([Between

the
Pulpous
Pith of
Parenthese
s])
I
am happily fluent in
three languages
(English, Spanish and
Italian), work on
becoming so in another
(French), and have “let
go” most of still one more
(Latin) which I studied for
six years in my youth. If I
had the time, I would
return to translating
Cicero doing so con gusto.
(Amo, amas, amat,
amamus, amatis amant.)
It irks me that there are
thousands of other
languages in the world.
Worse, peoples and
nations do not have a
common language to
communicate in so as to
consider only what is
basic for them. I once
entered The Rolex Awards
for Enterprise competition
submitting this project
title: “An Artificial,
Limited International
Medium of
Communication.” The
ROLEX officials did not
even recognize my
suggestion in their list of
entries, but they were
kind enough to send my
idea back to me. The
Swiss are great!
In my head there are two
reasons to explain my
penchant for polyglotism.
I was born in a city (New
York) where more than
two hundred languages
are spoken on any given
day. Where cultures
intersect at every corner.
Where “getting along” is
the unwritten law.
Perhaps no other urban
sprawl in the world is
better at the art of living
together. My instincts are
programmed to know
about the differences
people, in general,
possess. For the twenty
one years I lived in New
York, I never said firstly
“In what restaurant are
we going to eat tonight?”
No. I asked: “In what
kind of restaurant are we
going to eat tonight?” I
am, by nature,
extraordinarily inquisitive.
New York tickles your
curiosity bone constantly.
The other rationalization
is that the mother and
father of my father were
born in The Old Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics.
The mother of my mother
was born in Ireland. The
father of my mother came
into this world on the
2
French-German border—
which side I do not
remember. His surname
was French, but he was
decidedly Prussian in
temperament. Alsace-
Lorraine? Who cares.
Forever, in my home,
contrastive dialects
echoed off the walls, and
even my Irish-by-
preference mother often
peppered her speech with
French language verbal
tidbits. Voilà!
Words, their
pronunciation, and the
methods of combining
them used and
understood by a
community, is for me
something primordial,
something that creeps
around everything I am
involved in. I am not a
“viva-voce” linguist. I am
a “brain” linguist. I will be
the first to admit I speak
English, Spanish, Italian,
French and Latin as
unbearably as my mother
did when she blurted out,
from the kitchen, “Il fait
mauvais temps. Il pleut!”
In school, I was taught to
translate languages—not
to speak them. Terrible!
I am a hodgepodge! I buy
three different eaux de
cologne and mix them up
to make my own scent. I
can switch from one
foreign author to another.
(I am reading these days,
in French, the works of
Alain Minc.) My spectrum
of interest in music is
really quite unusual:
classical, cumbia, 1960s’
songs, jazz, opera, pop,
salsa, Gregorian Chant,
mariachi, Russian folk
songs, Swiss folk music…
there is no borderline for
me. If it is good, I like it.
(I would take Beethoven
over all others if I had one
choice to make before
being sent to a deserted
island against my will.)
On the shortwave band, I
listen to English from the
United States, France,
England, Switzerland,
Austria and Japan. I listen
to Spanish on Radio
Nacional Espana and an
Austrian network. I listen
to French on the radio and
watch it on Italian
television. I listen to
Italian on the radio, watch
it on TV, and talk it with
my friends. (A few years
ago I persuaded Bob
Holness of the B.B.C. on
his “Anything Goes”
program to play “Sugar”
by The Archies for my
sweet Italian wife, Maria
Luisa.) Strangely enough,
I swear by Cuban cigars,
straight whisky, HEWLETT-
PACKARD, David Hume,
CASIO, ANTINORI wines,
razor blades to shave
with, tennis, SONY,
turtleneck sweaters,
DUNHILL 965 pipe
mixture, and integral cane
sugar from Ecuador. (Can
anyone then berate me
when here in Italy, where I
have lived since 1 May
1983, I respond to an
Italian’s “When are you
going to become an
italiano, americano?” with
this rejoinder: “I want to
be listed in the Guinness
Book of Records as the
first one who secured the
European passport!”
Lucky for me Italian
manicomi have been
closed for years!)
Back to reality. I must
speak about the
gratification my
multilingualism has
provided me with
3
throughout my fifty two
years. But—before I do—I
have to take two detours:
one to Venezuela
(Spanish) and one to Italy
(Italian).
I arrived in both places
without speaking a word
of either native tongue.
Does not make for an
easy adjustment! Yet, it is
infinitely more interesting
and surely more fun.
Anthropologists say you
need about three to four
years to get into the
swing of things. It was
easier for me to acclimate
to Italy because I had
practiced adjusting in
Venezuela. (I once spent
a year in Vietnam as an
artillery first lieutenant,
but that sojourn afforded
me no chance to get to
know the Vietnamese
people and their customs.
I would have liked to very
much so.) Not knowing
the common speech at
the beginning forces you
to scrutinize the faces and
gestures of the people,
and this offers the
possibility—I think—to
learn more about them
than actually speaking to
them when it is necessary
to do so!
Spanish in Caracas is not
the same language they
hablan in the Universidad
de Salamanca! Spanish
people will be the first—
and snootily, too!—to tell
you so. Spanish in South
America is not
homogenized as English is
in the United States,
Great Britain and Canada,
for example. Pina
(pineapple [I still have not
learned how to Microsoft
that accent mark over the
“n” in pina!]) can have
different meanings in
different countries. If you
use Spanish Spanish (sic!)
as a point of reference in
Caracas, you might go
crazy. Venezuelans are
mostly poor, uneducated
individuals. Their schools
and cultural institutions
are not exceptionally
developed due to the fact
that in large part there,
there is a rampant
corruption in government
which has little to do with
bettering the lives of the
underprivileged in
Venezuela. (I was robbed
three times in Caracas.
Two times by pistol.)
There are fantastic
restaurants in Caracas—
some known worldwide.
(Try the Costa Vasca.) I
could purchase Havana
cigars there, too! Caracas
was also once the
jumping-off point in South
America for many
classical music concerts
of world renown. After six
years and four months
there, my Caracas
Spanish had progressed
sufficiently for me to
understand very well the
political and economic
nuances in Venezuela
which I gleaned from
Spanish-written
magazines, newspapers
and financial bulletins.
Eventually, I had to leave.
In 1976, when I arrived,
one dollar had cost four
bolivares. Today, it is
climbing up to seven
hundred bolivares (see
Global Economic Outlook,
Union Bank of
Switzerland, 4Q, 1996).
Venezuela can make you
cry. The more Spanish I
learned there, the sadder
I got.
4
Italian in Italy is not the
Italian they speak in Italy!
You can go fifty meters in
any direction and find
another way to converse
and pronounce the Italian
language. Unlike an all-
embracing English or a
far-reaching Spanish, and
not much like a boxed-in
French or German which
would like to aggrandise,
Italian is not an “out-to-
conquer” dialect as Latin
was before it. I tell my
Italian friends—after
eating my CHEERIOS!—
that more people are
learning Latin, nel mondo,
than they are
contemplating the
language of The Boot!
(That gets the blood
circulating!) Remember
this, however: When you
put your eyes on Italy you
are seeing something
really special. You should
not have to speak. (It is a
shame Italians talk too
much!) People come to
Italy to look and become
overweight. Italy is
soothing to the eyes.
(Not all of it.) Corruption
makes Italy vulnerable to
every kind of pecuniary
disease and this takes the
“charm bite” out of it if
you live here long
enough. So then, if
Venezuela cannot get off
the ground because of its
depravity, Italy is
threatening to collapse
under the fardello of its
turpitude. Italians are
tired, old. Their linguistic
stock is filled with regrets
and complaints. Sixty
percent of the Venezuelan
population in 1983 was
under eighteen years!
Forty percent of the
families in Italy have one
child, and almost twenty
per cent of the habitancy
is over sixty five years!
Venezuela and Italy are
both truly in bad shape,
and Venezuelan Spanish
and Italian Italian (sic)
reflect themselves
frequently—as a
consequence—in
exaggeration and
demagoguery.
Venezuelans and Italians
are running scared. In
this lachrymose
atmosphere language
fails to flourish.
I consider myself lucky (I
have been unlucky many
times!), nonetheless, to
have had the perfect
occasions to immerse
myself in three divergent
ways of life. I could have
been bogged down as a
junior (senior?) exec in a
New York-based multinat
drinking and smoking and
sweating myself up the
“Ladder of Success” unto,
maybe, a pension! I
chose not to do that, and I
took the blows I had
coming to me for doing
so. No regrets. (I can
croon “I Did It My Way!”
Can you?)
There are three delights
you come into when you
speak more than your
own language. You are
less bored—for sure.
There are few things more
exhilarating than plopping
yourself into a strange
country with $5,000.00
(1983) and setting out to
live there happily ever
after. (When I saw
Caracas the first time, I
could not wait to leave it.
Italy is more calming on
the nerves, but getting
more unstable even as I
write this little essay.) You
must relearn the meaning
of everything! That is
5
fantastic! You do not
have to be a genius to
familiarize yourself with
the fact that the “C” on
the shower faucet is not
cold but “caliente,” HOT!
The “F” is cold, “frìo.” It
is not only language that
you must take in, you
must feel the
“rhythmicity” of the
people, their speeds at
eating, drinking, working,
waiting…. For the first
four or five years there is
so much to assimilate and
decode, you are
constantly absorbed in
analysing and being
stimulated to think your
way through to
understanding where you
are and what you are
doing there. (And you
better have a good
motive or you will be in
for a very difficult time!)
All of this is a natural
process, and I have been
lead to believe—over the
years—that people are
not put together to stay in
any one place for more
than six or seven years.
(Most do, however.) We
just want to know more
about others and,
ultimately, ourselves.
(The success of our
megalopoles?) Fixed in
one place, this urge
frustrates itself and we
suffer the consequences.
In another country you
are always kept busy
trying to show others that
you also can live and
think as they do—when
necessary. You are always
busy learning.
By switching to another
parlance you change your
mental “channels,” an
important benefit which
gives an individual a
sobering placidity. (Great
for writers!)
Unfortunately, most
people only speak their
own language. I can turn
on or turn off from one
vernacular to another and
refresh myself just as one
might turn on, or off, the
television or flip through
the channels to freshen
up after a hard day’s
work. If I am tired of
Italian, I can “zap” easily
to English. Whether I
select to read a book,
enter a conversation, or
listen to a radio program,
I am sure to have a
mental respite. I can
always buy a Spanish
newspaper or read a
French political analysis.
There is always a choice
for me to make, and I
never feel demarcated by
my own idiolect. I am
never confused in French,
Italian or Spanish
restaurants. (I wish I
could find more foreign
restaurants in Italy.) I am
always willing and able to
digest more of the four
languages I have a
familiarity with, and these
“hobbies” have tended
my way a variety of
methods to cultivate my
tremendous desire to
know more and not only
in my own language.
In conclusion, one also
derives a very grand
sense of pride and self-
satisfaction. You get
happy fifs (Funny Inside
Feelings). Before I travel
by train, I stop at a kiosk
and pick up magazines
and newspapers in four
different languages, and
then I amuse myself
watching the expressions
of the people in my
compartment who appear
to be amazed at the
6
amount I am reading and
the languages I am
reading my editions in. (I
do not want to sound
arrogant to you, my dear
reader. I am not being
haughty. I just feel so
pleased with myself, I
want to share my joy with
you! Remember also,
please, I had to sacrifice
much to arrive at this
recompense. In fact, I am
truly sorry for those who
have not had the pleasure
of putting down pat
another language.) El
Pais, Cambio, Hola! (in
Spanish, the exclamation
point and the question
mark are put before [and
after] a word or sentence
to prepare the reader—
but I cannot find the way
to do so on my Windows
98! Can someone help
me?), L’Espress, Le Monde
Diplomatique (perhaps
my most favorite news
journal), Wall Street
Journal (to know what The
Enemy is thinking!),
Times Literary
Supplement, Financial
Times, Foreign Affairs,
The Nation, La Gazetta
dello Sport, La Settimana
Enigmistica…. All the
years of study and
learning come to be
remunerated in a train
compartment! I feel good
about what I have
accomplished, and I know
most people would also
want to share the
wonderful experience of
being—at least—bi-
lingual.
My dear reader, what are
you waiting for? You can
do it, too! I hope I have
presented you with
reason enough to get
started on the language
you have always wanted
to speak. (The third and Anthony St. John
the fourth come even Casella Postale 38
easier—I swear!) Think of 50041 CALENZANO FI
the contentment you will Italia
derive from conversing to
others in their mother
tongue. What a
stupendous manner to
broaden your outlook. To 1 November 1996
seek communion with
your fellows! To establish
the bonds that will lead to
a globalization—noble
and equal! To bring
respect and admiration,
for your country, to the
people of other nations!

Goodbye!

Hasta luego!

Ciao!

Au revoir!

(Multum…viva vox facit!)

(Parenthetically, it is more
readily comprehensible
than you think!)

* * *

Extracted from:

Pages on Form-giving
Cause as Contrasted with
Potential Existence

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