It happens all the time. I'm at a social gathering, I meet someone new,
and the standard question comes up: ``So, what do you do?'' I'm tempted
to limit my reply to ``I'm a professor at the university'', but this
only postpones the inevitable. It's better to just get it over with:
``I'm a math professor at the university''.
At this point there are several common responses:
1. The person steps back in horror, as though I had just announced I had
the bubonic plague. Then, perhaps recalling that mathematics is not
contagious, or at least not fatal, they recover and reply: ``I was never
any good at math.''
I've never understood this. If I'd said I was a biology professor, would
the response be ``I was never any good at biology''? If I played the
bassoon in the orchestra, would they reply ``I was never any good at the
bassoon''? I doubt it. Yet a surprising number of people seem compelled to
immediately proclaim their incompetence in mathematics. I myself am
hopeless at any form of visual art, but I don't feel the need to
announce this every time I meet an artist. But what I really want to say to
the person, and sometimes do, is this: ``What makes you think you're no good
at math? I don't believe it!'' The same goes for any reader of this blog
who thinks they are ``no good at math'' or claims not to like math. In
this series of posts, I'm going to try to prove you're wrong.
2. ``oh, you must balance the checkbook in your family''. That's
hilarious, especially for Wendy. Even worse:
``So do you know Professor so-and-so in the Accounting Department?''
Huh? No, I don't know Professor so-and-so, nor do I know Professor
Whatshername in the Department of Finnish Literature. Well, I don't
actually say that, recognizing all too well what prompts the question:
For many people, ``math'' is the same thing as ``arithmetic''. I was
astonished to find a website asserting that ``there is no math in
Sudoku''. On the contrary, this popular game is PURE mathematics. What
the website author meant is that there is no arithmetic in Sudoku, which is
true, but the unfortunate choice of language insinuates that if there
was math in it, it couldn't be fun. On the contrary, if you like Sudoku
then you are a mathematician! I'll explain this in a later post.
In any case, I have nothing against accounting, but it has nothing to do
with the mathematics I love. Music would be much closer.
3. ``So you teach math?'' Well, yes. Often I leave it at that, which
leads to an easier, more pleasant conversation in which I can talk about
the courses I teach, what the students are like, and so on. Only in my
more optimistic moods do I venture to add: ``And I do research, which in
fact is about half of my job.''
This statement is often met with outright incredulity. ``You can do
research in MATH???'' A cousin of my wife's, in his early 20's at the
time, found the idea so absurd that he literally burst out laughing,
and asked: ``What do you do, look for new ways to find...[here he
paused, evidently searching for the most advanced, esoteric mathematical
concept he'd heard tell of]...square roots?''
I can understand why it comes as a surprise to most people that there is
such a thing as mathematical research. We mathematicians have to take
some of the blame for this state of affairs; evidently we've done a bad
job of explaining ourselves to the general public. What I don't
understand is this attitude of willful ignorance, all too common in our
country: ``If I can't imagine it, then it doesn't exist''.
Yes, you can do research in mathematics. People have been doing it for
three thousand years, and tens of thousands of people around the world
are doing it at this moment. And when I say you, I mean YOU! In the
course of these posts I'll mention some unsolved problems that anyone
can work on, or at least play around with.
4. ``Does it (mathematical research) have any practical applications?''
This is certainly a reasonable question, but a very frustrating one to
answer. On the one hand, there is no field of knowledge that has more
practical applications than mathematics. It has been pervasive for
centuries, and especially since the advent of computers. In fact, a
striking trend over the last fifty years or so is that EVERY branch of
pure mathematics, no matter how abstract or esoteric it might appear,
finds applications sooner or later. On the other hand, this is not why I
love mathematics, and therein lies the frustrating point. I love
mathematics for its intrinsic beauty; the applications are just a bonus.
I could talk about practical applications, many of which are quite
amazing, but that's not what I personally think about. So in these essays
I'll mention an application or two when I can, but my main goal is to
give some inkling at least of why mathematics in and of itself is so
fascinating. And fun!
The fun will begin in the next post. Meanwhile, if you had any bad
experiences with math in school, banish all such memories from your
brain. Did you find it boring to recite multiplication tables, solve
long lists of algebra equations, analyze equilateral triangles or memorize
trig identities? Excellent! This indicates good taste, and that you have
a future as a mathematician. Or perhaps you enjoyed geometry but not
algebra, or vice-versa. This too is excellent; mathematics is a vast
subject and there is nothing wrong with preferring one branch over
another. Most important of all, get rid of the idea that mathematics was
all written in stone a thousand years ago, and the Big Mathematical
Cheese in the Sky handed it down to a few select prophets on the
mountaintop. Mathematics is a vibrant, living, human enterprise. WE are
the mathematicians, and this includes YOU. Relax your mind. Return to
the innocent, unfettered curiosity that all children have. And enjoy!
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
CT Report, coming attractions
Friday I had another CT-scan and today we saw the oncologist. There is no measurable increase in the cancer, and I am considered "in remission". The doc was careful to emphasize that remission does not mean cure, but still this is great news. Oddly, however, my reaction has been somewhat subdued, for the simple reason that it's what I expected all along anyway! I'll have another scan in 3 months, at which time I'll expect the same result, in which case the next scan would be 6 months later, and so on until after three years or so they consider it gone.
In fact an actual cure, i.e. complete elimination of the cancer, is very rare (he says), especially when it has already spread from the bladder, but does happen. But I've been an exceptional case from the beginning, for instance he commented again on how unusual it is not to have experienced any pain from the cancer. So I just assume I will continue to be exceptional and will totally kick the cancer's butt, sangue della Madonna! (This last is one of many interesting curses from 19th-century Sicily, "blood of the Madonna", "sangue di un cane!" (blood of a dog; sorry Zoe), etc.. I've been learning quite a few from the novels of Giovanni Varga.) And once again, I'll give no thought whatever to the matter until the next scan, as I have much more interesting things to do!
Coming attractions for Dr. Steve's blog: I started another installment of "la bella lingua", but it's getting too technical for those who don't already know some Italian. So I'll quit on that. Instead I'm going to start a new series "A mathematician explains himself", loosely based on an essay I originally wrote in Italian. I hope to get a few more readers for the English version! It is intended for readers who haven't had any math beyond high-school, and for whom even the high-school math may be a distant, hazy, or painful memory. I hope it will be fun, and just remember, if you enjoy Sudoku then you are a mathematician whether you know it or not!!!!
In fact an actual cure, i.e. complete elimination of the cancer, is very rare (he says), especially when it has already spread from the bladder, but does happen. But I've been an exceptional case from the beginning, for instance he commented again on how unusual it is not to have experienced any pain from the cancer. So I just assume I will continue to be exceptional and will totally kick the cancer's butt, sangue della Madonna! (This last is one of many interesting curses from 19th-century Sicily, "blood of the Madonna", "sangue di un cane!" (blood of a dog; sorry Zoe), etc.. I've been learning quite a few from the novels of Giovanni Varga.) And once again, I'll give no thought whatever to the matter until the next scan, as I have much more interesting things to do!
Coming attractions for Dr. Steve's blog: I started another installment of "la bella lingua", but it's getting too technical for those who don't already know some Italian. So I'll quit on that. Instead I'm going to start a new series "A mathematician explains himself", loosely based on an essay I originally wrote in Italian. I hope to get a few more readers for the English version! It is intended for readers who haven't had any math beyond high-school, and for whom even the high-school math may be a distant, hazy, or painful memory. I hope it will be fun, and just remember, if you enjoy Sudoku then you are a mathematician whether you know it or not!!!!
Monday, April 20, 2015
La bella lingua, part IV, and Kaia as herpetologist
``There's a misunderstanding about snakes,'' Kaia told me, ``when they
wrap around your arm it doesn't mean they want to squeeze you and eat
you. Because if people didn't have arms, how would they hug?''
That last statement might seem obscure--unless you spend a lot of time
around 5-year olds, in which case the meaning is clear: If the snake had
arms, it would give you a hug. And without arms, people too would have
trouble hugging, so it isn't fair to blame the snake. (Kaia was recently
at some kid event or another where they got to handle real snakes.)
Sunday Jessie, Kaia, Finley and I went on an expedition up Denny Creek,
a wonderful little ravine near our house that very few people frequent
(it's part of Denny Creek Park, but almost everyone stays on the other
side of the road, by the lake). Among other things it features the
biggest tree in King County, 26 feet in circumference. Unfortunately it is
now only 40 feet high, the rest having been broken off in a storm years
ago. But it's still pretty impressive.
If we dawdled too long, Finley would urge us on: ``come on, let's go on
our way!'' At the end he announced that ``we are at the end of a very
long journey''. Kaia took great delight in finding ways to cross the
creek, via stepping stones, logs etc. After a tricky crossing she would
say, contemplating the return, ``this was not such a good idea'', and
then after getting back, ``I have saved my own life!''.
On to things Italian. Or French, as the case may be. I finally finished
the 60-hour audiobook of ``I miserabili''. It was quite an experience,
even apart from listening to it in Italian. Anyone else out there read
it, in whatever language? I found the story to be very involving, even
gripping at times. But to maintain interest and suspense one has to skip
past Hugo's strange historical digressions. An extreme example: Valjean
has rescued the unconscious Marius at the barricades, carrying him on
his back and fleeing into the labyrinthic Paris sewers. Just at this
suspenseful moment, Hugo digresses for several chapters on the history
and design of the Paris sewer system. Later Valjean encounters
quicksand in the sewers, at which point we get a lecture on the
different types of quicksand and where they can be found.
The core of the novel still has some flaws that might diminish its
appeal to some readers, notably the many absurd coincidences that are
contrived to reconnect various threads of the plot. When Valjean and
Cosette are running for their lives in Paris, with relentless policeman
Javert hot on their heels, they are able to climb over a high wall into
a large garden. Desperate for a hiding place, Valjean takes the risk of
approaching the elderly gardener to ask for help. And what luck! The
gardener is none other than Fauchelevant, a man whose life
Valjean saved years earlier (and far from Paris). There are many more
coincidences of this type.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed the plot and the characters, and in particular the
relationship between Valjean and the orphaned Cosette. Hugo lost one of
his own beloved daughters in a boating accident (her fiance also
drowned, attempting to save her), a tragedy visible between the lines of
``I miserabili''.
My current Italian reading project is ``I Malavoglia'' by Giovanni
Verga, a 19th century author of Sicilian origins. I'm listening to the
audiobook too, but in this case I find it essential to have the book, as
the vocabulary and the plethora of characters make it
difficult to follow. Although a tragedy, its dialogue is often amusing;
those Sicilians sure were good at insulting one another: Ladro!
Assassino! Nemico di Dio! (``Thief! Assassin! Enemy of God!'') Plus
there is an interesting connection of the sort I love discovering: The
opera Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni is based on some short
stories by Verga, with a similar setting. I'll probably read those next.
Meanwhile, returning to grammar, I offer a brief introduction to the
subjunctive in Italian (for the long version, see my essay ``The
subjunctive: theory and practice'' in ``A mathematician looks at
Italian'').
If you rely on a typical textbook or grammar book, the subjunctive
can appear daunting and mysterious. One such book gives ten different
categories of main clause verbs that require the subjunctive in the
subordinate clause, plus eight further categories with 24 examples. But
this is the wrong way to look at it; there is a single, simple, elegant concept
that governs the use of the subjunctive. Let's first look at a few
examples. Since I don't want to assume familiarity with Italian, I'll
present the examples in English, putting an asterisk after a verb that
would be ``subjunctified'' in Italian. For instance:
1. I suppose your brother arrives* by train.
If English functioned like Italian, the conjugation ``arrives'' would be
replaced by something else; imagine for example ``I suppose your brother
arriveth by train''. (And in fact the verb ``functioned'' in the
sentence I just wrote would be in the subjunctive, if we had one.) Some
other examples:
2. I'm afraid you didn't* understand me.
3. I demand that you tell* me the truth.
4. I doubt that Fabrizio shows* up with Paola.
5. It's rather unlikely that they have* already sold that house.
6. It seems that Julia is* better.
7. I'm happy that my friends had* fun.
8. The fact that he rejected* it doesn't mean anything.
In some of the examples, such as no. 5, it is the auxiliary verb
``have'' that gets the subjunctive, rather than ``sold''. That's just a
rule of Italian, and is not part of the concept.
So what the heck IS the concept? As my favorite grammar book (by Maiden
and Robustelli) points out, the first question to ask is not ``what does
the subjunctive mean?'' but rather ``what does the indicative
(i.e. normal conjugation) mean?''. The indicative means that the verb
in question is actually realized: You didn't understand me. They have
(or haven't) already sold the house. Julia is better. My friends had
fun. He rejected it. And so on. The subjunctive, on the other hand,
refers not to actual realization of the verb, but to its abstract
possibility or abstract essence. In example 6 one is not asserting that
Julia is better, only that it seems that she is better. Example 8 is the
purest illustration of this abstraction: Even though ``he rejected it''
is a realized fact, the sentence refers to the ABSTRACT fact that he
rejected it. Similarly in example 7 my friends did in fact have fun, but
what I'm saying is really ``the (abstract) fact that my friends had
fun'' makes me happy and for that reason the subjunctive is used.
Needless to say, every language has its exceptions and its funny,
arbitrary rules. In particular, the Italian subjunctive doesn't follow
the above logic perfectly. But it follows this ``Realization
Principle'' to a remarkable degree, and that's one of the things I love
about it. It's interesting to note too that the subjunctive seems to have
evolved independently in completely unrelated languages, suggesting that
the Realization Principle is somehow wired into our grammatical
brains. In English we do have a pitiful, vestigial remnant of the
subjunctive, e.g. ``if I were king'', ``I demand that he tell me the
truth''. The latter example is a good case in point, because it only
works in the third person singular; in e.g. ``I demand that you tell me the
truth'' the subjunctive conjugation is the same as the indicative and
therefore effectively non-existent.
You have to see lots of examples in Italian before it really starts
making sense. But just to reassure any would-be Italian learners, in
speech you can get by perfectly well without the subjunctive; if you use
the indicative it is unlikely that you will be misunderstood. On the
other hand, you do need to at least be able to recognize the subjunctive
conjugations, not for the above conceptual reasons but simply to
recognize what the verb is (when listening or reading). To take a simple
example, ``I don't think Paolo knows German'' would be rendered in
Italian as ``Non credo che Paolo sappia il tedesco''. If you only know
the indicative ``Paolo sa'' for ``Paolo knows'', the appearance of
subjunctive conjugations like ``sappia'' will get confusing. And there
are some cases where you'll get the meaning wrong. Take for example the
famous aria ``Nessun dorma'' from Puccini's opera Turandot (even those
who are not opera fans would recognize the aria if they heard
it). Without knowing the subjunctive, you would think it means ``Nobody
sleeps''. But that would be rendered in the indicative: ``Nessun
dorme.'' The subjunctive ``dorma'' changes the meaning completely to
``Let nobody sleep!''
Well, by this point all but the most hardcore grammar fans are probably
already asleep, so I will quit. Those who are interested, however, might
take a look at the essay cited above.
Buona notte a tutti!
wrap around your arm it doesn't mean they want to squeeze you and eat
you. Because if people didn't have arms, how would they hug?''
That last statement might seem obscure--unless you spend a lot of time
around 5-year olds, in which case the meaning is clear: If the snake had
arms, it would give you a hug. And without arms, people too would have
trouble hugging, so it isn't fair to blame the snake. (Kaia was recently
at some kid event or another where they got to handle real snakes.)
Sunday Jessie, Kaia, Finley and I went on an expedition up Denny Creek,
a wonderful little ravine near our house that very few people frequent
(it's part of Denny Creek Park, but almost everyone stays on the other
side of the road, by the lake). Among other things it features the
biggest tree in King County, 26 feet in circumference. Unfortunately it is
now only 40 feet high, the rest having been broken off in a storm years
ago. But it's still pretty impressive.
If we dawdled too long, Finley would urge us on: ``come on, let's go on
our way!'' At the end he announced that ``we are at the end of a very
long journey''. Kaia took great delight in finding ways to cross the
creek, via stepping stones, logs etc. After a tricky crossing she would
say, contemplating the return, ``this was not such a good idea'', and
then after getting back, ``I have saved my own life!''.
On to things Italian. Or French, as the case may be. I finally finished
the 60-hour audiobook of ``I miserabili''. It was quite an experience,
even apart from listening to it in Italian. Anyone else out there read
it, in whatever language? I found the story to be very involving, even
gripping at times. But to maintain interest and suspense one has to skip
past Hugo's strange historical digressions. An extreme example: Valjean
has rescued the unconscious Marius at the barricades, carrying him on
his back and fleeing into the labyrinthic Paris sewers. Just at this
suspenseful moment, Hugo digresses for several chapters on the history
and design of the Paris sewer system. Later Valjean encounters
quicksand in the sewers, at which point we get a lecture on the
different types of quicksand and where they can be found.
The core of the novel still has some flaws that might diminish its
appeal to some readers, notably the many absurd coincidences that are
contrived to reconnect various threads of the plot. When Valjean and
Cosette are running for their lives in Paris, with relentless policeman
Javert hot on their heels, they are able to climb over a high wall into
a large garden. Desperate for a hiding place, Valjean takes the risk of
approaching the elderly gardener to ask for help. And what luck! The
gardener is none other than Fauchelevant, a man whose life
Valjean saved years earlier (and far from Paris). There are many more
coincidences of this type.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed the plot and the characters, and in particular the
relationship between Valjean and the orphaned Cosette. Hugo lost one of
his own beloved daughters in a boating accident (her fiance also
drowned, attempting to save her), a tragedy visible between the lines of
``I miserabili''.
My current Italian reading project is ``I Malavoglia'' by Giovanni
Verga, a 19th century author of Sicilian origins. I'm listening to the
audiobook too, but in this case I find it essential to have the book, as
the vocabulary and the plethora of characters make it
difficult to follow. Although a tragedy, its dialogue is often amusing;
those Sicilians sure were good at insulting one another: Ladro!
Assassino! Nemico di Dio! (``Thief! Assassin! Enemy of God!'') Plus
there is an interesting connection of the sort I love discovering: The
opera Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni is based on some short
stories by Verga, with a similar setting. I'll probably read those next.
Meanwhile, returning to grammar, I offer a brief introduction to the
subjunctive in Italian (for the long version, see my essay ``The
subjunctive: theory and practice'' in ``A mathematician looks at
Italian'').
If you rely on a typical textbook or grammar book, the subjunctive
can appear daunting and mysterious. One such book gives ten different
categories of main clause verbs that require the subjunctive in the
subordinate clause, plus eight further categories with 24 examples. But
this is the wrong way to look at it; there is a single, simple, elegant concept
that governs the use of the subjunctive. Let's first look at a few
examples. Since I don't want to assume familiarity with Italian, I'll
present the examples in English, putting an asterisk after a verb that
would be ``subjunctified'' in Italian. For instance:
1. I suppose your brother arrives* by train.
If English functioned like Italian, the conjugation ``arrives'' would be
replaced by something else; imagine for example ``I suppose your brother
arriveth by train''. (And in fact the verb ``functioned'' in the
sentence I just wrote would be in the subjunctive, if we had one.) Some
other examples:
2. I'm afraid you didn't* understand me.
3. I demand that you tell* me the truth.
4. I doubt that Fabrizio shows* up with Paola.
5. It's rather unlikely that they have* already sold that house.
6. It seems that Julia is* better.
7. I'm happy that my friends had* fun.
8. The fact that he rejected* it doesn't mean anything.
In some of the examples, such as no. 5, it is the auxiliary verb
``have'' that gets the subjunctive, rather than ``sold''. That's just a
rule of Italian, and is not part of the concept.
So what the heck IS the concept? As my favorite grammar book (by Maiden
and Robustelli) points out, the first question to ask is not ``what does
the subjunctive mean?'' but rather ``what does the indicative
(i.e. normal conjugation) mean?''. The indicative means that the verb
in question is actually realized: You didn't understand me. They have
(or haven't) already sold the house. Julia is better. My friends had
fun. He rejected it. And so on. The subjunctive, on the other hand,
refers not to actual realization of the verb, but to its abstract
possibility or abstract essence. In example 6 one is not asserting that
Julia is better, only that it seems that she is better. Example 8 is the
purest illustration of this abstraction: Even though ``he rejected it''
is a realized fact, the sentence refers to the ABSTRACT fact that he
rejected it. Similarly in example 7 my friends did in fact have fun, but
what I'm saying is really ``the (abstract) fact that my friends had
fun'' makes me happy and for that reason the subjunctive is used.
Needless to say, every language has its exceptions and its funny,
arbitrary rules. In particular, the Italian subjunctive doesn't follow
the above logic perfectly. But it follows this ``Realization
Principle'' to a remarkable degree, and that's one of the things I love
about it. It's interesting to note too that the subjunctive seems to have
evolved independently in completely unrelated languages, suggesting that
the Realization Principle is somehow wired into our grammatical
brains. In English we do have a pitiful, vestigial remnant of the
subjunctive, e.g. ``if I were king'', ``I demand that he tell me the
truth''. The latter example is a good case in point, because it only
works in the third person singular; in e.g. ``I demand that you tell me the
truth'' the subjunctive conjugation is the same as the indicative and
therefore effectively non-existent.
You have to see lots of examples in Italian before it really starts
making sense. But just to reassure any would-be Italian learners, in
speech you can get by perfectly well without the subjunctive; if you use
the indicative it is unlikely that you will be misunderstood. On the
other hand, you do need to at least be able to recognize the subjunctive
conjugations, not for the above conceptual reasons but simply to
recognize what the verb is (when listening or reading). To take a simple
example, ``I don't think Paolo knows German'' would be rendered in
Italian as ``Non credo che Paolo sappia il tedesco''. If you only know
the indicative ``Paolo sa'' for ``Paolo knows'', the appearance of
subjunctive conjugations like ``sappia'' will get confusing. And there
are some cases where you'll get the meaning wrong. Take for example the
famous aria ``Nessun dorma'' from Puccini's opera Turandot (even those
who are not opera fans would recognize the aria if they heard
it). Without knowing the subjunctive, you would think it means ``Nobody
sleeps''. But that would be rendered in the indicative: ``Nessun
dorme.'' The subjunctive ``dorma'' changes the meaning completely to
``Let nobody sleep!''
Well, by this point all but the most hardcore grammar fans are probably
already asleep, so I will quit. Those who are interested, however, might
take a look at the essay cited above.
Buona notte a tutti!
Sunday, March 29, 2015
La bella lingua, Part III
Grammar is fascinating. At least I think so, especially the ways in
which grammar differs from language to language. Even a humble concept
such as the article shows striking variation from one language to the
next. In Romanian, for example, definite articles are attached to the
end of the word: ``endthe of wordthe''. In Russian there are no articles
at all. In Hungarian there is no verb ``to have''; if you want to say
``I have a cat'', you essentially say ``a cat of mine there is'',
although it actually looks more like ``catmine is''. In English we say
``the cat is black'' and it doesn't even cross our minds that the word
``is'' in this sentence can be viewed as redundant. Many other languages
(Hungarian for instance) would simply say ``the cat black'', and to
their native speakers it is a bit of a puzzle why we insert the word
``is'' (to be contrasted with the existential use of ``is'' in the first
example, '' a cat of mine exists''). And Gaelic has no word for ``yes''!
I found this incredible the first time I came across it; how on earth
can a language get by without the word ``yes''? The solution is to
answer questions by repeating the verb affirmatively: ``Did you go to
Ireland last year?'' ``I went.''
Among all languages that I've ever looked at, English has by far the
simplest grammar. In making such statements one has to be careful,
because it is virtually impossible to be objective about one's native
language. But it's true. In particular, Italian is grammatically much
more complicated than English, and this of course is a big part of the
challenge in learning it. I find the grammar quite beautiful,
however. Like any language it has idiosyncrasies that are alternately
delightful or exasperating, but the underlying general structure is
quite elegant. In what follows I'll try not to get carried away with
detailed technical discussion; true grammar nuts can consult the ongoing
series of essays ``A mathematician looks at Italian'' on my Italian website.
In a fit of shameless self-promotion, however, I will occasionally refer
to the aforementioned essays. Accents are indicated by putting them
after the letter that they're supposed to be over: e`, e'.
1. Verb conjugation. This is the biggy. (And it is not part of what I consider "beautiful" in the grammar; I'll get to that next time.) In English we are spoiled
by having almost no conjugation at all (I'm told that Chinese has even
less). Want to put ``to speak'' in the future tense? Just put ``will''
in front of it: I will speak, you [singular] will speak, he/she will
speak, we will speak, you [plural] will speak, they will speak. In
Italian each of these six cases requires a different modification of
``parlare'' (the infinitive of ``to speak''):
parlero`/parlerai/parlera`/parleremo/parlerete/parleranno.
For the conditional we just stick ``would'' in front of the verb: I
would speak, etc., whereas in Italian all six forms have different
endings. The present tense in English is rather bizarre, since the third
person singular alone is singled out for special treatment: He/she
speaks, but for the other five cases it's ``speak''. Some dialects of
American English take the very logical step of eliminating the silly
third person singular distinction, and simply say ``He speak.'' And why
not? I wouldn't be surprised if in the natural course of linguistic
evolution, the ``s'' is eventually dropped by all speakers. At any rate,
in Italian all six forms are different, and there are many
irregularities to boot. Then there are the past tenses, the subjunctive,
the imperative...if you have a memory as poor as mine, to learn all this
a daunting task.
And unfortunately (or fortunately, if you enjoy such challenges) you
really do have to learn most of the verb conjugations. Precisely because
every person/number has a different conjugation, the relevant pronoun is
usually omitted because it is determined by the given conjugation. In
English the sentence ``will go to the store'' is ambiguous: Who will go?
I will go? You will go? We will go? They will go? etc. So we have to
insert the pronoun; for example, ``we will go to the store''. But in
Italian the pronoun ``noi'' (=``we'') is omitted: ``Andremo al
mercato.'' The ending ``emo'' tells you not only that it's future tense,
but that it's the second person plural conjugation, so ``noi'' is
redundant. (Incidentally, this allows the nice option of inserting
it--''noi andremo al mercato'' to emphasize that WE, as opposed to
someone else, will be going to the store. In English you can't do this
without using italics, caps as I've done here, or tone of voice.) In any
case, the point is that without knowing the verb conjugations you won't
even know who the heck is supposed to go to the store!
At this point I need to confess that I haven't been telling you the
whole truth about books and audiobooks. The catch is that the vast
majority of novels are written in a past tense called the ``passato
remoto'', literally ``remote past'', which is different from the
``passato prossimo'' that one uses in normal conversation. French too
has these two parallel past tenses, whereas English has only one. The
terminology ``remote past'' is misleading, because it doesn't mean that
you only use it when discussing the Roman Empire or the rise of the
dinosaurs. It is, as I said, the tense of choice in novels, and as such
is exactly analogous to the plain old past tense of English. (Well,
there is a further complication in the use of past tenses, discussed in
my essay ``Italian meets the fourth dimension''. But we won't worry
about that here.) Still, the passato remoto is a whole new conjugation
to learn, and just to add insult to injury, it is the most
irregular of them all.
To make headway you need a good reference, and for verb conjugations in
general the best by far is the Larousse Concise Dictionary. At the back
you'll find a list of 126 patterns of verb conjugations (do not be
intimidated--it's bad, yes, but not as bad as it looks!). If you want to
know into which of these patterns a given verb--e.g. ``stordire'', to
stun/deafen/befuddle--falls, you just find it in the body of the
dictionary where it will appear with a number in brackets, in this
instance [9]. That tells you that ``stordire'' follows the same pattern
as item 9, ``capire'', in the back.
On the other hand, you can't rely on a dictionary forever; at some point
you have to memorize. For me, the only way to do this is to make a
systematic study on my own terms, and write it down. I've done this in
my essay ``Verbs and their mutations: the genetics of conjugation''.
Here the analogy with genetics is partly just for fun, but I've also
found it to be quite useful. Another approach that I find simultaneously
useful and amusing is to imagine that there was a ``Designer'' of
Italian, who I then attempt to psychoanalyze. As in the case of biology,
the Designer did not think things through as well as he/she might have
done; at times the ``markers'' for the various conjugations (e.g. the
vowels at the end of parlo/parli/parla that distinguish ``I speak/you
[singular] speak/he or she speaks'') seem to have been chosen randomly,
or only because the most logical marker was already taken for something
else. My biggest complaint is that the Designer almost never uses the
vowel ``u'' as a marker, and as a result a/e/i/o are horribly
overworked. The worst casualty of this oversight is the formal
imperative, which--ironically--is exactly the most important case to
know if you want to avoid seeming rude while visiting Italy.
But enough for today; I'll discuss the formal imperative later. Other
coming attractions include word order (fascinating!), the menagerie of
pronouns, and why the subjunctive is really cool.
which grammar differs from language to language. Even a humble concept
such as the article shows striking variation from one language to the
next. In Romanian, for example, definite articles are attached to the
end of the word: ``endthe of wordthe''. In Russian there are no articles
at all. In Hungarian there is no verb ``to have''; if you want to say
``I have a cat'', you essentially say ``a cat of mine there is'',
although it actually looks more like ``catmine is''. In English we say
``the cat is black'' and it doesn't even cross our minds that the word
``is'' in this sentence can be viewed as redundant. Many other languages
(Hungarian for instance) would simply say ``the cat black'', and to
their native speakers it is a bit of a puzzle why we insert the word
``is'' (to be contrasted with the existential use of ``is'' in the first
example, '' a cat of mine exists''). And Gaelic has no word for ``yes''!
I found this incredible the first time I came across it; how on earth
can a language get by without the word ``yes''? The solution is to
answer questions by repeating the verb affirmatively: ``Did you go to
Ireland last year?'' ``I went.''
Among all languages that I've ever looked at, English has by far the
simplest grammar. In making such statements one has to be careful,
because it is virtually impossible to be objective about one's native
language. But it's true. In particular, Italian is grammatically much
more complicated than English, and this of course is a big part of the
challenge in learning it. I find the grammar quite beautiful,
however. Like any language it has idiosyncrasies that are alternately
delightful or exasperating, but the underlying general structure is
quite elegant. In what follows I'll try not to get carried away with
detailed technical discussion; true grammar nuts can consult the ongoing
series of essays ``A mathematician looks at Italian'' on my Italian website.
In a fit of shameless self-promotion, however, I will occasionally refer
to the aforementioned essays. Accents are indicated by putting them
after the letter that they're supposed to be over: e`, e'.
1. Verb conjugation. This is the biggy. (And it is not part of what I consider "beautiful" in the grammar; I'll get to that next time.) In English we are spoiled
by having almost no conjugation at all (I'm told that Chinese has even
less). Want to put ``to speak'' in the future tense? Just put ``will''
in front of it: I will speak, you [singular] will speak, he/she will
speak, we will speak, you [plural] will speak, they will speak. In
Italian each of these six cases requires a different modification of
``parlare'' (the infinitive of ``to speak''):
parlero`/parlerai/parlera`/parleremo/parlerete/parleranno.
For the conditional we just stick ``would'' in front of the verb: I
would speak, etc., whereas in Italian all six forms have different
endings. The present tense in English is rather bizarre, since the third
person singular alone is singled out for special treatment: He/she
speaks, but for the other five cases it's ``speak''. Some dialects of
American English take the very logical step of eliminating the silly
third person singular distinction, and simply say ``He speak.'' And why
not? I wouldn't be surprised if in the natural course of linguistic
evolution, the ``s'' is eventually dropped by all speakers. At any rate,
in Italian all six forms are different, and there are many
irregularities to boot. Then there are the past tenses, the subjunctive,
the imperative...if you have a memory as poor as mine, to learn all this
a daunting task.
And unfortunately (or fortunately, if you enjoy such challenges) you
really do have to learn most of the verb conjugations. Precisely because
every person/number has a different conjugation, the relevant pronoun is
usually omitted because it is determined by the given conjugation. In
English the sentence ``will go to the store'' is ambiguous: Who will go?
I will go? You will go? We will go? They will go? etc. So we have to
insert the pronoun; for example, ``we will go to the store''. But in
Italian the pronoun ``noi'' (=``we'') is omitted: ``Andremo al
mercato.'' The ending ``emo'' tells you not only that it's future tense,
but that it's the second person plural conjugation, so ``noi'' is
redundant. (Incidentally, this allows the nice option of inserting
it--''noi andremo al mercato'' to emphasize that WE, as opposed to
someone else, will be going to the store. In English you can't do this
without using italics, caps as I've done here, or tone of voice.) In any
case, the point is that without knowing the verb conjugations you won't
even know who the heck is supposed to go to the store!
At this point I need to confess that I haven't been telling you the
whole truth about books and audiobooks. The catch is that the vast
majority of novels are written in a past tense called the ``passato
remoto'', literally ``remote past'', which is different from the
``passato prossimo'' that one uses in normal conversation. French too
has these two parallel past tenses, whereas English has only one. The
terminology ``remote past'' is misleading, because it doesn't mean that
you only use it when discussing the Roman Empire or the rise of the
dinosaurs. It is, as I said, the tense of choice in novels, and as such
is exactly analogous to the plain old past tense of English. (Well,
there is a further complication in the use of past tenses, discussed in
my essay ``Italian meets the fourth dimension''. But we won't worry
about that here.) Still, the passato remoto is a whole new conjugation
to learn, and just to add insult to injury, it is the most
irregular of them all.
To make headway you need a good reference, and for verb conjugations in
general the best by far is the Larousse Concise Dictionary. At the back
you'll find a list of 126 patterns of verb conjugations (do not be
intimidated--it's bad, yes, but not as bad as it looks!). If you want to
know into which of these patterns a given verb--e.g. ``stordire'', to
stun/deafen/befuddle--falls, you just find it in the body of the
dictionary where it will appear with a number in brackets, in this
instance [9]. That tells you that ``stordire'' follows the same pattern
as item 9, ``capire'', in the back.
On the other hand, you can't rely on a dictionary forever; at some point
you have to memorize. For me, the only way to do this is to make a
systematic study on my own terms, and write it down. I've done this in
my essay ``Verbs and their mutations: the genetics of conjugation''.
Here the analogy with genetics is partly just for fun, but I've also
found it to be quite useful. Another approach that I find simultaneously
useful and amusing is to imagine that there was a ``Designer'' of
Italian, who I then attempt to psychoanalyze. As in the case of biology,
the Designer did not think things through as well as he/she might have
done; at times the ``markers'' for the various conjugations (e.g. the
vowels at the end of parlo/parli/parla that distinguish ``I speak/you
[singular] speak/he or she speaks'') seem to have been chosen randomly,
or only because the most logical marker was already taken for something
else. My biggest complaint is that the Designer almost never uses the
vowel ``u'' as a marker, and as a result a/e/i/o are horribly
overworked. The worst casualty of this oversight is the formal
imperative, which--ironically--is exactly the most important case to
know if you want to avoid seeming rude while visiting Italy.
But enough for today; I'll discuss the formal imperative later. Other
coming attractions include word order (fascinating!), the menagerie of
pronouns, and why the subjunctive is really cool.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
La bella lingua, Part II
Before continuing my essay on Italian, I have to say that Sunday night's
dinner party was a smashing success! (This was with my Italian teachers,
their families, and the Browns.) The Browns got here first, and Kaia was
very excited about it. ``When will the Italians get here? Do they live
far away?'' She was dressed in one of her signature outfits, in this
instance including her fancy ``Anna'' (from ``Frozen'') boots and her
blueberry sunhat. Both she and Finley gave quite an enthusiastic
reception to Elisabetta, Roberta and co. when they arrived, waving from
the window and bouncing about like two little nuts as
usual. Elisabetta's youngest, Matteo, is almost six (and completely
bilingual), and Kaia and Matteo had a ball playing together. Matteo was a
bit shy at first but Kaia is such a little socialite that he soon got
into the spirit of the Nutty Nut Show. At one point he looked at Finley
and said ``That girl is crazy!'' At the time Finley was absorbed in
extracting every last molecule of icecream from his dessert plate, but
he returned the look as if to say ``yeah, tell me about it''.
And although straying rather far from the Italian theme, I have to
report the following exchange with Kaia. I had put on Kaia's sunhat
(Grandpa is known to be a bit nutty himself now and again).
Grandpa: Kaia, what do you think of my hat?
Kaia (after a moment's consideration): I have another one at home that
would make you look handsomer.
Anyway, Wendy made a fabuluos pasta and scampi dinner, a fair bit of
wine was consumed and a great time was had by all.
---------------------------
Now, on to La bella lingua, part II.
There are two key ingredients for learning Italian (these apply to other
languages as well, or at least to European languages, which are the only
kind I'm familiar with). The first is to make a systematic study of the
grammar, to the extent that time permits. Without a conceptual
framework, you'll be perpetually lost. The second is to read books and
listen to audiobooks in Italian. It constantly surprises me that so few
Italian students do this. Movies can help, but audiobooks are much
better for a number of reasons.
I'll start with the books and audiobooks, and return to the grammar next
time. In order to develop an adequate vocabulary, you need
repetition. Repetition, repetition, repetition. But how are you going to
get it, other than by moving to Italy for a couple of years? Typical
language ``tapes'' (or new-fangled modern equivalents) are much too
boring to repeat for very long. Textbooks usually include brief excerpts
from Italian novels, but it's hard to get very involved in an
excerpt. So read a novel! Listen to a novel! It's fun, and the listening
is ideal for those who (like me) spend a lot of time commuting by car. I
used to get frustrated with 45-minute commute times each way, but now it
rarely bothers me; I just listen to my audiobooks.
You have to start slowly, of course, and in the beginning things will
progress very slowly indeed. Be patient. Start with illustrated
children's books, or comics. Start with something simple that you've
already read in English, or at least already know the story. My standard
in any language is to start with the Tintin books, because they are
comics and I already know them by heart. Then you can venture into
actual novels, where again it's best to start with something you're
already familiar with in English. For example, the Italian translations
of the Harry Potter books and of The Wizard of Oz are wonderful, and
available as highly entertaining audiobooks (well, only the first two
Potter books, alas). Pinocchio is another good choice, and again there
is an excellent audiobook. I hasten to add that none of these will be
easy at first. After a 10-week Italian course I had to listen to each
chapter of the Harry Potter audiobooks multiple times to get the gist of
it. Reading the book at the same time helps. And slowly but surely
you'll improve. With the audiobooks, even when you understand less than
half the words, your ear is getting tuned to the cadence of the
language.
By the way, if you have a teacher he/she will probably want you to read
books by Italian authors. This is all well and good, but the fact is
that translations from English or other languages are often easier,
because they tend to have fewer idioms and don't require familiarity
with Italian culture or local dialects. The Wizard of Oz is easier than
Pinocchio, for example.
By the time I'd finished all seven Harry Potter books, I felt ready to
move on to more difficult fare. As always, much of my reading is purely
for pleasure, including for instance some entertaining contemporary
detective mysteries by Marco Malvaldi. On the more serious side, I've
been learning a lot about Italian history in the era of fascism and
World War II (roughly 1920-1945), taking a particular interest in the
stories of women who joined the resistance during the war. Renata
Vigan\`o wrote numerous short stories and a novel (``Agnes va a
morire'', or ``Agnes goes to die'') based on her experiences. Ada
Gobetti kept a diary, later published as ``Diario partigiano''. One can
also find online a short autobiography of Anita Malavasi. All of these
remarkable women had to contend not only with the fascists and the
Nazis, but also with the particular brand of sexism that is so deeply
embedded in Italian culture.
Of course there are many more writings by male authors of the era, among
whom I've found Pratolini, Silone and Carlo Levi to be especially
good. There is also Primo Levi's ``Se questo e` un uomo'' (``If this is
a man''), if you can bear to read a first-person account of surviving a
year in Auschwitz. Pratolini's novels generally involve the pre-war
fascist years, and although there is tragedy they are also very
positive. All of his writing (at least that I've seen) takes place in
his beloved hometown, Firenze, about which he writes so nostagically
that you start getting nostalgic about it yourself. My favorite is actually
a delightful short story ``Lo sgombero'', best translated non-literally
as ``The eviction'', about a boy and his grandmother getting evicted
from their apartment in Firenze to make room for the 1920's equivalent
of yuppies moving in from Torino. Pratolini's love of his home town and
sympathy for its people is touching, as is his sympathetic portrayal of
the grandmother--who is clearly based on his own grandmother, and
despite being quintessentially Italian is immediately recognizable as a
familiar grandma archetype. (In fact I think the story is autobiographical.)
But here's the thing that totally surprised me: Through Italian, I've
suddenly acquired a new interest in literature, and not just Italian
literature but literature in general. Reading novels translated into
Italian adds to their interest and also makes me read more slowly (which
is a good thing, at least for me, as I seem to appreciate the writing
more). Even better is having an audiobook, as the actor-reader can help
bring the story to life. I've recently listened to Flaubert's ``Madame
Bovary'' and Bronte's ``Wuthering Heights'', for example. I doubt I
would ever have read them in English. Currently I'm on the fifth and
last volume of Hugo's Les Miserables. Sixty hours in audiobook format!
(But some of this can be skipped, as Hugo periodically gives long
history lessons having little or nothing to do with the plot. I'm much
more interested in the fate of Valjean and Cosette than in Hugo's
recounting of the Battle of Waterloo, for instance.) The reader, Moro
Silo, is fantastic. In my Italian lessons I'm telling an abbreviated
version of the story to Elisabetta, who seems to be enjoying it as much as I
do. It's a great exercise, as there is much difficult vocabulary and it
forces me to do most of the talking.
In any case, it's a lot of fun. Instead of dreading my commute, I look
forward to the next installment of ``I miserabili''!
dinner party was a smashing success! (This was with my Italian teachers,
their families, and the Browns.) The Browns got here first, and Kaia was
very excited about it. ``When will the Italians get here? Do they live
far away?'' She was dressed in one of her signature outfits, in this
instance including her fancy ``Anna'' (from ``Frozen'') boots and her
blueberry sunhat. Both she and Finley gave quite an enthusiastic
reception to Elisabetta, Roberta and co. when they arrived, waving from
the window and bouncing about like two little nuts as
usual. Elisabetta's youngest, Matteo, is almost six (and completely
bilingual), and Kaia and Matteo had a ball playing together. Matteo was a
bit shy at first but Kaia is such a little socialite that he soon got
into the spirit of the Nutty Nut Show. At one point he looked at Finley
and said ``That girl is crazy!'' At the time Finley was absorbed in
extracting every last molecule of icecream from his dessert plate, but
he returned the look as if to say ``yeah, tell me about it''.
And although straying rather far from the Italian theme, I have to
report the following exchange with Kaia. I had put on Kaia's sunhat
(Grandpa is known to be a bit nutty himself now and again).
Grandpa: Kaia, what do you think of my hat?
Kaia (after a moment's consideration): I have another one at home that
would make you look handsomer.
Anyway, Wendy made a fabuluos pasta and scampi dinner, a fair bit of
wine was consumed and a great time was had by all.
---------------------------
Now, on to La bella lingua, part II.
There are two key ingredients for learning Italian (these apply to other
languages as well, or at least to European languages, which are the only
kind I'm familiar with). The first is to make a systematic study of the
grammar, to the extent that time permits. Without a conceptual
framework, you'll be perpetually lost. The second is to read books and
listen to audiobooks in Italian. It constantly surprises me that so few
Italian students do this. Movies can help, but audiobooks are much
better for a number of reasons.
I'll start with the books and audiobooks, and return to the grammar next
time. In order to develop an adequate vocabulary, you need
repetition. Repetition, repetition, repetition. But how are you going to
get it, other than by moving to Italy for a couple of years? Typical
language ``tapes'' (or new-fangled modern equivalents) are much too
boring to repeat for very long. Textbooks usually include brief excerpts
from Italian novels, but it's hard to get very involved in an
excerpt. So read a novel! Listen to a novel! It's fun, and the listening
is ideal for those who (like me) spend a lot of time commuting by car. I
used to get frustrated with 45-minute commute times each way, but now it
rarely bothers me; I just listen to my audiobooks.
You have to start slowly, of course, and in the beginning things will
progress very slowly indeed. Be patient. Start with illustrated
children's books, or comics. Start with something simple that you've
already read in English, or at least already know the story. My standard
in any language is to start with the Tintin books, because they are
comics and I already know them by heart. Then you can venture into
actual novels, where again it's best to start with something you're
already familiar with in English. For example, the Italian translations
of the Harry Potter books and of The Wizard of Oz are wonderful, and
available as highly entertaining audiobooks (well, only the first two
Potter books, alas). Pinocchio is another good choice, and again there
is an excellent audiobook. I hasten to add that none of these will be
easy at first. After a 10-week Italian course I had to listen to each
chapter of the Harry Potter audiobooks multiple times to get the gist of
it. Reading the book at the same time helps. And slowly but surely
you'll improve. With the audiobooks, even when you understand less than
half the words, your ear is getting tuned to the cadence of the
language.
By the way, if you have a teacher he/she will probably want you to read
books by Italian authors. This is all well and good, but the fact is
that translations from English or other languages are often easier,
because they tend to have fewer idioms and don't require familiarity
with Italian culture or local dialects. The Wizard of Oz is easier than
Pinocchio, for example.
By the time I'd finished all seven Harry Potter books, I felt ready to
move on to more difficult fare. As always, much of my reading is purely
for pleasure, including for instance some entertaining contemporary
detective mysteries by Marco Malvaldi. On the more serious side, I've
been learning a lot about Italian history in the era of fascism and
World War II (roughly 1920-1945), taking a particular interest in the
stories of women who joined the resistance during the war. Renata
Vigan\`o wrote numerous short stories and a novel (``Agnes va a
morire'', or ``Agnes goes to die'') based on her experiences. Ada
Gobetti kept a diary, later published as ``Diario partigiano''. One can
also find online a short autobiography of Anita Malavasi. All of these
remarkable women had to contend not only with the fascists and the
Nazis, but also with the particular brand of sexism that is so deeply
embedded in Italian culture.
Of course there are many more writings by male authors of the era, among
whom I've found Pratolini, Silone and Carlo Levi to be especially
good. There is also Primo Levi's ``Se questo e` un uomo'' (``If this is
a man''), if you can bear to read a first-person account of surviving a
year in Auschwitz. Pratolini's novels generally involve the pre-war
fascist years, and although there is tragedy they are also very
positive. All of his writing (at least that I've seen) takes place in
his beloved hometown, Firenze, about which he writes so nostagically
that you start getting nostalgic about it yourself. My favorite is actually
a delightful short story ``Lo sgombero'', best translated non-literally
as ``The eviction'', about a boy and his grandmother getting evicted
from their apartment in Firenze to make room for the 1920's equivalent
of yuppies moving in from Torino. Pratolini's love of his home town and
sympathy for its people is touching, as is his sympathetic portrayal of
the grandmother--who is clearly based on his own grandmother, and
despite being quintessentially Italian is immediately recognizable as a
familiar grandma archetype. (In fact I think the story is autobiographical.)
But here's the thing that totally surprised me: Through Italian, I've
suddenly acquired a new interest in literature, and not just Italian
literature but literature in general. Reading novels translated into
Italian adds to their interest and also makes me read more slowly (which
is a good thing, at least for me, as I seem to appreciate the writing
more). Even better is having an audiobook, as the actor-reader can help
bring the story to life. I've recently listened to Flaubert's ``Madame
Bovary'' and Bronte's ``Wuthering Heights'', for example. I doubt I
would ever have read them in English. Currently I'm on the fifth and
last volume of Hugo's Les Miserables. Sixty hours in audiobook format!
(But some of this can be skipped, as Hugo periodically gives long
history lessons having little or nothing to do with the plot. I'm much
more interested in the fate of Valjean and Cosette than in Hugo's
recounting of the Battle of Waterloo, for instance.) The reader, Moro
Silo, is fantastic. In my Italian lessons I'm telling an abbreviated
version of the story to Elisabetta, who seems to be enjoying it as much as I
do. It's a great exercise, as there is much difficult vocabulary and it
forces me to do most of the talking.
In any case, it's a lot of fun. Instead of dreading my commute, I look
forward to the next installment of ``I miserabili''!
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