Category Archives: Liguistics

The Fascinating History Behind the Fraktur Typeface

Last Sunday at church, a friend filled an entire room with her late father’s books, setting up an impromptu book shop. I chose several books, most of which are in Fraktur typeface, known to some people as “Gothic” or “Old German”. I enjoy reading such books because they offer a snapshot of a cultural way of thinking. The books I chose were printed between 1877 and 1940. The latter date is significant, as you’ll soon see.

First of all, let’s clarify a few terms: Though many people think of font and typeface as interchangeable, in fact, they refer to two different aspects of a writing style. Typeface refers to a particular style of lettering (e.g. Times New Roman), while font refers to the variations within that style, such as size and weight (CAPS, bold, italic, etc.). Another term we know but may not fully understand is Serif: This refers to the small stroke or line attached to the larger stroke of a letter; an example would be an A with “feet” at the bottom of each down-stroke. Sans Serif simply means “without Serif”.

The first moveable-type printing press, designed by Johannes Gutenberg in Germany around 1440, was based on the ancient Roman design of a screw press used to press wine or oil, which in turn went on to be used to press designs into cloths. He was likely familiar with intaglio printing and may have done some work himself in copper engraving.  These designs and uses likely fermented in his inventor’s mind into what became the revolutionary turning point of literacy. Gutenberg’s original typeface was called Donatus-Kalender; the metal type design was itself a form of Textura (more on that in a moment).

Donatus Kalender
Example of Blackletter (Source: Wikipedia)

This original family of typefaces was known as “Blackletter”, aka “Gothic scripts”, with the height of popularity peaking around the 14th to 15th centuries. The ancestor of the Blackletter was called the Carolingian minuscule, a calligraphic standard of handwriting widely used in the medieval period, when literacy began increasing and a need for books in a wide range of subjects began to be in demand. It is thought to have been developed in the mid-770s by Benedictine monks north of Paris in the Corbie Abbey, famous for its scriptorium and library. The minuscule itself was derived from Roman Uncial as well as Irish Insular script, which was developed in Irish monasteries and spread throughout Europe.

Carolingian Minuscule
Roman Uncial
From the Book of Kells, an example of the Irish Insular script

The family of Blackletter typefaces included Early Gothic, which was a transitional script between the Carolingian miniscule and Textura (the most calligraphic form of Blackletter); Schwabacher was a form popular in early German print typefaces (it became widely known with the spread of Luther Bibles from 1522), in use from the 15th century until it was eventually replaced by Fraktur around 1530, though it was still used alongside Fraktur for emphasis, much like we use bold or italic today.

Schwabacher Typeface
Textura Typeface

Another blackletter typeface developed between 1470 and 1600: Antiqua. This typeface’s letters were designed to look like the handwriting of ancient Roman documents, with the letters flowing together, strokes connecting them in a continuous line, whereas Fraktur was distinguished by having letters “fractured” – separate from one another. The Antiqua-Fraktur Dispute deserves its own article, so stay tuned!

Antiqua Typeface (Source: Wikipedia)
Fraktur Typeface (Source: Fonts in Use)

The Habsburg Emperor Maximillian I (1459-1519) was King of the Romans* from 1486 to 1519 [the title of king was used by the kings of East Francia, the territory later referred to as the Kingdom of Germany, from the time of Henry II (1002) to Joseph II (1764)]. The king commissioned the artist Albrecht Dürer to create a series of woodcut engravings of the Triumphal Arch [Though many are familiar with the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, it is only one example of this ancient Roman architectural feature used as a free-standing structure (rather than the Greek version, which was used within a structure such as a temple).]. These engravings would be used to create what we would recognize today as essentially wallpaper, though its purpose was more of a statement of power or propaganda (read personal marketing) commemorating his nobility, generosity, and military conquests – an incongruous combination, if you ask those conquered… The final composite of printed papers stood nearly 3 metres (12 feet) high and was only one part of a series of three enormous prints commissioned by the king.

Albrecht Dürer’s The Triumphal Arch, for Maximilian I

 The Fraktur typeface was designed in the 1530s by Hieronymus Andreae, a German woodblock cutter, printer, publisher, and typographer closely connected to Albrecht Dürer. The typeface was made to decorate the arch, telling the stories of the figures depicted throughout. The typeface became popular in Europe and was in use in the German-speaking world, as well as areas under its influence (Scandinavia, Central Europe, and some eastern European regions), into the 20th century. Specifically, Fraktur was in use in German until 1941, when it was actually banned (which places one of the books I purchased on Sunday within one year of the end of the era of Fraktur!). The atmosphere that led to that ban arose from the dispute mentioned above. Once the Nazis were defeated, the ban was lifted, but Fraktur never regained its widespread popularity after that, though you can still see it occasionally in pub signs or various forms of ads, like beer brands.

I just pulled two books from my library shelves: One is an English book originally printed in 1895, with my book being printed in 1915; the other is a German book printed in 1892. The typefaces are widely different: The English text likely used the French Oldstyle, while the German book uses Renaissance Fraktur for the text body, while the end pages act as indexes and use a variety of blackletter typefaces, such as Muenchner Fraktur, Antike Kanzlei, and Enge verzierte Altdeutsch. To see examples of the typefaces mentioned here, please click on the link for Fonts In Use.

I hope you enjoyed this jaunt through history! Nearly every name mentioned, every typeface, and every event deserves its own undusting. Next time, we’ll deep-dive into the dispute that lasted well over a century!

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Etymology Undusted: Tangle

Do you ever have those moments where you catch yourself thinking about the simplest of things in life? Things that are common to you, yet you’ve never stopped to think about why you call something by a certain term and where those words or phrases come from? I do, with alarming frequency… I guess it’s the product of a curious mind.

I have long hair; so long that, if it’s not in a braid or some other up-do, I’d be sitting on it with ease. I braid it every day and every night – otherwise, it tangles. And thus, while brushing my hair out this morning, the word tangle tangled in my tangled mind. As someone once said, my hair isn’t messy; it’s just erupting with awesomeness.

As a verb, meaning “to knit together confusedly, encumber, or enmesh”, it came into English in the mid-14th century via Old Norse þongull, meaning seaweed, from the Proto-Germanic thangul. Other Germanic languages have related words: In both Dutch and German, we find Tang (seaweed), and in Frisian we find Tung [Frisia is a cultural region that lies over the border between the Netherlands and Germany.] Looking at the image below, it’s easy to imagine a ship’s tackle becoming entangled in the tang…

Image Credit: The Norwegian Blue Forests Network

As with any useful word, it began to collect variations: The transitive sense of entrapping someone or bringing someone under one’s influence; the sense of fighting with someone; Tanglefoot was a western slang meaning strong whiskey, and tanglesome (1823), meaning complicated.

So I hope I’ve untangled the origins of this tanglesome word! Have a great, untangled week!

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History Undusted: The Great Vowel Shift

My husband and I were having lunch recently, and a package of Swedish crackers was on the table; I pointed to the brand name, Pågen. In English, our pronunciation of these vowels would lead us to say pagan /pæg-in/, whereas the Swedish would rather be more like /po-gen/. I just mentioned that English might have sounded similar to that before the Great Vowel Shift, which he’d never heard of (being Swiss, it’s not likely he would be familiar with this aspect of English etymology), so I promised to write a blog about it; here we go!

The term Great Vowel Shift was coined by the Danish linguist, Otto Jespersen (1860-1943), who specialised in the English language. Though the GVS is considered a single event (because of the changes being viewed as part of a chain reaction, with each vowel sound changing in a predictable way), the actual transition of English pronunciation was gradual, taking place over about 200 years, from ~1400 to ~1600. The shift began in Middle English, which was spoken from 1066 until the late 15th century – that form familiar to Geoffrey Chaucer (though his pronunciation would be unintelligible to us, his words still survive through his famous Canterbury Tales) – into Early Modern English (from the beginning of the Tudor period through to the Stuart Restoration period); Shakespeare would have been familiar with it. From there, English transitioned into Modern English in the mid-to-late 17th Century.

The main changes were that, from Middle to Early Modern English, the long vowels shortened; weef became wife, moos* became mice, beet became bite, and so on. (*The word moose entered English through Native American languages in 1610). I will also mention that in Scottish, a lot of the older vowel pronunciations still exist; house is still huus, full is homophonous with fool, etc.

Here’s a look at just how the English vowels shifted:

Source: SlideShare

If you’ve been paying any sort of attention to English, you’ll know that our spelling is a bit chaotic; the language is full of homonyms, which are divided into either homophones (words that sound the same but have different spellings, e.g. beet and beat; bear and bare; to, too and two), or homographs (two words with differing meanings, same spellings, but not necessarily the same pronunciation: e.g. bank [of river; finance] or agape [with mouth open; love], or entrance [a way inside; to delight]) or tear [ripping; crying]. These -graphs and -phones came into English from regional dialects that were transported as migration and cultural mixing took place, and the GVS added its two pennies to the mix. Just think of the variety we have in the sounds /ea/ (bread, beat, bear, break); /oo/ (look, spool, blood); or /gh/ (through, cough, sight).

Certain factors contributed to the speed of language shift: The Black Death (1346-1353) wiped out up to 50% of Europe’s population. Stop a minute and let that sink in. What if the population of your town were reduced by half? And the next town, and the next. That single event changed the course of history on many levels; surfs could finally demand better wages wherever they ended up settling; if you lived in a town that no longer had the skills of a baker, blacksmith, or any other trade you’d depended on, you’d move to where those services existed – and jobs existed – and that meant places that had been hit the hardest by the plague and thus where everyone else was migrating, such as London. As mass movement followed the epidemic, people brought their dialects and their spellings with them. It began to converge into a new, distinct way of speaking, thinking and spelling. The geopolitical climate of the time also influenced English; England and France have been annoying each other for over a thousand years; whenever England was enamoured by all things French, they tried to emulate their pronunciations. That influence came and went; in one such moment, the pilgrims set sail for America (1620), taking a time capsule of the language with them, while England’s English continued to be influenced by French up until the French Revolution, when it quickly fell out of favour in England, though the changes had already taken place (one example is the American /k/ in schedule, closer to the original Latin, while the English say /sch/ without the /k/, which is closer to the French cedule). This factor of influence also affected differences of speech between the lower class and upper class at that time; the upper class wanted to sound more posh, more fashionable, and above all, not like the lower class.

A major contributing factor to our chaotic spelling is that ca. 1440, the Gutenberg printing technique was introduced, and by the 1470s, William Caxton had imported the invention to England; we have him to thank for Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales being known today, as that was the first book he printed in England. We also have him to thank for the influence of Chancery English (the English used by the secretariat of King Henry VI) in the standardization of the language, as he used it as his own guidelines in printing. The vowels had already begun to shift by that time; enter the written word, a rise in literacy, and you have the jumbled effects of “mid-shift” on English spelling – people began to adapt their pronunciation to the written word, so whichever form the printer used is the one that began to prevail, even though some sounds were still in transition. Like nailing down jelly. You could say that many of our odd spellings are simply a snapshot in time.

It is also important to point out that the GVS didn’t have the same influence everywhere: The main changes occurred around London, but the farther away you move from that epicentre, the less the effects on the local dialects, which still holds true today – though gradual merging has allowed people from, say, Cornwall, to understand people from Yorkshire – which wouldn’t have been the case centuries ago. Even though they can understand each other, their dialects are still distinct. I’ve already mentioned that Scots English (as opposed to Gaelic) still retains many of the longer vowels long since lost in standardized English; being so far from London, they simply ignored them. English may be taught in their schools, but Scots dialects prevail in the home and hearth. Regional dialects in English exist the world over, and though spelling and pronunciation may differ from region to region, and the language continues to be a living, breathing, growing and changing being, it’s still a language that enables the modern world to communicate, whether English is their mother tongue or not.

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History Undusted – The Tactile Language of the Quipu

Throughout history, languages have come and gone; an estimated 30,000 have existed at some point in time, though currently, there are roughly 6,000 to 7,000 languages in use – and most are threatened with extinction. Think about that. The impact on the loss of cultural history, connection to ways of thinking, ways of communicating, and ways of processing information; senses of humour, and national heritages will be lost.

An example of a language nearly lost, but which is now familiar to most of us by sight, is the logogram language of Egyptian hieroglyphs. The knowledge of how to interpret the symbols had been lost for centuries, until 1799, when a stone was found near Rosetta, along the Nile Delta in Egypt; the stone was a stele with a decree issued in 196 BC; the texts carved into the stone were Ancient Egyptian (“demotic” text), hieroglyphs, and Ancient Greek. Because Greek was a known language, they could use the Rosetta stone to decipher the forgotten languages.

When we think of writing, we may think of various alphabets: Greek, Roman (of which English makes use), Norse Runes, or the logographic or ideographic languages of Asia, such as Chinese or Japanese, or the cuneiform writing of the Ancient Near East. But did you know that there have been languages based on string?

Quipu in the Museo Machu Picchu, Casa Concha, Cusco. Source: Wikipedia

The Inca people, in the region of modern Peru and Chile, used knots on an elaborate system of connected strings or cords for collecting data, keeping records, recording taxes or census records, making calendars, or for military organisation. When the Spanish Conquistadors swept through, they found numerous bundles of strings, but had no idea of their significance; they destroyed many of the quipu*, not realizing that they might have held in their hands a record of an individual’s wealth in animals or crops. [*Quipu is the Spanish spelling used in English; it is also spelled khipu or kipu.] Other cultures have also used similar concepts with knotted strings to record information, unrelated to South America; these include China, Japan, Taiwan New Zealand, Hawaii, and other parts of Polynesia.

As with most textiles, they unfortunately didn’t stand the test of time very well, and only a fraction remains today. The ancient world may have taken the concept of the quipu one step further in creating the more flexible abacus, though the latter was (and is still) used for temporary calculations, while the former was rather for recording information. Whether or not there is a historical link, both are visual tools that can be used for similar functions to a certain extent.

Even with such widespread use of these knotting records, their meaning was nearly lost, until a Harvard student, Manny Madrano, had time on his hands one summer and solved a centuries-old mystery!

For an interesting video on this topic, please click here. I hope you’ve learned something! Keep being curious about our fascinating world!

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