Let’s make a language, part 27a: Religion (Intro)

As with the last part, we’re going to delve into a topic that may be a bit controversial. This time around, it’s the other half of church and state: religion.

For some languages, the whole subject is unnecessary. Quite a few, even among fictional conlangs, won’t need too many words for religious concepts. Auxiliary languages can likely get by with borrowing the needed terminology. And a far-future sci-fi setting might consider religion to belong to an earlier era.

On the other hand, even if the hypothetical speakers of your conlang don’t need to talk about their religion, that doesn’t mean they won’t want to talk about any religion. So it helps to have a bit of vocabulary specifically tied to the subject.

Gotta have faith

Religion and spirituality, in some form, have been around since the earliest days of humanity. Even if it’s nothing more than simple ceremonial burial, you can find evidence of the practice from the Stone Age, and some of our oldest human creations are religious in nature. It stands to reason, then, that a few basic ideas are going to be universal. The specifics might be wholly different even between two neighboring cultures, but they’ll both likely have some common ground in the fundamentals.

According to those who study the field (I don’t), religion of any kind probably started when someone first asked, “Why?” Why is the world like it is? Why do the seasons change? Why do people die? Maybe they begin as simple answers to those questions and more, or a shared set of stories, myths, and legends that only increase in popularity as they are told and retold over the generations.

This bare summary already gives us fertile ground for linguistic roots. The concepts most common to all religions are very likely going to be represented by native terms: faith, prayer, blessing and cursing, gods (or a monotheistic God, such as the case may be), an afterlife. Depending on the culture, you can also add in those placed in charge of religious matters, whether priests, shamans, or something else entirely. The ceremonies, rituals, and rites will also be in this field; they’ll likely be too specific to translate directly, but the words describing them won’t be.

As the folklore surrounding a religion grows, it necessarily gains a bit of verbal cruft. Even in Western Christianity, you’ve got quite a lot of vocabulary, from saints to bishops to crusades. (Note that many terms associated with Christianity, like “crusade”, tend to be related to “cross” or its analogues in Latin, Greek, and the Romance languages. That’s certainly not a requirement, but more of a historical quirk.)

Not only does a growing religion gain more words, but it also spreads across the lexical space, as it envelops closely related fields. Western faiths might all be monotheistic, but they each have a collection of supernatural beings, including (to use Christian-specific terms) angels, devils, demons, and ghosts.

This is where the twin forms of borrowing come into play. First, a highly organized religion will be able to spread its message far and wide, sending its specific terms to new places on the lips of its priests. So many English religious words come from Latin and Greek for this very reason. Similarly, Arabic loans related to Islam pop up everywhere from the western coast of Africa to the farthest reaches of Indonesia.

The second bit of borrowing comes when a new religion overtakes an old one. Here, it’s not so much that new words are borrowed, but the old ones may be reinterpreted, then spread in their new connotations. An example might be English ghost, which seems to have spent the last thousand years or so cycling between referring to a malevolent supernatural entity, the haunting spirit of the deceased, or even a kind of supernatural essence (as in the word spirit, itself a Latin loan). Fairies got their own bit of folk reinterpretation, while possibly-wise daemons became always-evil demons.

No matter what your conlang’s speakers believe, they’ll have a number of words specifically for their religion. The native terms will be made for that. If, along the way, the people were converted to some other faith, then they’ll likely take it in one of those two ways. Either they’ll import the words they need (spirit, bible, angel) from the “official” language of their church, or they’ll take some of their own and remake them to fit the new worldview: ghost, holy. Coinages tend to come about for new ways of thinking about the religion, and even then they aren’t made from whole cloth.

Discourse particles in conlangs

Speech is a funny thing. It really is, if you think about it. Compared to written language, it’s a lot less fixed in form. When we talk, we don’t speak perfect English (or whatever your language is). The words we say sometimes bear little resemblance to those we write.

One of the ways the two forms of language differ is that spoken language tends to include a lot of “filler” words. Writing doesn’t need them (unless you’re recording dialogue, obviously), but they come into our speech naturally, because we can’t talk as fast as we can think. It’s common to stop speaking while we come up with the next words we want to say, but silence is uncomfortable and ambiguous, so dropping a meaningless syllable or two here and there helps keep the conversation moving.

Filling the gaps

Pretty much any language meant to be spoken is going to have filler syllables or words. They won’t always be the same, but they’ll be there. For English, we’ve got a sizable collection, ranging from neutral syllables (“er”, “uh”, “um”) to entire phrases lacking in actual content (“you know”, “you see”, “I mean”).

Grammatically, these words and phrases add nothing to a sentence. They don’t really have a part of speech, even if their constituent parts normally would. Nor do they have semantic content, though some can indicate by their presence a very subtle difference in mood. Beyond that, they serve no purpose but to fill a gap. In short, they’re just…there.

Curiously, filler syllables, like English “er” and “uh”, do tend to have a few things in common across linguistic boundaries. It’s by no means universal, but there are patterns to be found.

For one, these syllables tend to have “neutral” vowels: unstressed, short, lax, central. Middle of the road, if you will. Even those closer to the corners of the vowel space, like “ah” (/a/), won’t be emphasized. In five-vowel systems, /e/ seems to be the most common filler phoneme. Seven-vowel systems often use /ɛ/ or /ɔ/. If there’s a schwa phoneme (or even allophone), you’ll likely find it here.

The consonants used in filler syllables also show a slight pattern. Whatever they are, they don’t tend to have a lot of “force”. Like vowels, they’ll tend to be the lighter, weaker type of phone. Something like /h/ is common in languages that have it. (Probably the weakest filler of all is /hʌ/, “huh”. Amazingly enough, recent research suggests that it might be universal among human languages.) Other “weak” consonants, like /ɹ/, /l/, /j/, etc., can also show up, but you’re probably not going to find too many voiced stops.

For both vowels and consonants, it’s also possible that a filler syllable uses an allophone that isn’t normally found in the language. Languages with smaller vowel systems that lack reduction might still have fillers with a schwa. A consonant inventory lacking /h/ might still have “huh”. The sounds would be analyzed by speakers as variants of something else, of course, but filler doesn’t even have to follow the normal phonotactics: English “yeah” and “nah”, which have filler uses, both show a final /æ/, a combination of phone and position that occurs nowhere else in the lexicon.

Discourse

Moving on from syllabic filler, we come to the broader category of discourse particles. These include the fillers we saw above, but also a set of language-specific words that have meaning in other contexts, but lose it when used in this manner.

For English, we’ve got a good collection: “like”, “well”, “so”, and many, many more. All of these are actual words, and we use them often in other places, but they become meaningless filler with ease. Overused, they, among others, tend to indicate something amiss with the speaker; “like” and “you know” are stereotypical markers of low intelligence or immaturity, for instance.

Other languages have their own sets of discourse particles. Like filler syllables, these words and phrases do show some patterns. They tend to be made from utterances that already have little semantic content, or that don’t add appreciably to a sentence. “Like”, in translation, is very common, though this may be English influence showing up.

Construction

Discourse particles and other forms of filler are perfectly natural in spoken language. In writing, of course, they should be avoided, with the exception of recording actual speech, but they are not, in themselves, harmful. And if they are natural, then a conlang made to look natural might want to consider having them.

How best to make them? For filler syllables, it’s not too hard. “Huh” is possibly universal, and it can be used as an interrogative with nothing more than the proper intonation. Others are slightly harder, but look for the most neutral sounds your conlang has, and start with those. Central or mid-open vowels, approximants, nasals, nothing that requires much mouth effort. You might even think of a filler syllable as a kind of glide between words—like glide sounds, there’s simply not a lot of friction involved.

Actual words and phrases are a bit tougher. Again, look for those that already don’t do too much. Your conlang’s word for “like” might be a good start, as are simple demonstratives like “this” and “that”, colloquial forms of “yes” and “no”, and generic confirmation phrases such as “right”, “you know”, or “I said”. Here, the type of language you’re making will have some influence: isolating languages might be more likely to have longer filler phrases, especially if they have restrictive phonologies—in this case, all the “good” words are already in use.

However you do it, remember that the point of filler words is to be, well, filler. They don’t mean anything, not really. But that’s not to say they’re truly meaningless. They serve their purpose, and that purpose is to give us time to think about the “real” words we want to use.

Let’s make a language, part 26c: Government (Ardari)

As is ever the case, Ardari is more likely to construct terms of its own. This is certainly true in the realm of government, where a number of words are derived from the root verb tysan- “to rule”. Indeed, in the short list below we already see tysanönda “authority, right to rule”; tysanègh “government, center of rule”; and tysanyn “rule, regulation, law”. Note also that these are native terms, not borrowings, though Ardari does have a few of those, including zhudis “court” (probably from “judicial” or something similar) and polisa “police force”.

These two are examples of modernization at work. The area where Ardari is spoken hasn’t entirely transformed into a modern Western democracy. There are plenty of elements of monarchy, aristocracy, and bureaucracy still around. At present, it might be best described as a parliamentary monarchy, closer to the UK than the US. It’s certainly not decentralized, however: the word for a province, dalrit, being a transparent derivation from dal “nation” is proof enough of that.

Most other terms are native, and they often have other connotations besides those shown here. For instance, makhèla, here glossed as “army”, can also connote any gathering of forces. (Phrases can be used to disambiguate: dalin makhèla “national army”; idyaze makhèla “attack force”; illin makhèla “rebellion”.) The same goes for byara “navy”, with creations such as dable byara, literally “land navy” but actually referring to an amphibious assault.

Word List

  • army: makhèla
  • authority: tysanönda
  • border: aroned
  • capital: präzdoza (lit. “great city”)
  • court: zhudis (borrowing, cf. “judicial”)
  • crime: karha
  • free: arin
  • government: tysanègh (lit. “place of rule”)
  • judge: tölera
  • law: gla
  • official: (tysanèghin) fèlokön (shortened nafèlokön “worker”)
  • nation: dal
  • navy: byara
  • peace: sèsym
  • police: polisa
  • province/state: dalrit
  • right (a right): èkhros
  • rule: tysanyn
  • tax: èzas
  • to control: träm-
  • to elect: soslin-
  • to permit: ejoten-
  • to prohibit: èkoten-
  • to punish: laqas-
  • to rule: tysan-
  • to vote: jamull-
  • war: jova

Let’s make a language, part 26b: Government (Isian)

Isian, when it comes to its government, fits into the usual “small” Western mold. It follows the typical European-style parliamentary system, with a number of parties vying for power. But it still has vestiges of a monarchy, too, a time when the land was ruled by a lakh or king. Today, even that is long gone, but remnants survive in words such as lactor “province”, literally a “king’s land”. The fact that nashil had to be borrowed should say something about Isian speakers’ centralization…or lack thereof.

The rule of law is also respected in its modern form. There are courts, judges, trials, etc., and they are (mostly) fair and just. On the national level, there is a standardized police force (borrowed term polisi), while localities generally have a holtedos—roughly speaking, a city guard or neighborhood watch. Officers of these are generally called holtem, which can also be more literally translated as “guardian”, while national policemen are instead polisimi.

In these tumultuous times, it’s also important to note that Isian speakers are protected by a defensive army (ancha) and navy (busa), though the latter is quite small and admittedly anemic. Historically, it has always been thus; Isian is a language of land forces, not sailors. But peace (histil) has reigned for a long time, and the last war involving speakers of the language is simply known as Cabrigo: The Great War.

Word List

  • army: ancha(s)
  • authority: awtorit (modified borrowing)
  • border: obres
  • capital: lireblon
  • court: caje
  • crime: cofan
  • free: mir
  • government: orisanas (from orisi “to rule”)
  • judge: teldem (from telde “to judge”)
  • law: rokh
  • official: rokhesam (from rokh + sam, lit. “law-man”)
  • nation: nashil (modified borrowing)
  • navy: busa(s)
  • peace: histil
  • police: holtedos (also holtem or borrowed polisi)
  • province/state: lactor (from lakh + tor)
  • right (a right): mas
  • rule (regulation): liyo
  • tax: ferma(s)
  • to control: camida
  • to elect: jiro
  • to permit: likha
  • to prohibit: nasco
  • to punish: agri
  • to vote: banki
  • war: cabri

Let’s make a language, part 26a: Government (Intro)

Ah, government. One of those things you can’t really live with, and you can’t really live without. But let’s not get political today. There’s enough of that going on without us adding our two cents. Instead, let’s talk about the ways government can be filtered through the lens of language.

Rules of rule

First off, remember that there’s no real “hierarchy” of government systems. None of them are truly natural, and all have their problems. (Democracy, so the quote goes, is the worst form of government…except for all the others.) Rome had a republic 2000 years before the US, the UK and Japan both have hereditary monarchs who wield little actual power, and although the West may have backed away from theocracy centuries ago, it’s still alive and well in the Middle East.

Thus, there’s not really a point where we can say that this form of government can’t be native to a language’s culture. Maybe you won’t find technocratic socialism in a Middle Ages society, and it’s doubtful that a far-future Earth will have brutal autocrats in charge. But the concepts don’t really change much. No matter how a land is governed, some things are near universal.

Most English terms regarding this subject are derived from Classical sources, usually Latin and Greek: republic, democracy, judicial. That’s okay; political science really started to get going around the same time that the classical revival was on, so it’s no surprise that the thinkers of that era chose the old tongues. And in many cases, the concepts themselves come from those same sources.

But there’s no reason it can’t be different elsewhere. Maybe a language’s culture developed a form of representative government on its own. Growing out of some kind of tribal council, for example. Then, republic would very likely be translated by a native root. So would elect and a lot more. As an alternative, they may use a “calque”, or loan translation, translating the meaning of the borrowed word instead of taking its form directly.

Law and order

Government, however, encompasses more than just the rule of a nation-state. It can also include a lot of basic societal structure. How are cities managed? Who protects those who cannot protect themselves? What about handling war, crime, or just simple grievances?

In many cases, a language will have native roots for the most fundamental concepts. Every civilization has something like cities; that’s practically the definition of civilization. War is, alas, within our very nature. Codes of law date back millennia, whether Hammurabi or the Hebrews. At its heart, you might even call all government merely different varieties of conflict resolution, and one of those philosophical conlangs could definitely find something there.

However you do it, the “oldest” things are likely to be native, but it’s not always certain. That’s especially true if you trace a culture’s history. There might be periods of occupation or enslavement, where they were wholly subservient to another people; in this case, many words would be borrowed from the “overlord” tongue, and not always with positive connotations. On the other hand, an imperialist culture would probably have more native terms for its institutions, rarely borrowing at all from its victims. (After all, they’ve already got all the words they need to rule.)

High and low

Now, all this pertains to government as it’s seen by its citizens. Not everybody is a political scientist, so most will tend to use the words they know. On the other hand, those who work with or study government will develop a much broader vocabulary. Legal codes tend to use verbose language, as they need to be definitive. Political treatises very often need to draw very fine lines, so they’ll need complex words or phrases to subdivide the concept space. And there’s nothing stopping the government itself from creating new words to describe its actions. (We’ve got a few of those in English, such as gerrymandering.)

In all, this causes a kind of diglossia. There’s the “high” language of the learned, describing nuances that most people neither want nor need to know, using words and phrases like autonomous, technocratic, subcommittee, or continuing resolution. Then you have the “low” vernacular, which talks plainly of votes and armies and judges and the like. It’s like this in many fields, particularly the scientific, but it somehow seems “thicker” when government gets involved.

Not every language will be subject to this process. It’s more likely to occur with agglutinating languages, because they’re practically made for it. Isolating types, on the other hand, will have more complex phrases instead of words, and those phrases might retain a bit of their transparency. That’s not to say the nuances won’t be there, but they’re expressed in different ways.

Moving on

No new part next month, as I’m working on a few other writing projects that need to take precedence. But I’ll be back in September with Part 27, covering the other half of the phrase “church and state”. Yes, we’ll be looking at religion, and I won’t deny that I’m glad I’m taking a month off before I deal with that.

Let’s make a language – 2017 translation special

It’s been awhile since the last time we saw our two “Let’s make a language” conlangs in action. Since I’m a bit preoccupied right now, to the point where I’m not really “feeling” the series as much, I thought I’d change that. So, here we’ll see another short bit of text translated into our two favorite fictional languages.

A year and a half ago, I used the Babel Text. This time around, it’s another linguistic classic, Aesop’s fable of the North Wind and the Sun. I chose it because it’s very popular for comparative language research, and—oh, never mind. I picked it because it’s short.

The North Wind and the Sun

The version of the fable I’m using is lifted directly from Wikipedia. I’m not entirely sure which translation it is, so yours may be slightly different. Nonetheless, it’s not that difficult a text, except for some fairly complex grammar bits.

The North Wind and the Sun were disputing which was the stronger, when a traveler came along wrapped in a warm cloak.

They agreed that the one who first succeeded in making the traveler take his cloak off should be considered stronger than the other.

Then the North Wind blew as hard as he could, but the more he blew the more closely did the traveler fold his cloak around him;

and at last the North Wind gave up the attempt. Then the Sun shined out warmly, and immediately the traveler took off his cloak.

And so the North Wind was obliged to confess that the Sun was the stronger of the two.

Isian

First up is Isian, and here’s what our little story looks like in it:

E Ul Naf wa e Sida nactas ed e folosin mid, ha ta usangam cosas cu disine ta him capat ijedo.

Is awcos ed ke costan hi ades los e usangam cu asine ey capat cal par pasa folosin dir a.

Ad e Ul Naf dosemay hi furus, nu i cu furus, e usangam otasis ey capat im oto;

ar tarkinas ni, e Ul Naf madeshis cu gati. Ad e Sida him hi shalis, ar necamay e usangam asines ey capat.

Teti e Ul Naf tole kinadid e Sida tes e folosin a o es naw.

Grammar

Mostly, the hardest part about translating this story is the sometimes complex sentence structure. Fortunately, Isian is fairly close to English in word order and the like (except for the postpositions thing), so it’s a lot more straightforward than it might seem at first glance.

That said, there are a few pitfalls. Lo, for instance, is a new verb meaning “to cause”. As you might expect from that gloss, it’s a causative verb. Its object is a subordinate clause, which makes things a bit hairy in line 2.

Most of the rest is just finding out which word to use. The indefinite pronoun ed is used to mean “which one” on line 1, and ijedo has a secondary meaning of “when” or “at the time of”.

Vocabulary

Not too much new vocabulary in this one, as you can see. Then again, there’s not a lot of text to translate, and it’s a bit repetitive.

  • to dispute/argue: nacta
  • about/concerning: mid
  • strong: folos
  • to travel: usanga
  • cloak or coat: capat
  • to cause, make happen: lo
  • to take off, remove: asine
  • other: dir
  • but: nu
  • to release, let go: madeshi
  • to try, attempt: gati
  • to shine: shali
  • immediately, at this moment: necamay
  • to admit, confess: kinadi

Ardari

Now we’ll move on to Ardari, and you can’t believe how much this one made my head spin.

Kyama Fawatövi Chitö qa èlldad am dortö mantö krazènedyt, tym jechinkön fynine pärine ilya ky vi tonad.

Ys bèt torydyid: Mantö qa jechinköntö ani pärine sudram ky twèralyët am dor zèt lembejëdall.

Drä, Kyama Fawatövi am dor èll ky furadökhan, adam furad jechinköntö ani pärine anön òs sòvadjyn,

Kyama Fawatövi èftanyntö zhajopad. Drä, Chitö fynin blajadjyn, jechinköntö ani pärine nyasab sudramad.

Ghinyas Kyama Fawatövi qa Chitö am dortö weghetö èllda is ky kómaryd.

Grammar

As with Isian, most of the grammar should be obvious. Here’s what’s not:

  • -khan is a conjunction clitic. When added to a verb, it’s like saying, “, but…”

  • len- is a derivational affix for verbs, roughly connoting “in a specific way”. Here, it’s used to create lembejë- “to think of” from bejë- “to see”. (Usually, this will make a ditransitive verb, but Ardari is fairly free about dropping verbal arguments.)

  • The verb kóma- “to cause” works essentially the same way as Isian lo, taking a subordinate clause as an object. Again, this is much different from the English method of “that” followed by a clause.

Vocabulary

Note that, in this list of new vocabulary, I haven’t included regularly derived terms like jechinkön “traveler”.

  • to dispute, argue over: krazèn-
  • strong: dor
  • when: tym
  • to travel: jechin-
  • coat, jacket: pärin
  • to consider, see as, think of: lembejë-
  • should (adverb): zèt
  • to take off: sudram-
  • but (conj.): -khan
  • more: adam
  • near, close: myll
  • to give up, surrender: zhajop-
  • to attempt, try: èfta-
  • to shine: blaja-
  • immediately: nyasab
  • to make, cause: kóma-

Conclusion

And there we go. It was a bit later this year, and it wasn’t nearly as much as last time, but we’ve successfully added another extended text to our repertoire for Isian and Ardari. Hopefully, you can do the same for your conlangs, whatever they are.

Next month, we’ll pick back up with the usual topic-based posts. Specifically, we’ll be looking at government, because nobody’s doing that these days, right?

Will there be more translation exercises? Probably. Not this year, most likely, but stay tuned. Who knows? 2018 might have something even better in store.

Random generation for conlangs

Making a language is hard work. As anyone who knows programmers knows, hard work is not something we like. Not hard work that we have to do ourselves, that is. If we can find a way to get a computer to do it for us, well, that’s entirely different.

On the surface, it seems pretty simple. Language creation is a lot of time-consuming, repetitive work. We have to make hundreds or thousands of words. We have to work out grammatical rules. The list goes on, and it’s almost a sure thing that, at some point, the computer-savvy conlang creator is going to ask, “Can I automate this?” And thus is random generation born.

The pros

It’s not that bad an idea, if you do it right. Computers are a lot faster than the human mind when it comes to such things. They can generate a million random words in the time it takes us to think of one. So shifting some of the burden to the uncaring machines seems almost natural. After all, they come up with random numbers all the time, don’t they? So what’s the difference.

For words, it’s not even that big a deal. If you’re working with an artistic conlang, or something otherwise not bound by the sequences of sounds used by natural languages, there’s almost no reason not to randomly generate at least some roots. Not whole words, mind you, because they won’t necessarily fit the grammatical and morphological patterns of your language. No, it’s better to generate the basic roots, then inflect them however your conlang does that—if it does at all.

Word generators are easy enough to find, and they aren’t all that hard to make. (I’ve done it no fewer than four times.) Most of the good ones—not mine—give you a lot of nice options. They let you do frequency distributions, so some sounds are more common than others. A few even provide variable substitution, syllabic constraints, allophony, and you get the idea. I won’t say that random word generation is a solved problem, but it’s definitely not new. If the circumstances of your conlang allow it, and you think you can get good results, go for it.

At other levels, random generation is a bit more iffy. Gleb is a part of an (abandoned?) attempt at randomly creating every part of a language; the link goes to a phonology generator, which…works. It’s a start, though, not an end result. I used a few of its outputs as the initial seeds for the conlangs of my “Otherworld” setting, but all of those required a lot more polish before they were anything approaching usable.

It’s also possible to generate random grammar rules and the like, but the field is so vast, and the different parts of a language so interwoven, that I’m not sure you could ever write a program that could give you something plausible. If you could, you’d probably be halfway to strong AI already. I’d like to see it, though.

The cons

On the flip side, random conlang generation has an awful lot of downsides that make the process unsuitable in a lot of instances.

First and foremost, any conlang intended to be an auxiliary language almost certainly can’t use randomness at all. It simply doesn’t fit the criteria. These languages are supposed to be either familiar to a broad population, simple enough for anyone to learn, or engineered based on linguistic principles. None of that really meshes well with random words, much less any other part of a conlang.

Second, unless you’re willing to go through a lot of trouble, the output of a generator isn’t always that great. Yes, the numbers it uses internally will likely be entirely random, but mapping those numbers to letters, phonemes, words, etc., in a way that doesn’t look, well, computer-generated, is an exceedingly difficult task. Take any of those word generators I mentioned above. Sure, you can get a good list out of them. More likely, however, you’re going to be looking at thousands of nonsense letter sequences that do nothing but waste your time.

Next, as I said above, most of the grammatical portion of a conlang isn’t really amenable to randomizing. Language structure is so full of causation and correlation, of universals and implications, that it’s just not that random. It’s more like a chain of logic, but with a few forks in the road that give the creator a bit of leeway. You don’t have to, say, have a past tense just because you have a future one, but it’s more common if you do, and random generators would have to account for that. In the end, there are so many variables, so many special cases, that the programmer effectively has to make a language just for the generator.

I could go on, but I’ll leave with one final argument against randomness, one I don’t entirely support. Nonetheless, it is popular, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least mention it. That reason is art. If you’re of the belief that conlangs are art, you might balk at the very notion of using computers to create them from random numbers. That would be no different from trying to use an RNG to make artistic textures, or images, or worlds, and we see how often those go awry. (Minecraft and the like use noise functions, which are entirely different. In many cases, they’re actually predictable; the same world seed will give you the same world.)

If you consider a created language to be an artistic work, then part of its allure is in the way it is crafted. We, the makers, choose words based not on algorithms, but aesthetics. It’s a more…philosophical argument, in my opinion, but I can see the reasoning.

Conclusion

In summary, my thoughts on the subject are as follows. Use random word generators if your conlang supports them. Don’t use them for anything where roots have to be derived from some other principle than your own mind. A phonology generator can be a good starting point, but not a finished product. Generators claiming to create grammar and the like for you probably aren’t going to give you something sensible, much less usable.

That’s not to say you can’t have fun with random generation. It is fun, and I can’t count the number of names I’ve used that ultimately derive from a list created by a computer program. (Some have even been published! Well, they will be in the coming weeks.) It’s not yet a substitution for the hard work of our minds, however, and it may never be. By the time a computer can create a language from nothing more than a random sequence of numbers, we may have bigger problems than conlangs becoming a commodity.

Weird sounds of the world

Human speech is a fascinating thing. We know that babies can learn to speak any natural language—those languages wouldn’t exist otherwise—and most conlangs are also designed to be learned and spoken. In short, any human can pronounce any human sound. There’s nothing really stopping us except our own received cultural strictures.

Now, if you’re in the business of making languages that sound “weird”, you can use this simple fact to your advantage. Many natural languages have strange sounds in their phonemic inventories. Some are shared with their close relatives, a few are more widespread, and then you have those that occasionally develop in isolation. Whatever the case, adding in some of these sounds is a surefire way to create something very different.

So this post is a brief survey of some of the odder parts of the IPA, all of which appear in one or more spoken human languages presently in existence. None of these, therefore, is truly “alien”. Indeed, we’ll start with a pair you already know.

Dental fricatives

The dental fricatives come in a matched pair, voiced /ð/ and voiceless /θ/. Both are fairly rare, as phonemes go, yet pretty much everyone in the world has heard them spoken, because they’re both present in English. To make matters worse, they’re both written the same way in our language: th. Yep, we English speakers are in the minority here, as far as language numbers go.

As far as population goes, on the other hand, it’s a different story. English has them, and so do standard Arabic, Castilian Spanish, Greek, and a few other big names. On the other hand, we’re far outnumbered by those who lack the th sounds, including such notables as German and French. (That’s the source for their stereotypical accents.) Most other languages with dental fricatives are relatively small, and quite spread out.

Clicks

When people think of “weird” sounds, the clicks are usually near the top of the list. These are only common as phonemes in sub-Saharan Africa, and even there they are absent from most language families. They’re omnipresent in Khoisan, and most of the other languages where they appear seem to have borrowed them from there.

Even if you’ve never heard someone speaking Zulu or Xhosa, however, you’ve probably heard (and even used) clicks before. The chiding or disapproving “tsk” sound is, in fact, the dental click /ǀ/. The sound you make to get a horse moving (I assume, as I’ve never had to do that) is a lateral click /ǁ/. The trick, then, is learning to pronounce those in sequence with more “normal” phonemes. That’s a lot harder, and it’s one reason why nobody outside of Africa bothers to learn such languages.

Most languages with clicks will have a set of them, and there are far more than those two above. Search around for audio clips of people pronouncing them, and see how familiar they are if you forget they’re part of a “weird” language.

Double articulations

It’s possible to pronounce a sound that has two articulations, meaning that there are two places in the mouth where there is contact. Mostly, this is a combination of labial and velar, coming in voiceless /kp/, voiced /gb/, and nasal /ŋm/ varieties. These tend to show up in Africa (such as Igbo, whose name contains one), but they also appear in some languages of New Guinea. I’ll freely admit I don’t have the slightest idea how to pronounce them.

Implosives and ejectives

These two sets of sounds are kind of like mirrored reflections of each other. Ejectives are always voiceless, implosives always voiced, and you can have either of them at just about any point of articulation. About the only difference is that you can have ejective fricatives and affricates. What they are is hard to describe, if I’m honest, so I’ll leave that to the experts.

Both are somewhat rare as phonemes. Ejectives pop up mostly in indigenous languages of the Americas, as well as East Africa, though the Caucasus (e.g., Georgian) is full of them. Implosives tend to be found in sub-Saharan Africa, with scattered occurrences elsewhere. Either one, assuming you can pronounce it, could be a good option for oddity.

Creaky and breathy voice

These aren’t so much phonemes as they are “phonations”: different ways of pronouncing a sound. Again, I’ll refer you elsewhere for the specifics; we’re only interested here with their use in languages.

Mostly, creaky voice is closer to an intonation feature than a phonemic one, but a few languages use it as a distinction. Breathy voice (also called “murmured voice”), however, is much more common. It’s the “voiced aspirate” set in Hindi and similar languages. Either one can work for vowels or consonants, and they’re another one of those “if you can figure it out, it might be useful” things.

Everything else

We haven’t even scratched the surface of strangeness in the realm of the phonetic, but this should be a good starting point for your own exploration. Too few conlangs, in my opinion, use these and other “weird” sounds to great effect. Either they ignore them entirely (fair enough, as they’re rare for a reason) or they overdo them. Used judiciously, however, they can impart an alien flavor into an otherwise “bland” language.

Let’s make a language, part 25c: Business (Ardari)

Ardari has a large vocabulary for dealing with business, and its agglutinative nature expands that even further. But we’ll stick to the basics here.

Business itself is prejn; in Ardari, the same word can also stand for “economy” or “a transaction”. This is different from the actual root for “to trade”, chachen-, which refers to any sort of exchange.

Grammatically, a number of “business” verbs can be ditransitive, taking two objects. These include mänyt- “to borrow”, dyem- “to buy”, khipy- “to lend”, and vird- “to sell”. In all of these cases, the indirect object is in the dative, and it marks the other party in the transaction besides the speaker.

Back in the list of words, we see a few interesting and idiosyncratic derivations. “Generous” is derived from the noun tyamin, meaning “charity”, which thus also stands for “generosity”. And dròv is the root for dròvymat “greed”, rather than the other way around. Also, the general term for money, dènyèr, is a loan, possibly deriving from the French denier, but almost assuredly related in some way to Latin denārius.

Finally, the Ardari verb fors- “to own” carries much of the same connotations as its Isian counterpart. It’s more than a simple possessive, rather indicating the possession of something worth having in the first place. The derived adjective forsynt, however, has a bit of an idiomatic meaning: it’s considered poor form to use it to describe human beings, as it connotes a master/slave relationship, something Ardari speakers do not approve of. The further derivation ärforsynt, though, is used as a religious term referring to demonic possession, and it only refers to people. Language is strange sometimes.

Word list

  • business: prejn
  • cheap: zelk
  • cost: kamnad
  • expensive: long
  • generous: tyaminösat (from tyamin “charity”)
  • greed: dròvymat (from dròv “greedy, grasping”)
  • job: kroll
  • money: dènyèr (borrowed)
  • poor: nydor
  • rich: agris
  • to accept: lèp-
  • to borrow: mänyt-
  • to buy: dyem-
  • to gain: gir-
  • to get: baj-
  • to keep: chòll-
  • to lend: khipy-
  • to lose: malyos-
  • to offer: makej-
  • to own: fors-
  • to receive: bèrill-
  • to reject: lèghan-
  • to sell: vird-
  • to steal: tyek-
  • to store: jols-
  • to trade: chachen-
  • value: säfyn

Let’s make a language, part 25b: Business (Isian)

Isian, as we have seen before, is spoken by a culture that tends more towards the old-fashioned. It’s not the highly corporate environment of the West, nor the planned, centralized systems common in the East. It’s its own thing, really, a kind of land out of time.

Lucky for us, that makes things easier. We can look at the basic terms below (I’ll assume you can follow along), but I’ll pick out a few that have more nuanced meanings.

First up, masca, “to trade”, is a kind of catch-all. It’s intended more for the economic type of trading, a generic term for buying, selling, bartering, etc. That’s why “business” is translated as the derived noun mascanas. The Isian word might be better considered as “to do business with”.

“Cheap” and “expensive”, dib and gowan respectively, follow the style of other large/small pairs by having distinctive vowels: the high, front vowel i is characteristic of “small” things in many languages. “Poor” and “rich”, on the other hand, might seem backwards, but this could mean that the quality being measured here is poverty rather than wealth. Or it’s just happenstance. That’s a more likely explanation.

Next up, cosen is “money” when used as a mass noun. As a count noun, however, it means something closer to “price” or “amount”. (The difference is that count nouns take articles and quantifiers, while mass nouns don’t.)

And then we come to ama. It’s a bit of an oddity in Isian. It’s strictly translated as “to own”, and it does have an element of possession as its primary connotation. But it’s different from the simpler fana “to have”, because it carries a secondary meaning: the object being owned has monetary value to its owner.

Word list

  • business: mascanas
  • cheap: dib
  • cost: chake
  • expensive: gowan
  • generous: nemis (“generosity”: nemiros)
  • greed: sumat
  • job: bor
  • money: cosen
  • poor: umar
  • rich: irdes
  • to accept: achine
  • to borrow: mante
  • to buy: tochi
  • to gain: elge
  • to get: gana
  • to keep: ifa
  • to lend: hente
  • to lose (possession of): pulo
  • to offer: acate
  • to own: ama
  • to receive: rano
  • to reject: nuyana
  • to sell: dule
  • to steal: toya
  • to store: odaga
  • to trade: masca
  • value: luros