//end of the world//
Fall 2018
Layers of Latin in the Subway
Noa Shapiro
Beneath layers of earth, grime, and movement lies a beautifully intricate mechanism. It is one that transports us to other streets, other neighborhoods, other worlds. A cosmos that is utterly different from the one in which I interact with my friends, my loved ones, my everyday obligations.
My descent into the subway’s other-worldly sphere reminds me of Latin: a set of rule-governed grammatical units that construct a logical system. The Latin language takes me to a new way of thinking, a foreign realm.
When I walk into the depths of the network of underground tunnels of the subway, a certain sensation overwhelms my entire body. It shakes me awake, piquing my consciousness with all the different sensations around me: a soulful woman plays a harmonica next to the kiosk with the coldest Poland Spring on the Upper West Side; a young schoolteacher shepherds his students towards the platform’s benches, covered in years of life’s invisible muck. To my left, I see a new mother coaxing her toddler, reassuring him that the train will come soon, and do you remember which stop we are getting off at? 86th Street, that’s right, Ezra.
All around me, there is life and pressure, grief and exhilaration. My head spins; there are too many sights to take in, too many people to look at.
Yet, I am simultaneously tranquil. The same frenzy that ignites my senses also blankets me in calm. One swipe of my Metrocard grants me access to this world of mundane frenzy, this arena where, for a tiny fraction of time, people’s lives intersect in the most fleeting, inconsequential, yet exhilarating of ways. The schoolteacher will never meet the harmonica-player—perhaps he never even saw her in the first place.
It’s funny, there is also a casual knowing to which we are all privy from the moment we set foot on the platform, up until the subway car’s doors are thrust open and we all peel away, back into our quotidian tribulations. For some, this mammoth of a transit system is simply a means to an end; to me, it is a crucial bit of my routine—no matter how long—that I share with people who transform from utter strangers to car-mates. In the span of just a few stops, I gain a window into these people’s lives. This window displays a picture of their qualities, experiences, and relationships. Within seven minutes I learn more about my car-mates than I might about friends of several years, all without exchanging a single word. The subway grants us an intimacy unburdened by any social duty or emotional lability.
The Latin language, too, is a network of interconnected pieces, components of a whole that serve their own functions, each contributing to a greater cause. These pieces are just as overpowering as those of the MTA, but rather than being composed of people or transit lines, they rely on elements of grammar.
The grammatical layers and nuances I encounter in the complex linguistic system that is Latin are in- tense, frustrating, and, most of all, exhilarating. In my endeavors to translate, interpret and analyze Latin literature—and sometimes, even translate English into Latin—I am jolted awake, forced to comb through the recesses of my mind, reaching deep down to draw up the passages I have seen before and those that might help me. Somehow, Latin is often termed a “dead language.” But to me, Latin is as vibrant as the New York City subway systems.
To translate English into Latin takes a certain sharpness of mind, a certain utilitas mentis, as Cicero might say.
Take the simple sentence in English: I will send the most faithful friend I have with me.
Latin: Mittam amicum qui fidelissimum mecum habeo.
Upon first, and perhaps second, third, and fourth glances, the linguistic system of Latin and the physical network of the New York City subways seem to have nothing in common. But when I take a more abstract view of the two distinct entities, the seeming distinctions fall away to reveal a deeper similarity.
The first step for both is to begin with what’s in front of me, and then to identify that which I need to help me reach my destination. On the subway, I start from a broad perspective: which line should I take? Will the local or express train be more efficient? Should I aggressively wend my way around the throngs of people in the Times Square station to make the train approaching the station, or do I surrender to the crowd and concede those six extra minutes? In Latin, I was taught to begin with identifying the subject, verb, and object in my sentence. Who is taking the action? What are they doing? Who is affected by or receiving the subject’s action? What are the variables and concerns which will shape my journey, my process?
There are certain pieces of each system that must be present and adhere to certain rules. The 3 train will not stop at 66th street (The MTA’s ongoing weekend work, does, indeed, subvert these rules.) The entrance to the downtown train will always be on the west side of the street. The rows of seats on the subway car line up neatly (though the people who fill them don’t). Likewise, in Latin, certain parts of speech must go together: some prepositions require certain cases, and a plural subject mandates a plural verb. Most subordinate clauses must adhere to the sequence of tenses, a system in itself that denotes when a certain action occurs relative to an action that occurred prior, or subsequently.
Even in the Latin sentence above—one that is fairly free of the labyrinth like grammar that weaves through many Latin sentences—there are restrictions that must guide the Latinist’s pen as she is writing. While the English reads, “I will send the most faithful friend I have with me,” the Latin literally reads: “I will send my friend who is the most faithful I have with me.” This relative clause “who... I have with me” that is referring to my friend has certain stipulations: it must embody the superlative adjective ‘most faithful,’ even though the object of the sentence, the ‘friend,’ must appear right before it. Despite the simplicity of this sentence in English, Latin requires certain rigidities.
Yet in traversing each of these systems, I am able to take some ‘artistic’ liberty. On the platform, I have the agency to decide whether to get onto the overcrowded subway car or to wait for the next train. On paper, certain luxurious freedoms of Latin diction and choice of grammatical construction are afforded to me.
The dilemmas I face underground are not so different from those in my Latin books. The decision to transfer to the express train for less than four stops rather than committing to and finding my niche on the sluggish but trusty 1 train might translate to the problem that arises in the Latin sentence below:
English: Having seen him, I said, “He is not at home.”
Latin: Illo viso, “Is domi non est,” dixi.
OR Quem cum vidissem, “Is domi non est,” dixi.
In the first example, I decided to convert the action of “seeing the man” to a passive construction, which is called an ‘ablative absolute’ in Latin. This construction allows me to convey the same result—illo viso, literally, ‘the man having been seen’—while giving me the space and freedom to move on to expressing the rest of the grammar, the real heart of the sentence: Is domi non est, dixi, or ‘I said, he is not at home.’
The second example, however, emphasizes that I saw the man, and tells the reader when, in relation to the events in the rest of the sentence, I saw him. But selecting this clause means I have to use the subjunctive, which is far more limiting than the ablative absolute in terms of what the rest of my sentence can look like (the verb I use for “I said” must now take the perfect tense, as it falls into a certain tense sequence with the pluperfect verb for “I had seen”). In the above example, the rest of my sentence remains unchanged, because the second half of my sentence is direct speech: “I said, ‘he is not at home.’” Since I am merely quoting myself in the second half of the sentence, this clause is not bound by any particularly restrictive Latin grammar rules. Even though I am the one seeing the man and speaking about him, I can still designate the man as a subject of the quotation as well: he was not at home. He and I each have agency in the sentence.
Yet, as soon as I convert the direct speech to indirect speech (i.e. take away the quotation marks), new rules apply. Consider a more complex sentence, like the following:
English: Having seen him, I said that he was not at home.
Latin: Quem cum vidissem, dixi eum domi non fuisse.
In the above sentence, I used the same beginning clause as I did in the last example. But because the second half of this sentence contains an indirect statement (‘I thought that he was not at home’ rather than direct speech above), the sentence’s grammatical elements must change. The man who is not at home is now relegated to the object of the sentence—I had seen him and I thought that he was not at home. On one hand, the sentence’s grammatical pieces are restricted by Latin’s rigidity. On the other hand, the sentence conveys to the reader the liberating ambiguity that accompanies indirect speech.
Direct speech may be easier to render grammatically in Latin, but it also confines the speaker to her exact words.
Imagine for a moment that you are taking the subway from SoHo to the Upper West Side. You enter the subway at Houston Street, hoping to get on the 1 train, for your destination is on 79th Street, a local stop. But Houston is a far cry from 79th. Should you choose to transfer to the uptown express train at 14th Street, you still will need to transfer back to the local at 72nd, and when you do, it’s likely that you will recognize your original car-mates from when your journey began. You may not have saved any time at all, and instead you have forgone the possibility of acquiring that coveted seat at the end of the row, and with it, the chance to eavesdrop on an elderly couple’s loving banter.
Was the transfer worth it? Should I really have settled for ‘direct speech?’ I will only know the answer when my journey is complete.
My descent into the subway’s other-worldly sphere reminds me of Latin: a set of rule-governed grammatical units that construct a logical system. The Latin language takes me to a new way of thinking, a foreign realm.
When I walk into the depths of the network of underground tunnels of the subway, a certain sensation overwhelms my entire body. It shakes me awake, piquing my consciousness with all the different sensations around me: a soulful woman plays a harmonica next to the kiosk with the coldest Poland Spring on the Upper West Side; a young schoolteacher shepherds his students towards the platform’s benches, covered in years of life’s invisible muck. To my left, I see a new mother coaxing her toddler, reassuring him that the train will come soon, and do you remember which stop we are getting off at? 86th Street, that’s right, Ezra.
All around me, there is life and pressure, grief and exhilaration. My head spins; there are too many sights to take in, too many people to look at.
Yet, I am simultaneously tranquil. The same frenzy that ignites my senses also blankets me in calm. One swipe of my Metrocard grants me access to this world of mundane frenzy, this arena where, for a tiny fraction of time, people’s lives intersect in the most fleeting, inconsequential, yet exhilarating of ways. The schoolteacher will never meet the harmonica-player—perhaps he never even saw her in the first place.
It’s funny, there is also a casual knowing to which we are all privy from the moment we set foot on the platform, up until the subway car’s doors are thrust open and we all peel away, back into our quotidian tribulations. For some, this mammoth of a transit system is simply a means to an end; to me, it is a crucial bit of my routine—no matter how long—that I share with people who transform from utter strangers to car-mates. In the span of just a few stops, I gain a window into these people’s lives. This window displays a picture of their qualities, experiences, and relationships. Within seven minutes I learn more about my car-mates than I might about friends of several years, all without exchanging a single word. The subway grants us an intimacy unburdened by any social duty or emotional lability.
The Latin language, too, is a network of interconnected pieces, components of a whole that serve their own functions, each contributing to a greater cause. These pieces are just as overpowering as those of the MTA, but rather than being composed of people or transit lines, they rely on elements of grammar.
The grammatical layers and nuances I encounter in the complex linguistic system that is Latin are in- tense, frustrating, and, most of all, exhilarating. In my endeavors to translate, interpret and analyze Latin literature—and sometimes, even translate English into Latin—I am jolted awake, forced to comb through the recesses of my mind, reaching deep down to draw up the passages I have seen before and those that might help me. Somehow, Latin is often termed a “dead language.” But to me, Latin is as vibrant as the New York City subway systems.
To translate English into Latin takes a certain sharpness of mind, a certain utilitas mentis, as Cicero might say.
Take the simple sentence in English: I will send the most faithful friend I have with me.
Latin: Mittam amicum qui fidelissimum mecum habeo.
Upon first, and perhaps second, third, and fourth glances, the linguistic system of Latin and the physical network of the New York City subways seem to have nothing in common. But when I take a more abstract view of the two distinct entities, the seeming distinctions fall away to reveal a deeper similarity.
The first step for both is to begin with what’s in front of me, and then to identify that which I need to help me reach my destination. On the subway, I start from a broad perspective: which line should I take? Will the local or express train be more efficient? Should I aggressively wend my way around the throngs of people in the Times Square station to make the train approaching the station, or do I surrender to the crowd and concede those six extra minutes? In Latin, I was taught to begin with identifying the subject, verb, and object in my sentence. Who is taking the action? What are they doing? Who is affected by or receiving the subject’s action? What are the variables and concerns which will shape my journey, my process?
There are certain pieces of each system that must be present and adhere to certain rules. The 3 train will not stop at 66th street (The MTA’s ongoing weekend work, does, indeed, subvert these rules.) The entrance to the downtown train will always be on the west side of the street. The rows of seats on the subway car line up neatly (though the people who fill them don’t). Likewise, in Latin, certain parts of speech must go together: some prepositions require certain cases, and a plural subject mandates a plural verb. Most subordinate clauses must adhere to the sequence of tenses, a system in itself that denotes when a certain action occurs relative to an action that occurred prior, or subsequently.
Even in the Latin sentence above—one that is fairly free of the labyrinth like grammar that weaves through many Latin sentences—there are restrictions that must guide the Latinist’s pen as she is writing. While the English reads, “I will send the most faithful friend I have with me,” the Latin literally reads: “I will send my friend who is the most faithful I have with me.” This relative clause “who... I have with me” that is referring to my friend has certain stipulations: it must embody the superlative adjective ‘most faithful,’ even though the object of the sentence, the ‘friend,’ must appear right before it. Despite the simplicity of this sentence in English, Latin requires certain rigidities.
Yet in traversing each of these systems, I am able to take some ‘artistic’ liberty. On the platform, I have the agency to decide whether to get onto the overcrowded subway car or to wait for the next train. On paper, certain luxurious freedoms of Latin diction and choice of grammatical construction are afforded to me.
The dilemmas I face underground are not so different from those in my Latin books. The decision to transfer to the express train for less than four stops rather than committing to and finding my niche on the sluggish but trusty 1 train might translate to the problem that arises in the Latin sentence below:
English: Having seen him, I said, “He is not at home.”
Latin: Illo viso, “Is domi non est,” dixi.
OR Quem cum vidissem, “Is domi non est,” dixi.
In the first example, I decided to convert the action of “seeing the man” to a passive construction, which is called an ‘ablative absolute’ in Latin. This construction allows me to convey the same result—illo viso, literally, ‘the man having been seen’—while giving me the space and freedom to move on to expressing the rest of the grammar, the real heart of the sentence: Is domi non est, dixi, or ‘I said, he is not at home.’
The second example, however, emphasizes that I saw the man, and tells the reader when, in relation to the events in the rest of the sentence, I saw him. But selecting this clause means I have to use the subjunctive, which is far more limiting than the ablative absolute in terms of what the rest of my sentence can look like (the verb I use for “I said” must now take the perfect tense, as it falls into a certain tense sequence with the pluperfect verb for “I had seen”). In the above example, the rest of my sentence remains unchanged, because the second half of my sentence is direct speech: “I said, ‘he is not at home.’” Since I am merely quoting myself in the second half of the sentence, this clause is not bound by any particularly restrictive Latin grammar rules. Even though I am the one seeing the man and speaking about him, I can still designate the man as a subject of the quotation as well: he was not at home. He and I each have agency in the sentence.
Yet, as soon as I convert the direct speech to indirect speech (i.e. take away the quotation marks), new rules apply. Consider a more complex sentence, like the following:
English: Having seen him, I said that he was not at home.
Latin: Quem cum vidissem, dixi eum domi non fuisse.
In the above sentence, I used the same beginning clause as I did in the last example. But because the second half of this sentence contains an indirect statement (‘I thought that he was not at home’ rather than direct speech above), the sentence’s grammatical elements must change. The man who is not at home is now relegated to the object of the sentence—I had seen him and I thought that he was not at home. On one hand, the sentence’s grammatical pieces are restricted by Latin’s rigidity. On the other hand, the sentence conveys to the reader the liberating ambiguity that accompanies indirect speech.
Direct speech may be easier to render grammatically in Latin, but it also confines the speaker to her exact words.
Imagine for a moment that you are taking the subway from SoHo to the Upper West Side. You enter the subway at Houston Street, hoping to get on the 1 train, for your destination is on 79th Street, a local stop. But Houston is a far cry from 79th. Should you choose to transfer to the uptown express train at 14th Street, you still will need to transfer back to the local at 72nd, and when you do, it’s likely that you will recognize your original car-mates from when your journey began. You may not have saved any time at all, and instead you have forgone the possibility of acquiring that coveted seat at the end of the row, and with it, the chance to eavesdrop on an elderly couple’s loving banter.
Was the transfer worth it? Should I really have settled for ‘direct speech?’ I will only know the answer when my journey is complete.
//NOA SHAPIRO is a senior in Barnard College. She can be reached at [email protected].
Photo courtesy of: ny.curbed.com.
Photo courtesy of: ny.curbed.com.