This Lexember, I decided to work on Narahji because I felt like it was neglected. Here’s what I’ve been adding to my lexicon.
Tson /t͡so͜ʊn/, artwork. Hjutson /ʝu.ˈt͡so͜ʊn/, the study of art, art theory, art critique.
Tsodzo /t͡so.ˈd͡zo͜ʊ/, mass entertainment, art for pleasure, often derogatory.
Oëmatsa /o.e̤.mɑ.ˈtsɑ/, a word to describe art that seems like it really gets at something.
I tsodzo ozolzosaneu, lel il tson yịsapịmu zolzosa. Glabdezyum lịxev! I don’t enjoy crass art, I enjoy temple art. Be serious!
Sevsa /səv.ˈsɑ/, Digital image, photo, video presence, esp. moving (video) or still (photo). Ves /vɛs/, video conversation; vesxus /ˈvɛs.xus/, lit. through vid (perlative case marker -xus), idiomatically translated on vid.
Vesxus fyandanmos. We (excl.) have them (sing.) on vid.
Kul sevsa kul kækåmä åtsu dzösaịrru. I hunted for images of your (sing.) children.
Yeb /jɛb/, bed. Niät /ni.ˈɑ̤t/, cozy, luxurious, soft. Bær /bæɾ/, intensifier. Nex /nɛç/, A particle that appears at the end of the sentence, usually indicating that whatever happened was not positive.
Ku vomnas manatsösaịm nex. I faceplanted.
Libhog glabdeml nex. It’s a horrid green.
I yeb raniät momu manatsäiịm tenösabeli bær. All I want is to be in my cozy bed. Lit. I wholeheartedly desire laying myself down in my cozy bed.
Libhog glabdeml i yeb bær. The bed’s legit/all/totes green.
Tebh /tɛβ/, quiet. Båtebh /bɒ.ˈtɛβ/, silent.
Lịtebh glabdeml i sæb nex. The lake is eerily quiet.
Båtai /bɒ.ˈtaɪ/, to silence, to quiet. Reflexively, to fall silent.
Ku tsærbịhjas manbåtosaịm. I fell silent according to the religious custom.
Sot /soʊt/, garland.
Il sot toblịrru tæsokri. il soʊt tob.ˈlɪ.ʁu tæ.ˈsoʊ.kɾi The musicians held garlands.
Tamga /tɑm.ˈgɑ/, soap.
Il ịmla i tamganas kovozmịrra. il ɪm.ˈlɑ i tɑm.ˈgɑ.nɑs ˈkoʊv.oz.mɪ.ʁɑ Wash your (plural) hands with soap.
Kul ịgzardas Saämatsra bå osnit ku ktuzëmä Såbäkolösxus ranläntoxaml ku eiz æ ku ịg. Saämatsra stands upon the steep cliffs and watches limself ripped apart into Såbäkol, limit and unlimited.
I also did some grammatical things because I had to figure out something with osnit ku ktuzëmä, a phrase that literally means “to rip apart composed of spirit-being” in this context, and I decided that the partitive -mä suffix could be used to deflect from the subject to a verb when it is used as a noun in the infinitive.
To get another sense of what I mean, try this sentence:
Natsit il ñeifämä ranmohjuml nex. nɑ.ˈt͡sit. il ɲʲeɪ.ˈfɑ̤.ma̤ ɾɑn.mo.ˈʝu.mɫ nɛç. Le understands limself [as] falling ruinously bookish.
Over the past few months, I’ve been doodling sentences in Narahji while working on one of my writing projects. While I am definitely writing Ossia in English, occasionally I have to stop and think, “How would this actually be said in Narahji or the other conlang it’s actually spoken in?”
So I started playing with my Narahji script!
Before I get started with some fun stuff: The script is called Narahji, but it is used for most Ịgzarhjenya languages — the word Ịgzarhjenya refers to an ethnic, cultural, and linguistic group in my worldbuilding. The languages are actually quite different from one another. All of the below sentences say, Why does le feel this way (right now)? Will you (singular) ask?:
The script was developed in an area that would eventually become Narahji-speaking, though.
Some of the sentences I played with were based on passages from what I was writing at the time. Toma (Axopatomsa — Toma is a nickname) is the main character of the work I’m finishing up.
Other sentences were more tangential to the work — Saämatsra, for example, is a god in the Ịgzarhjenya pantheon who is similar to what one would get if one were to combine Khronos and Apollon and add a bunch of stuff related to cosmology — the god of pulsars, the Beacon in the Eternal Night, Le Who Climbs the Ladder, Le Who Bears the Raiment of Infinity, the Devourer of All, the Hunter of Hours, the Lord of Time, and the Dancer. Saämatsra, when depicted in human form, is typically wearing the kinds of complicated robes that would test an artist or sculptor’s skill to make lifelike, with an androgynous face and very long braided hair, like ladder rope. I like Saämatsra a lot.
Saämatsra is not the only god who presides over dance in this Ịgzarhjenya cultural worldbuilding. Dance is the office of Sayimga (also Zaimga or Zainga), one of the Divine Twins. The way I wrote the Narahji conlang script involved composing a myth about dancers and a writing system crisis in which the digital encoding used by the Ịgzarhjenya was targeted by a virus in a very clever way during a time when other people wanted to invade.
Sayimga has a sibling, Anumga (also Anmga or Anka), who presides over syllabaries, often extended to other types of non-alphabetical writing systems, among a variety of other things — diplomacy, geometry, sailing, climbing, domestic policy, familial duty, friendship, and philosophy. Sayimga presides over alphabets, sacred dance, diplomacy, mathematics, and the sky.
The story of the Narahji alphabet is the story of moving from one symbolic mode to another — the House of Anumga to the House of Sayimga, brought together in their temple.
The script works this way, too. In times of paper shortages, the vowels were written so that they could “squeeze” into the consonants and save space; they oscillate between Sayimga and Anumga’s spaces.
All conlang scripts I’ve made are some variant of right-to-left (RTL). Tveshi is RTL and bottom to top, and Narahji is just RTL. From a practical perspective, I’m left-handed and much prefer writing that way — I wrote in mirror-reverse until my preschool corrected me, I loathe most pencils, and I use fast-drying fountain pen ink.
For a long time, I struggled with creating a good script. A few years ago, after building the myth about the script itself, I did a quick prayer to Hermes and Seshat one evening. (I’m a polytheist; I pray a lot about writing.) It took me under 2 hours to finalize a workable version of the conscript after legit a decade of angst.
Seshat, an Egyptian goddess, is the Mistress of the House of Books and the one who keeps the red and black ink — and so, playfully, I translated I am writing in the house of ink into Narahji.
In the story of Narahji script, seven dancers solved the script problem. They danced in the temple, and scribes made new characters based on their movements. This did not ultimately stop the invaders, but it did help the Ịgzarhjenya retain most of their territory when the opposing forces invaded.
I’ve always loved script-like doodling. When my dad was remodeling our house (when I was a kid), when the staircase wall was still bare, I wrote all over it with fake script symbols based on all scripts I’d been exposed to. Conlanging gives me an excuse to standardize and have a lot more fun with it.
I saw a question on Twitter that was posted on Metafilter about words for librarian in “geek languages,” which was retweeted with a #conlang hashtag. Right now, I’m not sure if the original poster intended this to be mentioned in the conlang communities. I mean, there are popular geek conlangs, and then there is the vast ecosystem of conlang work happening … but it’s my birthday, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.
Earlier this year, I drafted a novella about a librarian on Atara, so it’s about library science in a far-future setting. Classical Atarahi is the international prestige language on Atara. I do have a rich vocabulary to describe librarians because I needed to develop some poetic-sounding metaphors for what librarians in that society do.
As a secondary concern, I want the novella to fight back against tropes and misunderstandings about librarianship in a broad sense. If you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen me occasionally get angry about novelettes, novellas, and other stories that conflate libraries and archives or that place library science in a dusty realm of books. (And there is some great historical fiction about librarians, but that still leaves those of us in the profession after about 1970 out of pop culture’s conception of what a librarian is.) As an academic science librarian in 2018, the only time I routinely touch books is when I read them on my lunch break. A librarian working in 1918 couldn’t do my job without training and vice-versa just due to how much the professional skillset has shifted.
So what does this mean about far-future library science? Well.
The Classical Atarahi word for librarian is derived from the word for datum (the singular form of data). Atarahi societies have always had computing infrastructure. They have always had some level of AI processing. Librarians in Atarahi society work in tandem with AI routines, human archivists, and other information professionals to deliver information services. They are a public service for everyone, from firms and companies to private citizens and families, with a complex referral system.
Amil is the word for datum in Atarahi, pronounced /ˈä.mil/. The plural form is amilenta, /ˈä.mil.ən.ˌtɑ/. The formal word for librarian comes from the term amiyī hekwakabī, data-plunger. Library science on Atara is filled with metaphors about diving, plunging, and immersing, much like the surviving esoteric text from Greco-Roman Egypt called The Book of Thoth, which makes allusions to hunting and trapping for scribal work. The commonly-used Classical Atarahi word for librarian, amiyas, /ˈä.mi.ˌjɑs/, is the word amil put in the same adjective-as-noun form that is used for personal names.
Note that the vocabulary above doesn’t include archivists. Library-archive hybrid places typically use amiyas to describe their employees. Archivists are called something else.
Classical Atarahi is not the only language for which I have developed this vocabulary. Narahji, an Ịgzarhjenya language, has separate language to describe its data flows (which includes both fiction and nonfiction scrolls/books, maps, poetry in various media, qualitative/quantitative data, et cetera) from its archival information. The terminology related to archives and archivists is related to the Narahji verb for to remember. The terminology related to librarians is related instead to words describing datastreams, information flows, and discovery systems.
Niphtora /ni.pʰtoʊ.ˈrɑ/ is library science. A librarian is a niphtorakri /ni.pʰtoʊ.ˈrɑ.kʼri/, and a library is kisaiga lịniphtora /kʼi.sa͡ɪ.ˈgɑ lɪ.ni.pʰtoʊ.ˈrɑ/, library building. The prefix lị- changes depending on whether kisaiga is a subject or direct/indirect object. In pre-conquest Narahja, while city libraries often contained archives, most archival content was found in specific archival institutions or museums. The exceptions were national libraries, which had strong archival collections.
Finally, the Tveshi language actually collapses librarians and archivists together into a single term. (I talked about this in #Lexember, too.) A library or archive is called an innodå /ĩð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/. A librarian or archivist is an innodåkouri /ĩð.oʊ̯.dɔ.ˈkʼou̯.ɾi/.
Unnodå /ũð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/ is the word for an archive if one wants to be specific, and it can be suffixed with -kouri to make it clear one is talking about an archival professional. Oinnodå /ɔĩ̯ð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/, library, can be suffixed in much the same way. The reason for this is that the national libraries in Tveshė are also the country’s archives, so while a library campus may (and often does) include multiple buildings, they all organizationally fall under the same bureaucratic structures.
Axopatomsa Eråsis glabdesu. Dof tëæmlaek mamgukofa mosjefenga. T’eikniphaomæ klesælịru kul makra dåmịmla av sanmoksuösaịru omnibh. Glabdeml mök lịbånibhæ̈ paänxa, dokusa kubhu tazai radåmfæva länglabdeml? Hjenähjas oxikanælaeroneu ịkur besu. Murhjas rịbhælaịrruịr. Ku fædeis murhjas oxikanælaịrru. Axopatomsa Eråsis glabdesu. Kækyåv moru glabdesu.
This paragraph begins with the use of two names, Axopatomsa and Eråsis, which are the informal and formal names respectively of Salus’ younger daughter. In addition, Salus addresses lim as Toma in the entry itself, a common nickname for someone named Axopatomsa. Any verb with glabde in it is a form of the verb eklab, an irregular infinitive.
You will also see a lot of words with the root of nibh, which translates to well-oiled. The word is also used to mean good and is extremely versatile. Oils are very prized in Narahja, where they are used to condition hair, skin, and wooden objects, in addition to their use in temples for icon anointing, scented oil offering lamps, and purificatory baths.
The entire passage translates to:
I am Axopatomsa Eråsis. This is where my mother’s journal ends. The print pages have been placed online, and I have read it faithfully. Isn’t it strangely impressive what, in the end, le decided needed to be said? People before lim wouldn’t have done it. Le dedicated this to me and gave me this choice. I am Axopatomsa Eråsis. I am ler daughter.
That, of course, is an idiomatic translation.
Eiknipha is the word for datastream or the Internet, which is meant in a loose sense because the way online infrastructure works there is very different. I translated dåmịmla loosely, as the more literal translation would be handed, in the sense of something produced via hand. The particle æ̈ (a rough-breathed æ) is a suffix attached to the word in a simple yes/no question that is under scrutiny, in this case the impressiveness of Salus’ entries.
Speaking in Narahji is very hard because the stress system is so different from English, my native language. It has more vowels and a few consonant clusters that are not very intuitive. I don’t want to say how many takes of that paragraph I needed, but my actual podcast notes looked like this:
I did takes until I was confident that how I said it was the best I could do. Please keep in mind if you listen to that entry that my American English accent is vey present. I didn’t invent Narahji to be easy.
There was also a sentence that didn’t make it in, which I feel sad about — I was copying and pasting a lot of things into my audio notes.
The missing sentence: Tsemanok! I nexus lịrnibh kul tsünas åtsu bivosafbelo.Tsemanok! Through this good path by means of your dice I hope that I walk. Or, simply, I hope that Tsemanok has taken me down the correct path.
Tsemanok is a god much like Hermes, Eshu, or Ganesh, and Toma’s sentiment is something I share.
I had to make a lot of my wintertime vocabulary for Tveshi today — a really weird oversight considering that the culture has its roots in a high-latitude region of Ameisa. I had words for snow and cold in Narahji despite the warm climate, for a quick contrast. In my Tveshi lexicon work, I’m happy with the word for ice — jiashei, literally water-glass. Ice frozen on surfaces is called khereshei(ć), water-tile(s). North Tvaji continent winters are icy rather than snowy. To get truly snowy winters, one would need to travel across the ocean to the Amur region.
Ho /hoʊ̯/ n. Meat. Adjective hohi /ˈhoʊ̯.çi/, meaty, umami-filled, filling, satisfying. Verb ahohit /ʌ.ˈhoʊ̯.çit̪/, to raise livestock for meat. Annolisho /ʌ̃ð.oʊ.ˈli.ʃoʊ̯/, meat animal.
Vegetarianism/veganism is not prevalent in Sabaji parts of Tveshė and is typically associated with social classes that cannot afford as much meat. The Sabaji Tveshi eat what is prepared by their families. Various priesthoods and shrines have their own ritual purity standards that might limit food groups. Meat, however, is very socially sought.
Among the Ịgzarhjenya, vegetarianism/veganism is a mourning diet practiced 1-3 years after the death of close family members, marked by the phrase ärrgorrophontis ñudssa.
Innodå /ĩð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/ n. Library, archive. Innodåkouri /ĩð.oʊ̯.dɔ.ˈkʼou̯.ɾi/, a librarian or archivist. Unnodå /ũð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/, archive. Oinnodå /ɔĩ̯ð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/, library.
Irå /ˈi.ɾɔ/ n. Translation. Aråhit /ʌ.ˈɾɔ.çit̪/, to translate. Another term for to translate is
ahakhit modayuić jeihi
ʌ.ˈhɑ.ʀit̪ moʊ̯.ˈdɑ.yui̯tʃ ˈʒeɪ̯.çi to twist through collected words
On Twitter, I then deviated into plausible dystopian scenarios involving books that occasionally happen in my writing:
Mė khanem akouanait åssekać jinnahio. I forced people to burn books.
Mė khanem peimu innodåkouri. I forced the librarian away.
Mė khanem fem peimu innodåkouri. I forced the librarian away from ler place.
In my lexicon, the above sentences actually illustrate how the word pei (place) is used. The base word, when used with suffixes like -mu, can indicate directionality. To emphasize that you do mean a place, the article needs to appear before any indirect use of pei, as in fem peimu.
Khaña (DN) /ˈʀɑ.ɲʌ/ n. Center. Khañi /ˈʀɑ.ɲi/, central. Akhañit /ʌ.ˈʀɑ.ɲit̪/, to center, to put at the midpoint.
Lioć henekhañi /lioʊ̯tʃ hə.nə.ˈʀɑ.ɲi/, centerless circles, a common way to describe gods in philosophy and mysticism.
Khia /ʀiɑ̯/ n. Light, in the sense of illumination on the electromagnetic spectrum. A different word is used for light pigments. Khiai /ʀi͡ɑi/, lit. Akhiai /ˈɑ.ʀi͡ɑi/, well-lit. Akhiait /ˈɑ.ʀi͡ɑit̪/, to light.
Onnuneporå /oʊ̯̃ð.u.nə.ˈpoʊ̯.rɔ/ n. Solstice. This is a generic term used for either of the two solstices. The Winter Solstice is called Oinnuporå /o͡ʊið.u.ˈpoʊ̯.rɔ/, from oihonnuneporå. The Summer Solstice is called Iyonnuporå /ij.oʊ̯ð.u.ˈpoʊ̯.rɔ/.
When I was reading the 56 Hikol piece about Tehjen, I did not render Narahji in the IPA — although retrospectively, that would have been easier. I would have needed way fewer takes than I had to do to get this right!
That piece is written in pre-reform Narahji, which you can tell because the possessive word is mosmur instead of momu. The prefix mos- is used to indicate possessiveness, and mur is the first person singular indirect object pronoun. People in Narahja practice diglossia up until 1897, when the language is course-corrected.
My words bring horror. People call me Desertion.
My skin is the color of cliff-rock, and it flakes like cliffrock.
The Great Canyon dark devours my soul.
My body becomes it, and the Canyon-Dark becomes my mind.
It rips my brain into small pieces that are the Canyon’s rivers,
And my blood is the soil that nourishes the people with fruit.
Such is my fate to serve for all time:
I revolted against our ways, the Karatha, the Tesekhaira, the ruler!
I chose to be alone, and what a mistake! I am no more.
That is this in English — but in Narahji, it becomes:
I mukro bezurælotek kul magdu mosmur xai Tehjenan manlịdgu.
I neä ruaịgzærmobæ glabdeml i blesgị mosmur xai lagịgzæla.
Ku klazæxub mosmur gleglælaben ku Narahjịgz lịbịmị̈nobæ.
Kusanglabdemlben omdag ku glịklazæ mosmur; radag kusanglabdemlben ku kovta.
ku koværna belæla kul ösyosnosyosjab xai kul bizar ragazị glabdæl bakus
Xai i ëiza glabdeml i ịtö, ku sjenä i hjenganas nokla i ëiza.
I dom mosmur glabdeml lexai fubä, gåmịtit kolborị:
Ku tsærgbị mosbyur, Katatyan, Kerosyan, ñæ Deimolan natzssaịtrun!
Tselvit bladeissaịtrun, xai ku narlị glabdeml kolborị! Boglabdesunuakba.
The text exists somewhere between a poem and prose — it’s not in a formal metric style. This is quite common in Narahji because oratory and poems are recited differently from ordinary speech. Certain vowels, such as i, o, u, and a, are lengthened and have a higher pitch even when they are not stressed. It produces an extremely stylized form of speech. Below is the text I actually worked from while doing the reading, which contains both the lengthened vowels and the original word stresses.
Ī mūkrṓ bezū́rælōtek kūl magdū́ mosmū́r xai Tehjénān manlịdgū́.
Ī nehā́ rūaịgzærmobæ glābdéml i blesgị́ mosmū́r xai lāgị́gzæla.
Kū klāzæxū́b mosmū́r gléglælāben kū Nārāhjị́gz lịbịmhịnōbæ.
Kūsānglābdémlben ōmdāg kū glịklāzǽ mōsmū́r; rādā́g kūsānglābdémlben kū kōvtā́.
kū kōværnā́ bélæla kūl hōsyōsnōsyṓsjāb xai kūl bīzā́r rāgāzị́ glā́bdæl bākū́s
Xai ī heizā́ glabdéml ī ịtthṓ, kū sjenhā́ i hjengānā́s nōklā́ ī heizā́.
Ī dōm mōsmū́r glābdéml lexai fūbhā́, gåmịtī́t kōlbōrị:
Kū tsærgbị́ mōsbyū́r, Kātātyā́n, Kerōsyā́n, ñæ Deimṓlān nā́tzssāịtrūn!
Tselvī́t blādéissāịtrūn, xai kū nārlị́ glābdéml kōlbōrị! Bōglābdésūnūakbā.
I had to make a decision with characters like Karatau Meiyenesi (Kurutimi) in the audio. As an Iturji upper-class person of the jomela gender who has extensive training in oratory and politics, Kurutimi would speak in Tveshi, Iturji, and Narahji using an affected oratorical style. The Iturji follow the Ịgzarhjenya (Khessi, Narahji, &c.) in that. It’s a sign of status. I tried out some of ler sentences in English using oratory-like diction, and it was over-the-top. I compromised on that.
This recitation is thus one of the few places where the oratorical style actually comes out and bites the reader.
To conclude, we believe views about the beauty and ugliness of languages and dialects are built on cultural norms, pressures and social connotations. […] Most listeners know of linguistic varieties that they do not like, but we should appreciate that these feelings are highly subjective and have no basis in social scientific fact.
From Giles, H. & Niedzielsky, N (1998). Italian is beautiful, German is Ugly. In: Bauer, L & Trudgill, P (Eds)., Language myths. London: Penguin, pp.92.
This was going around on Tumblr a while ago, via original quote-poster linguisten.
As part of my efforts to move over interesting stuff about constructed languages to Pangrammatike, here’s what went through my head when I was making Narahji — what I posted in response to the thread when it went through my Tumblr feed. I’ve added a bit to it because this is no longer on Tumblr:
Narahji can be very consonant-clustered, and it’s actually very hard for me as an English-speaker to do a sentence in Epiphany in that language on a first take. Not only do I need to speak an intact, decently-pronounced Narahji sentence, but I need to rapidly switch from English to Narahji and back again. It’s really hard. Narahji has a regular stress on final syllables, except not. It stresses the final consonant sans suffix, except for personal name suffixes, which are stressed. Here’s a set of examples where stress appears. I’m simplifying it by marking stress with an acute accent.
Manbezúrozaịrruịts. You yourself brought me.
Manbezúrozaịrra. You will bring me.
Fyúrbas manbezúrozaịrra. You will bring me accompanied by them.
Rúrbas manbezúrozaịrra. You will bring me accompanied by lim (note lack of gender in third person singular).
Ku sabí bezúrovịrra. We (inclusive) will bring potable water.
Ku sabí bezúrovịrrakịb. We (inclusive to the listener) will bring ourselves potable water. Could also mean, We (inclusive to the listener) will ourselves bring potable water.
Ku sabí kị́rhjas bezúrovịrra. We (inclusive to the listener) will bring ourselves potable water. An alternative way to do that sentence.
I wanted a language where consonants clustered like grapes caught in the mouth. When I learned that many conlangs spoken by villains (e.g., in Tolkien) had that clustering and strong agglutination, I took that as a challenge. I wanted to make a language that did it — a language not for villains. I clustered consonants a lot in Narahji, and I made it OVS — object, verb, subject.
Its earlier versions were more clustered than the one I decided on, and it has a lot of fricatives and vowel aspiration. It doesn’t actually sound that harsh now, I think — but I love the sound of Narahji, so I’m a bit biased.
I learned a while after I created Narahji that Klingon is also OVS with some consonants that also sound harsh to American English speakers. So I went in that direction while thinking, “I’m so fed up with you people who say languages like this are ideal for orcs and villains,” and (apparently) the creators of Klingon were like, “Let’s make something super alien and harsh because Klingons.”
Perceptions of beautiful dialects/languages are biased, just as Giles & Niedzielsky said. I actually think that Narahji is quite beautiful when it appears in sentences.
(A partial repost from Tumblr with some new content.)
The Narahji spoken in Epiphany is not always internally consistent because it’s the Narahji of a changing time. Salus is navigating a complex world of formal, standardized Narahji and informal Narahji. In 1865 Standard Count, the year Epiphany takes place, language activists are working hard on a referendum that won’t make headway until the 1880s to recalibrate official Narahji based on outside-of-the-office usage.
When I say “Narahji,” I also mean the Narahji that is taught in schools — this is a canyon region over a thousand kilometers across and several hundred kilometers top to bottom on a map, so there are a lot of small dialects and regional languages.
Kati and Salus have an exchange in Entry 39 in which Salus is offended by Kati’s use of slang for the word family. In pre-reform Narahji, the word is ku bvyadö, a noun in the animate class. It will become ku pho, the slang term Salus dislikes, once reform takes hold. Ler distaste for the slang term mirrors common discomfort among speakers who feel ownership of a language when that language changes. Like many speakers, Salus is complicated — le also picks and chooses which linguistic innovations le’s comfortable using in writing.
Regardless of whether one uses ku bvyadö or ku pho, I’d like to talk about the noun class system, AKA the linguistic gender applied to nouns in Narahji. When I developed the disrespect system in Narahji, I had an exciting opportunity to apply something I found interesting in Aikhenvald’s How Gender Shapes the World. Outside of Indo-European languages, many will employ gender inversions when disparaging a noun or the thing the noun represents.
This is the pronoun system for modern Narahji. The most important bits of it are the animate/inanimate pronouns.
Note that this is post-1880s Narahji — the slang possessive pronouns have been adopted into the official grammars taught in schools, whereas before there was a prefix, mos-, that glommed onto the indirect object pronoun.
Narahji, as part of the Ịgzarhjenya language family, divides the non-human world into animate and inanimate noun classes. All animals and plants take the animate class, as do things that are considered living things. Inanimate things will often be referred to using the inanimate class. Nouns that denote abstract ideas and concepts, such as families, mistakes, honor, &c., have irregular noun classes that need to be memorized by nonnative speakers. The articles used are ku (animate) and i (inanimate).
Native speakers may refer to things in the inanimate class with the animate class article when emphasizing the noun’s importance. This usually only happens once in the sentence, after which the native speaker will revert to the accepted noun class.
Thus, to say, A (goddamn) fire burned lim. It (emphatic) happened at the dock, one might say, Rankunælaịrru ku besun. I febiyxoho gådzælaịrruron. Fire, i besun, is transformed into ku besun. The speaker uses the correct pronoun suffix, -ron, for inanimate nouns in the second sentence.
The opposite might happen for nouns classed as animates. This is one way to code disrespect in Narahji.
Ogekowælaịrrabæn i pho åbhi. Our (shitty) family will not cooperate. A listener might respond, Ogekowælaịrrabænsæ̈ ku pho aku? That is a yes/no query that correctly uses ku pho.