A Thought on Gerundive-Translating

GerundiveHeader

The Problem

Students are often frustrated with the absence of certain participial forms in Latin. There is no present passive participle, so while they can easily write “the boys [who are] eating” as something like pueri consumentes, they can’t really write “the boys [who are] being eaten” with a participial construction. This is one of those qualities that perhaps inspired Roman authors like Lucretius and Cicero to bemoan the “poverty of the Latin language.” It just can’t do some things that other languages like Greek and English can do pretty easily.

But Latin does have some features that English lacks or at least imitates clumsily. One of those features is the gerundive. The gerundive is a verbal adjective, different from its close cousin the gerund, a verbal noun. Gerunds are everywhere in English: “Smoking is prohibited,” “Driving while drunk is a crime,” “Running five minutes a day extends your life by years.” In each of these cases, the gerund—ending with “-ing”—serves as a noun in the sentence.

The gerundive, by contrast, serves as an adjective and (to use the terminology of my introductory examples) can often be thought of as a future passive participle. It carries a sense of obligation or necessity. All this information is hard to convey in English concisely, so students are taught to translate gerundives using unnatural, almost incomprehensible formulas. For example, res agendae might be rendered as “things [that are] needing to be done.” Or libri legendi as “books [that are] deserving to be read.” Even when students have memorized these useful templates, they often have little sense of what their these English phrases really mean.

A Helpful but Imperfect Suggestion

Here I offer an alternative method for translating gerundives that, while not as pedantically precise as “deserving to be ________ed” or “needing to be ________ed,” is a little more elegant and more comprehensible for English-speaking students.

Let’s look at some examples from Allen and Greenough:

AllenGreenough

Here we see gerunds and gerundives used in more-or-less equivalent constructions. But the gerund constructions, we are told in a note, are rarer than those with gerundives, and they are generally frowned upon as a matter of Latin stylistics. This is unfortunate for English-speaking students since gerund constructions are so much easier and more sensible to the English ear! The example consilium urbem capiendi with its genitive gerund and accusative object parses very neatly in English: we would similarly talk about a plan of acting upon a direct object.

If we use the clunky formula for translating the gerundive construction (consilium urbis capiendae), we end up with an English phrase that lacks both style and sense: “a design of the city needing to be taken.” Students who are exerting all their brainpower to memorize forms won’t have much energy left to decode this kind of translationese. And the suggested translation in Allen and Greenough, “a design of taking the city,” doesn’t allow students to distinguish between gerund and gerundive constructions. In fact, it keeps students in the habit of thinking in English gerunds and accusative direct objects instead of grappling with this novel Latin participle.

So how about this? Instead of “of the city needing to be taken,” I like to create an English verbal compound in the form of ‘book-burning’—that is, the noun of the gerundive construction compounded with the action of the gerundive itself. To use Allen and Greenough‘s full example, I would translate consilium urbis capiendae like this: “a design of city-taking.”

This translation captures some important aspects of the gerundive. First, it keeps the passivity of the verb: the city is being taken, it is not doing the taking. With the English word “book-burning,” we know intuitively that the books are being burned, not that books themselves are pouring gasoline and striking matches. Allen and Greenough‘s suggestion of defaulting to the gerund in the English translation (“a design of taking the city”) loses this sense of the passive voice and even tempts students to use an accusative noun when other cases are called for.

Perhaps more importantly for beginning students, these English coinages are easy to form and immediately comprehensible: designs of donut-eating, ticket-purchasing, or even something unfamiliar like, say, rabbit-washing are much easier for students to understand than “a design of donuts needing to be eaten” or “a design of rabbits deserving to be washed.”

Some Caveats

In exchange for gains in concision and elegance, this “book-burning” construction takes on some imprecision. English does not use plural nouns in these hyphenated forms, so even though the second Allen and Greenough example (dat operam agris colendis) uses a agris instead of agro, English would use a singular noun: he attends to field-tilling, not fields-tilling. And these forms aren’t so explicit about the futurity or even the necessity of the participle.

It should also be noted that this trick doesn’t work for all gerundive constructions. It doesn’t work well for passive periphrastics or gerundives without nouns. It’s primarily helpful in constructions where normally English would use a gerund with an object (“a design for washing the rabbits”) but where Latin would prefer a noun modified by a gerundive. For these reasons, it’s still worthwhile to teach more verbose formulas like “needing to be whatever-ed.” And of course, students will encounter this cumbersome phrase elsewhere.

In practical terms, this formula of “book-burning” or “rabbit-washing” or “city-taking” is best used alongside other methods for translating. It’s a concise, intuitive, and imperfect way of rendering this elegant and often-perplexing element of Latin syntax. And at least in my limited experience, I’ve found it very helpful for class-teaching and grammar-clarifying.

“In the Image of God: John Comenius and the First Children’s Picture Book” at The Public Domain Review

God's Providence, from Orbis Sensualium Pictus

I’ve written an essay for The Public Domain Review on John Comenius’ Orbis Sensualium Pictus, widely considered to be the first children’s picture book. It was published in 1658, and it became enormously popular throughout Europe. Its author also became a famous figure in the history of education in his own right: his portrait was painted by Rembrandt, and he was asked to become the President of Harvard College.

In this essay, I look at the challenge of illustrating the divine, the invisible, and the abstract. The Orbis aims to educate children using familiar sights and sounds from their experience, but such an approach becomes problematic when discussing topics like God, the soul, and the Last Judgment.

You can find my essay here, and you can browse the other really fascinating material at The Public Domain Review at their excellent website.

[Update: Thanks to both The Paris Review Daily and The Dish for featuring this essay.]

Homeless in Concourse D

Homeless Man Sleeping on Sidewalk, from Wikipedia

A man rests his head on a pile of dirty shirts and curls his legs up next to a heating vent. He is tired after toting the necessities of life around all day. Before he shuts his eyes for the night, he pulls his iPhone out of his blazer’s inside pocket and checks the status of his rebooked flight.

For Americans whose travels follow a constellation of airline hubs, a night stuck in the airport is a familiar experience. When hotels are too full or connections too early, it is simply easier to push benches together into a makeshift twin mattress.

These uncomfortable nights are the closest most Americans will ever get to homelessness.

The last month of polar vortices and wintry mixes has inflicted this quasi-homelessness on many travelers (including me). Men in tailored suits huddle on the floor in Concourse D. Sleepy young women in Ivy League sweatshirts scavenge for a bathroom, toothbrush in hand. Oily-haired travelers bathe themselves in public sinks, and we greet them with sympathetic smiles, not averted grimaces.

Image courtesy ericahintergardt, flickr

We accept airport vagrancy as an unavoidable and mildly unpleasant side-effect of flying, a miraculous kind of slowed-down teleportation. But why do we empathize so readily with those who suffer this temporary “homelessness” but remain comparatively callous to the homeless on our streets and in our subways?

According to an Aristotelian theory of emotions found in his Poetics, we feel pity (eleos) for air travelers stuck on the terminal floor because we recognize that they had no direct agency in their ill fate. And we feel fear (phobos) upon realizing that we, too, could find ourselves bleary-eyed, staring at the Jamba Juice closing at midnight.

From a sociological perspective, we understand that codes of conduct disintegrate in times of distress. Thucydides wrote about the uncivilized funeral practices in the aftermath of the plague of the Peloponnesian War: “Sacred places…were full of corpses of persons that had died there, just as they were; for as the disaster passed all bounds, men, not knowing what was to become of them, became utterly careless of everything, whether sacred or profane” (II.52). What we might take to be an unsanitary floor in the afternoon becomes the closely-guarded nighttime property of a vagrant traveler. That shift makes sense to us.

David Fleming at ESPN points to a more modern and lighthearted example: public defecation. At the 2005 London Marathon, Paula Radcliffe set a world record, but about four miles from the finish line, she “simply placed one hand on a metal crowd barricade for balance, used the other to curtain her shorts to the side and perched, precariously, over her shoes. Then, as they say in England, she proceeded to ‘have a poo’ right there on the street and in broad daylight, within two feet of a startled spectator.” Normally, we might curse at a public pooper, but here, we clapped for her.

Whether it’s a matter of Aristotelian psychology or competitive desperation, we can understand the need to break social codes at the airport. But of course, airport “strandedness” is downright luxurious compared to actual homelessness. It’s not so bad: terminals have heat and clean water. For those homeless travelers lucky enough to find an outlet, there is electricity — maybe even free WiFi to facilitate revisiting your favorite episodes of My So-Called Life. In fact, many travelers even choose this plush quasi-homelessness instead of booking hotels. For a tiny fraction of the 644 million travelers who find themselves sleeping on the floor, the worst outcome is usually a sore neck and a lackluster bagel the next morning (paid for with a meal voucher, of course).

But for millions of Americans, homelessness means living in unsafe and inclement cityscapes, ravaged by the same winter weather that left others stranded with heat, power, and an airline-branded blanket in O’Hare. But do we withhold pity because we tell ourselves we would never make the poor life choices that lead to sleeping on a bench? Do we not fear we might also end up bathing in a sink?

As air travel shows us, misfortune picks at random, and she sometimes picks me. Sometimes you.

When we next see truly unfortunate souls on our streets, let us remember these Aristotelian lessons of pity and fear. We should not withhold our empathy just because when we catch a night-long glimpse of our own homelessness, we are able to fly away from it the next morning.