” is a simple noun in Latin. If this name tradition dates back to the Quercian era, then the Quercian Empire was itself named after someone called Oak.
This connection is suggestive (and delightful) but not firmly substantiated. Nobody tells us that Quercia means “oak”. One tale gives us an oak tree as a metaphor for Quercia (p426). But, in general, Quercian is not Latin.
It’s Latinate, true. “Lucate varus” is translated “where the light comes to rest” (p170); we recognize the “luci-” root from Latin, and then “varus” from Varic’s name. The “light” root also appears in “lucivitor”, a photographer (p46). But “lucate” is not a Latin word and “varus” is not from a Latin root.
Some words seem to match. Quercia had centurions, as the Romans did. But “decenion” was another Quercian rank, and that word is not Roman. (You’re thinking of “decurion”.)
While we’re on Quercian matters: “Deriano” is referred to as a Quercian name, but it sounds more Italianate than Latinate. We might guess modern Quercian pronounciation to be more like Italian. The duelling terms “arenetto” (p140) and “concetta” (p160) have a similar feel – Italianate but not Italian.
The most important Quercian word, however, is “coris”. The Goddess Coris is introduced early (p6). Much later we learn she is Goddess’s aspect as Nature (p236). But in between (p83), we get the phrase “cors coris” – one’s birthfields.
“Cors coris” is clearly Quercian. It looks like Latin. (You might be reminded of “ars gratia artis” or other Latin idioms.) If it were Latin, “cors” would be the root word – but there is no such Latin root. The Quercian root “cors” might well be “field”: one’s birthplace is one’s “field of fields”. And then Coris is Goddess of the Fields.
Similarly, the phrase “Observate Coron” (p258) is translated “respect [my] territory”; literally “watch the field”.
This leads us directly to “Coron,” the hereditary title of the Lescoray lords. When Coron Varic was introduced, we naturally read his title as a form of “crown”. (Latin “corona”, of lamentable association these days. For a more cheerful reference, recall the Coronals of Majipoor.) Or perhaps we connect it to “cor”, the heart (as in “coronary”).
But Quercian is not Latin, and Corons do not wear crowns. The Crown is metonymically the King, as in our world; but Lescoray no longer has a King (p31). Rather, the Corons are (again metonymically) their fields. “Coron”, as a title, means landholder.
The title may not directly refer to the divine Coris, but her name hangs in the air every time a Coronage is mentioned. We can only imagine what this means to the atheist Coron Varic.
But then what are we to make of “The Coron of the Grange” (p185)? It’s a nonsense ditty about a Coron who is absurd: a fool, or perhaps a holy fool. Is the idea of a Lord Farmer meant to be incongruous and funny? But that would mean that “grange” and “cors” have diverged in meaning. Or perhaps the song was originally about a farmsteader, with no joke intended, and the lyrics themselves have diverged. This is debatable land.
Speaking of land, the “cors” root surely also turns up in Lescoray, the name of the country itself. And the city of Ascorel (p81), and the foreign country of Coromaestra (p444) – a name which must speak history, if we just knew a little more Quercian.
What of other languages?
We know the Pandekts were the not-Greeks; they are remembered as chiton-wearing marble-white philosophers (p421). All we get of the Pandekt language, however, is a couple of names. “Enolesia” (p206) is never translated. “Pershex” means “no levels” (p177), which does not seem to be Greek. “Iknatus”, the birth-name of Pershex, means “fish breeder”, which is a better fit: “ichthys” plus “natus”.
In fact Ford is having us on here. “Iknatus” is a backhanded reference to Ignatz, the brick-throwing mouse from Krazy Kat. (Thanks to Danny Sichel for explaining this.) If “Pershex” or “Enolesia” are similar jokes, I have not yet fished them out.
Gerade, the Ferangarder language, is German with little alteration. Indeed, Gerade for “Gerade-speaker” is “Geradesprecker”. We get this exchange (p292): “An du, kus’ne – vieder, all’s I kann. / Sen hoffen seit obernvell, kus’ne.” (“For you, anything I can [do]”, and then something about “hope”. “Kus’ne” is called out as a familiarity: “cousin”.) Similarly the verse about Maxl Linkakuch (p296). The orthography might be a bit different (“v” for “w”? “ck” for “ch”?) but we are meant to understand it as straight German.
The odd thing is that Ferangarder names aren’t Germanic at all. Tephar Diante, Ardel Tenati, Emed Erekel, Rocha Serestor, Oric Adorni, Merus Arayder – they have no familiar note, nor any sense of common origin. Except, as Varic notes (p265), for their uniform scansion.
Alinsever (or Alinsetre) is similarly straight French – mostly. “Ou ‘maitre,’ a’vot’plaisance” (p313). “Maitre Coron connaitre-le d’Alinsetre?” “Nessu bon, Grand-Capitain” (p317). The words “recaigne” and “marecaigne” (p182), on the other hand, are invented. As for names, Coquil de Nive (p288) is perfectly French, and perhaps even a noun-name (“coquille”, shell). Argentan (p387) and Trevan Dain (p280) are also described as Alinsever names, and betray less to us.
Our pattern so far is of languages which partially or materially embody a real-world language. The obvious exception is Kólyan, which ought to be Russian. It is not; it does not seem to be anything: “Tré shin ye baród”, translated as “I praise the person my friend loves.” “Keshtine tseyt, knórowa kneyt sha”: “Your gaze has caused the falcons to preen with envy” (p88). The orthography is vagely Slavic but leads nowhere that I see.
Finally, we must spare a moment for Dr. Soonest’s Visible Speech. Winterhill begins to teach it (p208), but we get no vocabulary, only the basic inflections (aspects?) that color statements. Real-world sign languages are not structured this way, as far as I know; so Visible Speech seems to be entirely invented. However, it may be deliberate that the inflection sarcasm matches the ASL sign for “no”.
We come at last to Lescant, the language of Lescoray. Of course this is just English. (Of course?) It comes in several dialects, however, including Longlight’s native Westrene and Varic’s Northesse. The neutral English of the narration is specifically Lystourel speech, City-speech – cosmopolitan.
Constructed languages are familiar in SF, if not common. Constructed dialects are rarer. I think they are harder; they need a palpable texture that sounds plausible but not familiar. And without rendering the English unreadable, of course.
Of Lescant dialects, Westrene is the best-developed. “Alch mine,” says Longlight (p28), meaning “mine also”. “Good, ay minden so. Dwillsey come ere?” (p101). “Westrene mountains cold a’ winters / seil the wind, embrace the snow / cleaven to the trail beneathan / minden an the fire glow” (p187).
The “-an”, “-en” endings sound like antique English without being any specific part of England. Tom O’ Bedlam’s England, maybe, or that of the Lyke-Wake Dirge; but without any trace of the Yorkshire “thee/tha”. “Willat” (p57) is only reminiscent of the North English “sommat”.
As with British accents, Westrene offers hints of older languages in its ancestry. (“Quercian survives most in Northesse and Westrene” (p74).) “Dwillsey” and “dwillknow” are clearly remnants of some speech pattern. “Seil” is Old Lescant for “deep understanding” (p345); that word also comes through in “conseil”, the sharing of mind. The point of interest is that we can think about Old Lescant, although we know almost nothing of it. It’s not Old English, certainly. (“Seil” is not, and no one would say that Latin survives most in Old English.)
Northesse, on the other hand, sounds downright Elizabethan. “An thou taste on blood, drink deep, and cease not till the cup be dry. For it will surely sour and turn to poison” (p74). “Yet there is in Agate’s hurt none of grudge or rancor, and your regret would bring her naught but grief” (p71). “Certain this is, and neither wishful only” (p102). The feel is very different from West speech. North is almost entirely a matter of word choice, not changed sounds. Only a few words stand out of themselves: “varic”, “tris” (p82). (And note that North “an” is “if”, where West “an” might be “on”.)
The dialects of the East and South seem to derive, or be influenced at least, from other languages than Quercian. The speech of the East is described as having “grinding consonants” (p85). We presume the Estra got those from Kólyan. Silvern, who speaks this way, is an ambassador to Bryna Kóly; he peppers his speech with Kólyan phrases, which fit the description. (“Aigashté”, “keshtine tseyt.”)
Of the Southern dialect, we get only “Thay’s a reccan factor” (p182). “Reccan” is one who counts true; compare the Alinsever word “recaigne”. (Brook explains that sea trade brought more foreign elements to Southern language.)
We could also consider the distinct class dialect of the chambermaids, Pearsy and Liri and so on. “Jadey’s called up from b’lowst’rs. A maggunstyle’s coming in for you” (p260). This is close enough to working-class London to make no nevermind.
But is Lescant really English? I’ve been dancing around this question all night. Let’s balance and swing.
We all understand that the “common tongue” of a fantasy world is rendered as English (or, really, the reader’s native language). Tolkien hung a Silmaril on this in his appendices; he explained that his text was a “translation” of a (nonexistent) Westron original. (Frodo and Samwise were really named Maura and Banazîr, etc.)
This leaves open the question of poetry or song. If an author makes so bold as to include verse, its rhyme and meter are usually English. We understand that we should look past this and pretend that it rhymed just as well in Westron (or whatever).
Aspects is filled with poetry and song; they are crucial. We could perfectly well let Ford get away with Tolkien’s trick. Lescant is translated as English; Gerade is translated as German; everything is a real-world equivalent which approximates the flavor. When Agate speaks English verse, we know it’s really Lescant verse; just accept that it has the same power in the (nonexistent) original.
Only, Ford being Ford, maybe it’s trickier than that.
Again and again, the text leans on the characters speaking English. Strange jokes about the words “orange” and “silver” being hard to rhyme (p362). A saying puns on “liquor” and “lacquer” (p294). Agate works with English scansion (p265).
Nor is this just about English words. When Agate crafts in the rail station (p127), her verse is a villanelle – a form with specific history in French and English. When Pike initials a note, the P is “a little sketch of a pikestaff and pennon” (p416); it’s shaped like our letter P.
And yet the text makes as much of the etymologies of words; and these don’t match English at all! Varic explains that “tragedy” comes from Pandekt “tragadae”, the stamping of hooves (p225). (The English word is from Greek “tragos”, goat, but not because goats have hooves.) The Southern “reccan”, counter, must surely be the source of the word “reckon” (and “Archreckoner”), and we know that it’s related to the Alinsever “recaigne”.
The messiest example, “to judge”, has a disputed derivation of Quercian or Pandekt or Old Lescant. “Jusicato”, “diadero”, “jagah” or “diagah” (p322) – none of them bear any resemblance to Latin “jūdicō, jūdex”.
Familiar sayings and idioms also have strange origins in Lescant history. The nursery rhyme “Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it” (and the phrase “lucy-goosey”) come from street slang about police (p183). “Mori dancers” (p204) are Morris dancers, but the dance is led by Death – Pratchett nods. “Ventry” is a Westrene word for a winter gale, originally meaning an open window (p467); this might be the origin of “vent” or “window” or even “winter”. (English goes the other way: “wind” is the root, “window” the derived term.)
So why this whimsy of etymology?
Ford being Ford, we look for a pattern. From these examples, we ought to conclude that every word in Lescant has its own derivation from Old Lescant or Quercian or Pandekt (which are not Old English or Latin or Greek). But from “orange” and “silver”, we also conclude that every word in Lescant is English.
The only possible conclusion is that Lescant is not English; it is a fantasy language with its own history and its own place in Ford’s subcreated world. It simply happens to be identical to English. Every word of Lescant has evolved independently to sound the same as an English word, and to have the same meaning.
Lescant is the conlang of Pierre Menard.
(All so Ford could put English poetry in a high fantasy novel without cheating.)
Of course it’s a trick. Ford has just given us a handful of etymologies and let us imagine the whole. But he didn’t have to do even that much.
And it leaves us to wonder what other words we might have learned in future books. Is “wisdom” the domain of the aspect Wyss? Is “jaguar” the Southern word for a mountain lion because “jagah” means “hunt”? Or is a “juggler” from “jusicato”, to balance? Is magic “arcane” (“archain”) because it is the province of Archimages and Archpoets and Archreckoners?
(It’s “Arch-Image”, by the way, not “Archi-mage”. Birch is going to live in an Imagery (p206). When you formally greet an Archimage, you don’t genuflect; you reflect (p167). Take that for what it reflects about the faith.)
...When you find Goddess in your various ways, are those “variations” – those aspects – a question of “varus” (resting place)? Are they varic?
Game Rambles (and others)