This is Hell

This is hell. This is hell.

I am sorry to tell you.

Elvis Costello

So I’ve been studying Icelandic and Russian and their respective phonological systems. I’ve written at this blog before about the beatdown that I received from Russian cursive (my handwriting still is terrible, but, you know, nailed it). But as I get into the gritty details of how these languages organize themselves and their sounds, I find myself putting my head down flat on the papers at my desk. You were right, Mr. Costello. It never gets better or worse.

Russian has hard consonants and soft consonants and all thirty-four of them brandish knives to poke at my ribs. Sometimes I enjoy tumbling around with the reduced vowels, playing with them like they were a string of knuckle bones that I could wrap around my own hands. That’s how I would describe Russian: A sharp machine of jagged bones. Once one gets into the rhythm of its jangling gears and pearly skeleton, it becomes a sort of smooth dance punctuated by a certain tapping. The thing is, getting into that rhythm has been harder than it was with Japanese or Arabic, and neither of those were Indo-European.

Icelandic remains a mystery, possibly because there are fewer resources for it. I confess that every now and then, I think to myself, “Man, I need to be in Reykjavik right now.” If I am accepted into graduate school, I intend to go to Iceland as a “visiting scholar,” which I believe is study abroad for graduates. I’ve spoken recently about Scandinavia and its fascination for me, which means that Icelandic is simply only the first language that I intend to measure myself against. How do I describe Icelandic? I would say that it is a flute, a way of airily piping words out with just enough control of one’s lungs.

Will Danish and Swedish and Norwegian be the same? Will the musical ups and downs of Swedish leave me seasick?

I sat down with my textbooks the other day and my brow puckered. These are quite possibly the most difficult languages I have ever studied. I make my characteristic cup of tea, I sip, and I study, and I encounter burnt earth where the Icelandic diphthongs hold sway like the black sand beaches. But I savor the challenge! The ripostes and the jabs and the snapping backwards as I lean in. These languages are the mysterious liquid inside a lava lamp, morphing as I peer at them with a practiced eye.

This is hell. This is confusing and I don’t really have anyone to talk to in Icelandic or Russian and even if I did, I would likely stutter and start and stop and fall quite far behind in a conversation. The thing is, though, I love languages. Language is in fact the great love of my life, and, despite waving at Dante on my way into working with these two tongues, I feel at ease with them because this is the very machine I long to waltz with for the rest of my days.

Someday I will breathe in snow and breathe out life. I will think about what I can do with the alveolar non-sibilant fricatives and the loopy allophony. It would be such a dream come true to make language my career. When I get frustrated with Icelandic or Russian, I slam my textbook shut and go make more tea. But today, I am opening the books again, descending into the rings of hell that guard whatever Russian does with its back vowels, and having a bit of fun with my limits and frustrations. It may not get better or worse, but it is like playing with blocks and becoming a child again.

I nibble my Icelandic chocolate (World Market, baby) and work.