I end on a speculative note. The alphabet has been portrayed by some as the logical, even teleological, end of writing system development (as surveyed in Share, 2014). I believe this is a radical misreading of grammatical history. With one exception, when writing systems have invested in phonetic devices (that is, sound- rather than meaning-based writing), the unit of investment has been the syllable. This applies both to pristine writing systems (Sumerian, Egyptian, Mayan) and to their descendants (Akkadian, Meroitic, Japanese) and to adoptions of the idea of writing but invention of a new system (Linear B, Cree, Vai). The exception is Egyptian. However, a syllabary for a language unconcerned with vowel writing is, simply, a consonantal alphabet. Passed onto unrelated languages, in which vowels and consonants have more equal status, the consonantal alphabet acquires vowels. On this picture, the existence of the alphabet is a highly contingent accident of history: at the right time, a language of the right grammatical type, innovated a writing system, that was then simplified by speakers of a related language, before being passed to speakers of others who invested in complete vowel writing. Had different peoples been involved, writing might never have become more finegrained than the syllabary.

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<figure><img src="image_38.png" /></figure>
# Scripts in Contact:
Transmission of the First Alphabets

Sveva Elti di Rodeano

*Abstract.* The alphabet is a type of notation which breaks language into small units, attempting to represent its phonological and/or phonetic repertoire. Given that writing is a way of thinking, based on a cognitive activity that requires mental procedures, the aim of this paper is to propose the architecture of the spelling process, described in cognitive and psycholinguistic studies, as a model for the transmission of the alphabet(s).

For this purpose, the reflection is focused on the so-called first alphabets in writing systems' history, i.e., Greek, Anatolian, Italic, and Iberian alphabets, introducing the new linguistic and archeological approaches which allow an earlier date and a less decisive role for the Greeks in the alphabets' introduction.

Ancient literatures' evidence about the teaching of writing and reading are found to match with the current results of cognitive studies about the dynamics of oral reproduction, word recognition, and written reproduction. The peculiarities of Asia minor alphabets, which are still unsolved, will be addressed and framed within the spelling process model.

## 1. Introduction

Currently, the alphabet is more widespread than any other system of written language.

In company with Chinese characters, the alphabet provides the forms by which all living languages are written: whether Arabic, Bengali, Cyrillic, Devanagari, Greek, Hebrew, Javanese, Latin, or Tibetan or any

This paper has been written as contribution to the GC21 Conference, held online due to COVID-19 pandemic. I must thanks all the participants for their direct and undirect contributions for my research, with special regards to Daniel Harbour, Hany Rashwan and Amalia Gnanadesikan. Last but definitely not least. I would like to warmly thank Yannis Haralambous for allowing me to participate, for his kind support and diligent editorial work. All shortcomings and mistakes are my own.

Sveva Elti di Rodeano

<figure><img src="image_39.png" /></figure>

0000-0002-7068-8192

Università degli studi di Udine, via Palladio 8, 33100 Udine

E-mail: sveva.eltidirodeano@spes.uniud.it

Y. Haralambous (Ed.), *Grapholinguistics in the 21st Century 2020. Proceedings*

Grapholinguistics and Its Applications (ISSN: 2681-8566, e-ISSN: 2534-5192), Vol. 4.

Fluxus Editions, Brest, 2021, pp. 223–239. https://doi.org/10.36824/2020-graf-rode

ISBN: 978-2-9570549-6-1, e-ISBN: 978-2-9570549-8-5
other alphabetic forms, they derive from a common source in the Sinai in the second millennium BC<fnref n="1" /> Semitic languages, indeed those in use in the Sinai Peninsula, were the first to be written in alphabetic script<fnref n="2" />.

In spite of this variety in contemporary visual appearance, which is the result of centuries of specialized adaptations,<fnref n="3" /> all alphabetic forms share a similar structural property: they consist of about twenty-four to thirty signs used to represent the sounds of spoken language. The phonetic principle is at best an approximation, because, while oral forms are continually evolving, the tenacity of the alphabet tends to endure any changes. However, it must be said that no other writing system has the capacity to represent the sound of spoken language with such efficiency and adaptability.

Writing has been associated with evolutionary theory since eighteenth century.

In the late nineteenth century, Isaac Taylor proposed that writing progressed from pictorial and pictographic, through logographic and syllabic forms of writing, to a final and more efficient alphabetic system.

Taylor's scheme was systematized by Ignace Gelb (1963), in his gradualistic and unievolutionary models of script development.<fnref n="4" /> That view implied that writing starts in a pictographic form, then develops first into logographic and then into syllabic writing, and eventually the alphabet is created.

This was the traditional answer to the question of origins, which was directly related to the classification of writing into pictographic (signs as pictorial images of objects or events), syllabic (signs correspond to syllables), and alphabetic (signs correspond to sound segments). This classification recalled the typological classification of languages of that period, into isolating, agglutinative, and inflected.<fnref n="5" />

Afterwards, studies on writing systems began to reconsider the evolutionary “principle of economy aiming at the expression of linguistic

<footnote n="1">1. To be more precise, all modern natural writing systems derive from either Egyptian hieroglyphs, or from Chinese characters.</footnote>

<footnote n="2">2. However, It must be recognised that the acrophonic principle, the decisive turning point for the linguistic notation of signs, has been used since Egyptian hieroglyphs and Sumerian cuneiform attestations (late fourth millennium BC).</footnote>

<footnote n="3">3. In many cases such adaptations were fostered by the accurate dedication of Christian missionaries, as for the Gothic alphabet, invented by the Bishop Wulfila in the third century AD.</footnote>

<footnote n="4">4. This model was the product of its time, and it was championed by other scholars too (Damerow, 1999; Schmandt-Besserat, 1992; Michalowski, 1993).</footnote>

<footnote n="5">5. The comparison between these two classification is drawn by Cardona (1981, p. 21), who arguably doubted the linguistic classification.</footnote>
forms by the smallest number of signs" (ibid., p. 69) and the classification of writing.<fnref n="6" />

However, from the archaeological and historical point of view the prevailing opinion seemed to retain the paradigm of a Western supremacy, which saw the alphabet as an introduction made by the Greeks before the eighth century BC (Carpenter, 1933).

## 2. The First Alphabets and Their Relations

Gelb's study sowed the seeds for the twentieth century Eurocentric view on the Greek alphabet as civilizing mark in human evolution<fnref n="7" />.

The classicist Eric Havelock (1976; 1982) promoted the idea of Western supremacy linked to alphabetic writing, while the anthropologist Jack Goody (1968) supported the idea of a connection between the alphabet and literacy, reinforcing the consequent formulation that non-alphabetic cultures and predecessors in the Near East who used other forms of writing were distant and cognitively inferior in comparison to the Greeks.<fnref n="8" />

According to the communis opinion, the alphabet was introduced to Greece through the Phoenicians around the eighth century BC (contra Ullman, 1934). Recently, new discoveries and archeological evidence have revealed trade contacts between the Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean (Broodbank, 2013, pp. 870-1314), showing that the necessary infrastructure for transmission of the alphabet was already in place long before the traditional date of its introduction. Linguistic and epigraphic, but here we should called them graphemic and graphematics, studies (Waal, 2018; 2020) have shown that the only argument for a late introduction is the absence of evidence, an argumentum ex silentio.

Nowadays a new approach, which allows an earlier date for the introduction of the alphabet and a less decisive role for the Greeks in the transmission, helps to understand relations between the first alphabetic scripts.

What remain still unaddressed are some peculiarities of the Asia minor alphabets that constitute arguments for the Greek thesis.

<footnote n="6">6. A comprehensive description of all the typological classification of writing is in Borgwaldt and Joyce (2011, pp. 2-6).</footnote>

<footnote n="7">7. The idea of evaluating writing systems is quite still common among scholars, as Meletis (2018; 2020, pp. 197-215) illustrates in detail.</footnote>

<footnote n="8">8. The “literacy thesis” was promoted by Goody and Watt (1963), Halverson (1992) and Ong (1982), and was based on Havelock’s statements about the cognitive revolution arising from alphabetic literacy.</footnote>
The still unsolved enigmas are, for instance, the Carian graphemes, which resembled Greek graphemes with deviant sound values, and the Etruscan sibilants signs.

The first case constitutes a clear anomaly in the Anatolian context, for which the “chaos hypothesis” has been proposed: in the adaptation, an arbitrary assignment of phonetic values from Greek graphemes to Carian graphemes took place, maintaining only the external shape of signs. This hypothesis is frustrating and does not clarify why some letters preserve their Greek phonetic value while others did not.<fnref n="9" />

The second case shows the most evident problem with the thesis of the Greek role as intermediate. Etruscan retained both the *sigma* and the *san* letter for the fricative value [s],<fnref n="10" /> whereas none of the Greek alphabets contain both these letters (Bonfante and Bonfante, 2002, p. 45).

<figure><img src="image_40.png" /><figcaption>FIGURE 1. (a) Current paradigm simplified. (b) Alternative model simplified (Waal, 2020, p. 119)</figcaption></figure>

These facts are hard to reconcile with the current paradigm. A different scenario (Fig. 1) has been suggested, in which the Anatolian, Italic, and Iberian alphabets did not derive from the Greek alphabet.

<footnote n="9">9. Car. ₩ [n] / Gr. Ψ, Car. Ν Λ [m] / Gr. Μ, Car. F Ç [r] / Gr. P, Car. Ω [t] / Gr. T, but also Car. A / Gr. A, Car. Ο / Gr. Ο, Car. Μ / Gr. Μ [s], Car. Y / Gr. Y.</footnote>

<footnote n="10">10. Etr. M (< «san») and Etr. S (< «sigma») for [s].</footnote>
### 3. The Alphabet and the Written/Oral Language Relation

The way in which languages are put into writing varies from language to language.

In alphabetical systems the characters tend to refer to minimal units of the sound system, whether they are phonemes or phones. This is the underlying principle that identifies the alphabet from other writing systems.

Notwithstanding that, it is crucial to repeat that no pure writing system exists (Coulmas, 1996), and that differentiating writing systems intends to reassume the relation between linguistic elements (sounds), orthographic elements (signs), and metaphorical referents (“meant” meaning).<fnref n="11" />

Gelb (1963) saw writing as a contribution to social change, which would necessarily end with mass literacy. In this view he conceived the evolution of writing in a functionalist way: driven by utility and maximization, the best writing system will be the one most efficient to note the language and the one most accessible to the population. Some similarities can be noted between these assumptions and the linguistic economy concept of the nineteenth century.

In the theory of George Kingsley Zipf (1949),<fnref n="12" /> any uneconomical change, involving more effort than benefits in terms of communication, will be removed or avoided. In the same direction, André Martinet's language economy principle (1955) aims at least effort for a particular purpose, seeking a balance between efficient communication and natural human inertia.

The comparison between writing and language evolution is not the main purpose of this paper, but it can be observed that writing systems' studies has changed their conception of teleological reading in accordance with and on the basis of a different interpretation of linguistic change: Martinet rejected the teleological evolution of languages and preferred a causal explanation of economy, stated by the well-known dictum that “languages change because they function”.

<footnote n="11">11. With “metaphoric referent” I am trying to reassume the concept of “competenza semantica mediata dal segno scrittorio” (Marazzi, 2016, p. 1) proposed by many pioneering works of linguists (Crump, 1990; Gaur, 1992), semiotics (Harris, 1995; Rotman, 1995), and graphic designers (Kress and Leeuwen, 1996) that proposed a broader view of writing. Given the fact that writing does not record language in its linguistic entirety, writing must be studied separately from its relation to speech (Derrida, 1976, pp. 30–59). Within this view writing is “any systematized graphic activity that creates sites of interpretation” (Rotman, 1995, p. 390).</footnote>

<footnote n="12">12. The so-called Principle of Least Effort states that economy is a criterion regulating aspects of human behaviour as well as linguistic evolution. Economy has been considered a factor in phonetic changes too (Sweet, 1888; Passy, 1890; Vendryes, 1939).</footnote>
Writing is an artefact, a τέχνη. The term τέχνη is derived from IE *tek̂- “to produce,” *te-tk̂- “to build, to timber” (Beekes and van Beek, 2010, p. 1476).

The idea of τέχνη naturally came to denote the artistic capacity for producing artefact. Writing is a techné, so it can be evaluated for its utility.

The widespread use of the alphabet, nowadays the Roman alphabet, cannot be taken as evidence that is the best system because “the spread of a technology is driven by many factors in addition to utility, such as power (market dominance) and ignorance (limited information)” (Coulmas, 2009, p. 8). Moreover and as a consequence of this view, the diversity of coexisting writing systems is often overlooked as mere phases of their evolution.<fnref n="13" />

More recently, classifications of scripts have been proposed by Borgwaldt and Joyce (2011), Daniels (2006; 2018), and Gnanadesikan (2017). They agree upon separating the proper alphabets from scripts that note consonants only, “abjads,” and scripts that note vowels with diacritical marks, “abugidas”. This criterion makes distinctions mainly in the notation of phonemic repertoire.

The early alphabets—Greek, Lycian, Lydian, Carian, and Phrygian—are difficult to fit into this classification, or into the functional model of evolution, because “the alphabetic principle has no magic power which influences the destiny of other forms of writing; as Cuneiform Hittite shows, in the development of writing there is no necessary tendency towards an increasingly exact phonetic rendering of speech” (Morpurgo-Davies, 1986, p. 63). Moreover, vowels’ notation appears to differ in any language and within each language.<fnref n="14" />

## 4. The Transmission

From an anthropological point of view, the alphabet is a very nice example of transmitted tradition through space and time.

For centuries the dominant view here was that the imitation, μίμησις, makes the chain of transmission possible.

Now it is proposed that what makes tradition live is not a general purpose of imitation because cultural transmission is partial, selective, and not faithful. “Some traditions live on in spite of this, because they tap into widespread and basic cognitive preferences. These attractive

<footnote n="13">13. This kind of argument is often expressed when no writing standard is found. Nowadays in sociolinguistics studies the concept of “standard” itself is debated: the same reasoning should be useful in graphematic studies.</footnote>

<footnote n="14">14. Emblematic is the case of Carian defective vocalic notation.</footnote>
traditions spread, not by being better retained or more accurately trans-
ferred, but because they are transmitted over and over" (Morin, 2016).
This approach offered the chance to see the predominant role of the al-
phabet in the story of writing; in particular in the first millennium in
Greece, Italy, and Anatolia this kind of annotation has been adapted
every time to each different cultural environments. This point rein-
forces the assumption that transmission means adaptation, and because
"linguistic interpretation of graphic symbols always began in the con-
text of and for a particular language" (Coulmas, 2009), in the adaption
process there must be some visible linguistic reasons.

In our context, thanks to the lexical root structure of Semitic lan-
guages, Semitic alphabets do not need vowel graphemes. Indoeuropean
languages, on the contrary, need vowels' graphemes to mark morphemic
contrasts.

From ancient literature, only two pieces of evidence explain the mode
of transmission.

Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Περὶ τῶν Ἀττικῶν ῥητόρων, II, 52):

Πρῶτον μὲν τὰ ὀνόματα τῶν στοιχείων τῆς φωνῆς ἀναλαμβάνομεν, ἃ
καλεῖται γράμματα· ἔπειτα <τοὺς> τύπους τε αὐτῶν καὶ δυνάμεις<fnref n="15" />

and Quintilianus (Istitutio Oratoria I, 1, 24-5):

Neque enim mihi illud saltern placet, quod fieri in plurimis video, ut lit-
terarum nomina et contextum prius quam formas parvuli discant. obstat hoc
agnitioni earum non intendentibus mox animum ad ipsos ductus, dum an-
tecedentem memoriam sequuntur.<fnref n="16" />

From these two reports it can be observed that teaching was at first
conducted orally, repeating letters' names, called γράμματα, then visu-
ally<fnref n="17" /> writing letters' shapes and, at the same time, orally repeating their

<footnote n="15">15. "At first we learn the names of sounds' elements, which are called letters. Then we learn their shapes and sound values".</footnote>

<footnote n="16">16. "At any rate I am not satisfied with the course, which I note is usually adopted, of teaching small children the names and order of the letters before their shapes. Such a practice makes them slow to recognize the letters, since they do not pay attention to their actual shape, preferring to be guided by what they have already learned by rote."</footnote>

<footnote n="17">17. In a process that now can be defined as "graphomotor". Lambert-Quémart explained very well the different stages of the writing production: "word writing research involves the study of two essential processes, spelling processing and graphomotor processing. Spelling processes refer to the cognitive mechanisms by which words are transcribed into written form while adhering to the orthographic norms of the language. Graphomotor processing is generally defined as the processes involved in letter writing: allographic selection, allograph adaptation in writing support and muscle adjustment of motor programs" (Lambert and Quémart, 2019, p. 9).</footnote>
sounds. As its name, alpha-bet,<fnref n="18" /> implies, it likely that this is the method commonly used in antiquity.<fnref n="19" /> It can be deduced that the underlying cognitive processes, both in the spelling and in the visual and motoric composition, have been responsible for the transmission of alphabetic scripts.

From the cognitive point of view, some recent studies on dysgraphia in alphabetic and logographic writing systems, especially Chinese (Bi, Han, Weekes, and Shu, 2007; Law, 1994; Weekes, Yin, Su, and Chen, 2006), have been used to categorize the mistakes in syllabographic and logographic writing systems in old texts.

For our context, recently this has been done for Hittite and Luwian, Anatolian languages of second millennium BC (Cotticelli-Kurras, Pisaniello, and Rizza, 2018).

## 5. The Spelling Process

Here I will apply this theoretical framework, based upon Caramazza and Miceli (1990),<fnref n="20" /> on contact and then transmission of scripts, which in this case are alphabets. Therein lies the meaning of the title “scripts in contact”: the contact that must occurred in writers of more than one language, undoubtedly including one Semitic and one Indoeuropean language.

The contact must have included the writer as well as the speaker to facilitate language contact/transmission. Halliwell (1945, p. 174) wrote expressly about the speaker's mind as centre of the contact, because “is individuals who respond to and influence one another... Individuals are the dynamic centers of the process of interaction”. Weinreich (1953, p. 6) made the same allusion, which Orioles (2008, p. XVII) highlighted.

The schematic representation of the spelling process reported in Caramazza and Miceli (1990, p. 245), in the case of scripts in contact, must be adapted at the moment of transmission of the alphabet between (at least) two different languages, then different phonologies.

<footnote n="18">18. Unlike the consistent references to ποινικήια / φοινικήια, an adjective that stands for a noun to designate the Phoenician letters, the name ἀλφάθητον is not attested before the Hellenistic period although the adjective ἀναλφάθητος “illiterate” occurs already in the fourth century BC (Jeffery, 1990, p. 40).</footnote>

<footnote n="19">19. Regarding Greek alphabet's learning, Andreas Willi draw the same conclusion: “we may thus assume that Greek pupils already in classical times learned the canonical letter names together with, or even before, the corresponding letter shapes, just as it was the case in later centuries according to Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Dem. 52.2.) and Quintilianus (1.1.24)” (2008: 403).</footnote>

<footnote n="20">20. This paper was the pioneer of the field, as well as Paillard (1990), Rapp and Caramazza (1997), Rapp and Kong (2002), Nottbusch (2008).</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_41.png" /><figcaption>FIGURE 2. The architecture of the spelling process (Caramazza and Miceli, 1990, p. 245)</figcaption></figure>

The first part is the core moment of the transmission that allows the same script to represent another language. This is the moment when the linguistic fit of the script actually proves itself, or, as Florian Coulmas put it best when he wrote, “when, early in the history of writing, graphical marks were given a linguistic interpretation, all writing systems developed a linguistic fit” (2009, p. 12).

The phoneme-grapheme conversion occurs in the reading moment of letters' names.

Since ancient literatures, Quintilianus' *litterarum nomina* and Dionysius' *τὰ ὄνόματα τῶν στοιχείων τῆς φωνῆς*, also placed this action at the beginning of the learning process, the architecture of the spelling process can be considered as a well-corresponding scheme for the ancient model of teaching.

The orthographic output lexicon occurs when the lexical letters' names are memorized in the short-term memory (STM).<fnref n="21" /> These two steps constitute the first moment of the teaching method which appeared in ancient sources as discussed previously.<fnref n="22" />

The grapheme-level representation corresponds with the visually representation of letters' names, as perceived aurally and then memorized in the STM. The letters of the Greek alphabet maintain unaltered

<footnote n="21">21. A storage memory characterized by limited capacity and brief duration. For the main three models of verbal short-term memory see Baddeley (1983; 1986), Besner (1987), and Monsell (1987).</footnote>

<footnote n="22">22. The same learning process seems to have been used for the Hebrew alphabet, as Aaron Demsky put it, “there can be no doubt that learning the linear alphabet, by writing the letters in a standard sequence and repeating their names, is the key to alphabetic literacy” (Demsky, 2015, p. 23).</footnote>
the sequence of the Phoenician signary. This is one of the more solid arguments in favour of the Phoenician origin of the Greek alphabet, which maintain letters' names even if they are meaningless in Greek (Bourgiannis, 2018, p. 238).

In this moment the letters' names have been transmitted as they were in the Semitic language of origin;<fnref n="23" /> then these names have then been taken as loanwords, words adopted from one language and incorporated in another one without any translation.<fnref n="24" />

It is precisely the absence of word meaning that could have disrupted the lexical orthography and then the phonological processing (Houghton and Zorzi, 2003, p. 120)<fnref n="25" /> of the acrophonic value that results. According to a scholion on Dionysius Thrax (Willi, 2008, p. 404), the indeclinability of the letter names was so strongly felt as non-Greek to encourage a purpose to make the letter names easy to learn for children. The feature of alphabetic writing, which in principle provides more than one way by which a word may be spelled or read, here should have played a great role in the transmission.

Returning to the scheme (Fig. 2), the second part, below the grapheme-level representation, represents the moment of the (re)production.

There we can distinguish the oral and written output.

For the written output, it can admit a “graphemic buffer” (Günter and Ludwig, 1994, p. 1084), a failure of the STM that temporarily holds graphemic representations for subsequent spelling processes as allographic conversion. This intermediate step can explain many cases of allography in the first alphabets.

For instance, the Carian alphabet presents a number very high of letters in comparison to other Anatolian alphabets, about 34/35 different

<footnote n="23">23. As consequence of the predominant phonetic interpretation of alphabetic scripts, focus has been on the sounds denoted by the letters, instead of their names. This was the ratio for the absence of translation for the Semitic letter names too, “because the acrophonic principle was so useful, it was out of the question to translate the Semitic names” (Willi, 2008, p. 412). This observation again held the possibility of an oral transmission of the then-called alphabet as a poem or a song, learned by heart and only in Hellenistic times studied by the increased interest in various aspects of language and writing, which arose from the spread of literacy in Greece.</footnote>

<footnote n="24">24. The Phoenician names were indeed only superficially hellenized, adding -α in names ending in a final consonant (ʿalp < ἄλφα, bēt < βῆτα) or simplifying not-admitted consonantal groups (gaml < γάμμα).</footnote>

<footnote n="25">25. George Houghton and Marco Zorzi stated that the final spelling is determined by the combined output of both sound-to-spelling conversion and frequency-sensitive lexical route. In this regard, nonword or lower-frequency words differ in spelling regularity: “it is worth noting that the disruption of lexical orthographic and phonological processing in semantic dementia appears to be tightly linked to the loss of word meaning” (2003).</footnote>
letters (cfr. Adiego Lajara, 2018, p. 12). This singular trait of Carian is indeed the attestation of different local varieties, for which Ignasi Adiego Lajara (2013) illustrated the epigraphic ratio in the unity underlying these local varieties, explaining all the cases of allography, which otherwise would constitute arguments for a notably high number of letters for the Carian alphabet.

For the final written output, the pronunciation of letters' names are analyzed, through the phonological mediation of the writer's language, and stored in a graphemic output lexicon (GOL), a long-term memory for words in which spelling is now acquired.<fnref n="26" />

The GOL determines the written output and implementation in comparison to the script model (S1).

In our case we should assume that phonological mediation produced the different sound value for the same letters in the languages involved. This phenomenon is particularly clear for vowels' signs between Lycian and Greek.

<table><caption>FIGURE 3. Vocalic signs in Phoenician, Greek and Lycian alphabet</caption><thead><tr><th>Phoenician</th><th>Greek</th><th colspan="2">Lycian</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>κ</td><td>A<br>[a]</td><td>△<br>[a]</td><td>W<br>[ā]</td></tr><tr><td></td><td></td><td>↑<br>[e]</td><td>Υ<br>[ē]</td></tr><tr><td>Λ</td><td>E<br>[e]</td><td>E</td><td></td></tr><tr><td></td><td></td><td>[i]</td><td></td></tr></tbody></table>

From Fig. 3 it can be observed that signs for [a], [e] and [i] are morpho-graphically equal, but these similarities in shapes are not reflected nor maintained by the oral output of these languages.<fnref n="27" /> The comparison between Greek adaptation and Lycian adaptation serves as an example of how the phonological mediation of the writer's L1 influences in the spelling process.

For instance, the case of the arrow grapheme, also used in Phrygian and Lydian, has been indicated as [æ] due to the correspondence in Greek: Lyc. ↑ / Gr. α (El[puw]eti, Ἐλπόατις; Erttimeli, Ἀρτέμηλις; Huzeimi,

<footnote n="26">26. Here all learned spellings are stored, ready to be written down. Once the spelling is learned through the phonological mediation and memorized, it is not likely to change. This is the reason why orthographic mistakes are the hardest to not repeat.</footnote>

<footnote n="27">27. Except for [a] signs, which are in all these alphabets equal both in shape and in sound.</footnote>
Όσαίμις); Lyc. ↑ / Gr. ε (Tikeukēprē, Τισευσέμβρα; Xesñtedi, Κεσίνδηλις); Lyc. ↑ / Gr. η (Erttimeli, Ἀρτέμηλις; Xesñtedi, Κεσίνδηλις)<fnref n="28" />.

However, the context of the contact should have been Asia minor, and consequently the phonology to take into consideration should be Anatolian Greek. Claude Brixhe (1987, p. 49) studied the vocalism of Anatolian Greek and highlighted the alternation between α, ε and η as case of hypercorrection due to an “influence de l’école”.

This explanation permits the retention of a more common vocalic value [e] for Lyc. ↑, taking into consideration that the Greek correspondence were easily alternated and that, because ε and ι were often used as if they were interchangeable,<fnref n="29" /> Greek α seemed nearer to [e] than ε itself.<fnref n="30" />

Returning to the spelling process scheme (Fig. 2), the oral output comprises two different inputs: auditory and visual. Recently attention has been focused on the STM in the phonological coding.

Baddeley (1986) proposed a model for the storage of oral material which comprises a phonological storage called phonological short-term store (PSTS) and an articulatory loop.

The scheme in Nickels, Howard, and Best (1997, p. 162) presents Baddeley’s model combined with the two different kinds of input (Fig. 4).

At first we can admit the auditory input, through which the phonological information gains direct access to the phonological short-term store (PSTS) which is responsible for the speech output lexicon (SOL); whereas verbal material through visual input, must be re-coded by the articulatory loop in order to be held in the PSTS.

Once these new alphabets<fnref n="31" /> acquired a certain degree of complexity, they became more and more associated with the language (Coulmas, 2003), and, at this point, the adaptation would involve the addition of new signs for phonemes and/or phones that were still not represented, either with the creation of signs or with modification or implementation of signs that are already part of the alphabet, and this case can be the proof of the links between graphomotor processing and spelling during

<footnote n="28">28. Here the Greek versions of Lycian names are written with the (plausible) prosodic notation, in accordance to Greek prosodic laws. This editorial choice has been made in order to express, with the most cautious attitude, both how Greek wrote Lycian names (for this reason we used Greek alphabet and not IPA characters) and how Greek could have read them, given the fact that stress is highly distinctive and involved in phonology.</footnote>

<footnote n="29">29. For instance Μιννέαν/Μεννέαν, εἰειρῖς/ἰερεῖς, εἰσεν/εἰσιν, πυήσε/ποιήσει, χάρεν/χάριν, τρές/τρίς.</footnote>

<footnote n="30">30. Adiego Lajara (2018) more accurately defines the adaptation of writing systems, using Boisson’s “principe de stabilité” for his analysis.</footnote>

<footnote n="31">31. They can be defined as “new” due to the fact that no writing system ever came into existence independent of a particular language (Damerow, 2006, Gnanadesikan, 2009).</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_42.png" /><figcaption>FIGURE 4. PSTM model for oral spelling (Nickels, Howard, and Best, 1997, p. 162)</figcaption></figure>

the learning of writing.<fnref n="32" /> Moreover, between oral and written spelling there are reciprocal relations: the written language cannot ignore the spoken language, perhaps because of the practices of reading aloud and of dictation. In this continuously renewed relationship, written and oral spelling can influence each other.

## 6. Conclusion

Ignace Gelb, even though he attached great importance to alphabetic script, recognized its autonomy from language and, at the same time, its inadequacy to represent the spoken language:

> Even the alphabet, the most developed form of writing, is full of inconsistencies in the relations between sign and sound. [...] However, the general statement that full writing expresses speech should not be taken to mean that it expresses nothing else but speech. (Gelb, 1963, p. 15)

The aim of this paper was to frame and explain the transmission of the very first alphabetic scripts into the more recent results of cognitive and psycholinguistic studies about word production and recognition, phonological, and written spelling in order to highlight the role of teaching and learning process for the transmission of the alphabet and to support the most recent arguments for an independent origin of non-Greek alphabets.

For the sake of this purpose, the focus has been made on the linguistic counterpart of alphabetic signs.

For the inherent phonetic nature of the alphabet, there must be some linguistic reason for its evolution. Goody (1968) defined writing as “the

<footnote n="32">32. I am referring to the Carian signs β [m.b/m.p], δ [n.d/n.t], and γ [n.k], which could be the graphemic reduplication of, respectively, signs b [b], d [d], k̈ [k] (cf. Adiego Lajara, forthcoming).</footnote>
technology of the intellect,” while the alphabet, for what has been de-
scribed up to now, could be called “the technology of the language” but
always considering that, with the invention of the alphabet, writing did
not lost its autonomy and did not place itself purely at the service of the
spoken language.

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<figure><img src="image_43.png" /></figure>
# Mutable Imagination:
# Typography and Textual Space
# in Print and Digital Layouts

Dalma Véry

*Abstract.* The paper aims to investigate the issue of mediality in terms of typography and textual space. The adopted approach is that of phenomenology, which allows for existential considerations concerning the appearance and perceptual significance of the sign. The idiosyncrasies of digital and print layouts are explored with the help of examples chosen to highlight how the sign as a graphic character can manifest its self-referentiality depending on the medium it is intertwined with. The different directions textual design can take depending on the medium becomes apparent by way of the respective characteristics and possibilities. Divergent modes of experiencing time and emphasis on different facets of self-manifestation mark the graphic layout in virtual and print versions, with the unavoidable phenomenality of the sign invariably becoming apparent and insightful to the viewers.

## Sign, Perception, Interpretation

Whenever an issue of typography or textual space is to be considered, the sense and significance of the sign as such is also reckoned with, even if this does not become explicit. Typography makes it apparent that the sign is not merely a reference to something else, it can refer back to itself in the particularities of its manifestation. Jean-Gérard Lapacherie elaborates the equivocal status of the sign as the typographic character.

Typographic signs [...] are signs in the ancient sense of the word “aliquid pro alique” [one thing which stands for another]. They lack autonomy since they represent the letters of the alphabet, thus corresponding to the phonetic uses of the language. [...] But these signs are not transparent as is a pane of glass which the eye crosses without noticing [...]. In other words, they are not mere referential signs, nor empty ones [...]. Characters are indeed drawings, sometimes beautiful unto themselves. (Lapacherie, 1994, p. 64)

Dalma Véry ID 0000-0002-1653-0132

4 Páskomliget u., 1156 Budapest, Hungary

E-mail: dalmavery@gmail.com

Y. Haralambous (Ed.), *Grapholinguistics in the 21st Century 2020. Proceedings*

Grapholinguistics and Its Applications (ISSN: 2681-8566, e-ISSN: 2534-5192), Vol. 4.

Fluxus Editions, Brest, 2021, pp. 241–257. https://doi.org/10.36824/2020-graf-very

ISBN: 978-2-9570549-6-1, e-ISBN: 978-2-9570549-8-5
Typographic characters can refer back to themselves, i.e., they can become “eminent” (Gadamer, 1993, p. 248) signs in the specificities of their appearance: in the way they are construed as typefaces and in the manner they relate to other graphic shapes within the textual layout. This also means that typographic characters have to be seen before they are read, for they are created as graphic images. “Understanding an image presupposes visual shapes (gestalts) and integrating them to create meaningful signs [...].” (Stöckl, 2009, p. 208) Potentially self-referential graphic relations build the typeface as a collection of shapes associated with the letters of the alphabet, but not restricted to their representation. As graphic images, characters can stand for letters but they can also become self-sufficient phenomena. “Typographic characters are [...] signs which are contiguous to their object. Characters are superposed on letters; they cover them up without making them disappear [...].” (Lapacherie, 1994, p. 65) The typographic character presents itself to perception in its graphic correlations, making referential and self-referential interpretations equally possible.

How do these possibilities of interpretation come about, though? What makes a sign self-referential if it was designed to be referential only? In what does its dual nature lie? To make an attempt at unfurling this issue, the sign has to be considered from a phenomenological perspective, as phenomenology allows one to explore the various existential modalities of the sign itself, functionality being only one of these. As Günter Figal formulates it, “[...] das einzelne Zeichen [läßt] einen Zusammenhang kenntlich werden.”<fnref n="1" /> The correlations inherent in a sign reveal themselves on more than one horizon. The perceptually constituted relations of the sign as an assortment of graphic characteristics is the very modality by way of which it can create associations. “Understanding an image presupposes seeing visual shapes (gestalts) and integrating them to create meaningful signs.” (Stöckl, 2009, p. 208) The sign unfolds itself in its perceptual relations, hence opening up other relations of perception and those of sense in their various existential facets. “Zeichen [...] selbst [bilden] einen Zusammenhang; nur so schließen sie einen Zusammenhang auf.”<fnref n="2" /> Signs orient one in the everyday facets of existence in this way, thus “geben sie die Möglichkeit, sich auf den Zusammenhang, in dem man sich vorher bewegte, zu beziehen.”<fnref n="3" /> Inasmuch as graphic signs refer to something, they also manifest themselves,

<footnote n="1">1. “[...] [t]he single sign allow[s] for a correlation to reveal itself.” (Figal, 2018, p. 246) [When not indicated otherwise, translations of quotations from German-language texts are mine.—D. V.]</footnote>

<footnote n="2">2. “[S]igns [...] *constitute* correlations in themselves, only thus can they *reveal* correlations.” (ibid., p. 246) [Italics mine—D. V.]</footnote>

<footnote n="3">3. “provid[ing] the possibility to *relate* to the context in which one was oriented earlier.” (ibid., p. 247) [Italics in the original.]</footnote>
thus also becoming capable of revealing their own existence. All appearances available to perception can become signs of something and signs of themselves, i.e., phenomena. "Alles, was in der Lebenswelt begegnet, läßt sich selbst als Zeichen nehmen."<fnref n="4" /> Whether the sign manifests itself in its referential or self-referential modality bears significance with respect to its existential character.

In *Being and Time*, Martin Heidegger makes the following distinction pertaining to the existential modalities of the "appearance":

> [T]he expression 'appearance' itself can have a double signification: first, *appearing*, in the sense of announcing itself, as not-showing-itself; and next, that which does the announcing [das Meldende selbst]—that which in its showing-itself indicates something which does not show itself. And finally one can use 'appearing' as a term for the genuine sense of 'phenomenon' as showing-itself. (Heidegger, 2001, p. 53) [Italics in the original—D. V.]

The first two modalities elaborated upon by Heidegger are further exemplified by the symptom and the index respectively. While the symptom *stands for* something other than itself, the index *refers to* something other than itself. This distinction is fundamental when the ontological status of the sign is considered. Symptomatic appearances *standing for* something other than themselves involve a metonymic relation to their referents. One may also say that the sign is part of, or is directly related to the referent itself. Indices are metaphorical in their relation to their referents, not being directly related to them, but associated with them mostly by way of conceptual relations. The sign, as a self-referential graphic character, is neither merely metonymic in its visual appearance, nor only metaphorical in the conceptual relation to its referent—the letter. Its existential modality may also be that of the phenomenon, casting the idea of mere association with something else and thus becoming self-referential in its perceptual relations as an assortment of graphic characteristics. The sign as a phenomenon is symbolic. It refers back to itself *as* it partakes of the appearance of its referent and/or as it is associated with its referent conceptually, but it is not restricted to these functions. Differently put, the sign is symbolic in the way it presents its referent, and the manner of its presentation becomes self-presentation hence. According to Gadamer, “[d]as Symbolische verweist nicht nur auf Bedeutung, sondern läßt sie gegenwärtig sein: es repräsentiert Bedeutung. [...] Das Repräsentierte ist [...] selber da und so, wie es überhaupt da sein kann.”<fnref n="5" /> A national flag is a symbol inasmuch as it partakes of the concept of the nation in the way it displays its visual characteristics.

<footnote n="4">4. "Everything we meet in everyday life can become a sign." (ibid., p. 247).</footnote>

<footnote n="5">5. "[t]he symbolic does not merely refer to meaning, but grants it presence; it represents meaning. [...] The represented is [...] present in itself, and in a way in which it can be present as such." (Gadamer, 1993, p. 46)</footnote>
Ein Symbol also verweist nicht nur, sondern es stellt dar, indem es vertritt.
Vertreten aber heißt, etwas gegenwärtig sein lassen, was nicht anwesend ist.
So vertritt das Symbol, indem es repräsentiert, das heißt, etwas unmittelbar
gegenwärtig sein läßt. [...]. Symbole wie das religiöse Symbol, die Fahne, die
Uniform, sind so sehr stellvertretend für das Verehrte, daß es in ihnen da ist.<fnref n="6" />

(Gadamer, 1993, S. 159)

The typeface is symbolic of a letter of the alphabet. It directs attention
to its own characteristics as a sign insofar as it grants presence to the
letter. Such self-manifestation of the sign as a symbol is not independent
of its mediality.

According to Wilhelm Dilthey, it is not conceptual abstraction the
aesthetic experience necessitates, but the medium itself, which is the
primary experience of all aesthetic reception (Kulcsár-Szabó, 2004,
p. 19). Correspondingly, the futurists and the Dadaists sought to re-
inforce “the physiological perception of typography” (Hausmann and
Cullars, 1998, p. 72). In their works they sought to foreground the phe-
nomenality of the graphic character in this way.

The futurists and especially the Dadaists recognized that reading [...] could only be effected visually. It was in certain typographical pages produced around 1919 that this physio-optical principle was realized for the first time in a coherent fashion. One reason for the invention of the phonetic poem was supported by an optical typography of a new kind. (ibid., p. 72)

Works of such art presented defamiliarizing relations not in terms of
sense relations only, but also in the manner graphic characters presented
themselves on the page. Type was not to be ignored anymore as the
mere transmitter of sense, but was to be reinterpreted as an entity of vi-
sually conceived relations which make sense in themselves as an image.

By refusing congeniality, Tzara 'desyndicalize[s]' typography. He takes
away its conventional significations. What is important is not the codified
meaning of typography, or even the text to be printed, but the type in itself,
as a form, its design, thickness, height, pure graphic signifiers [...].

(Lapacherie, 1994, p. 71)

The possibilities of visual manifestation inherent in a typeface or a sin-
gle graphic character is invariably determined by the modality of the
"medium" it is entwined with. Type in print involves different possi-
bilities of manifestation than type in digital layouts due to the charac-
teristics of the respective media. It is common to both modes of visual

<footnote n="6">6. "The symbol hence does not only refer to, but also presents something else, inasmuch as it stands for it. Standing for something, in turn, means granting presence to something that is absent. In this way does the symbol stand for something, when it represents it, that is, it grants immediate presence to this thing. [...] Symbols, such as the religious symbol, the flag, the uniform stand for the object of reverence so much so that it is present in them."</footnote>
design, however, that the graphic character is arranged, situated and as-
sociated with other characters within a shared, jointly shaped textual
space. “The physical fact of the text, with its spatial appearance on the
page, requires visual apprehension: a text can be seen, must be seen, in
a process which is essentially different from the perception of speech”
(Bernhardt, 1986, p. 66). The space of writing which we orient ourselves
in throughout the process of reading is the visual surface of textual space
itself. Dieter Breuer elaborates the spatial or visual facet of the literary
text as encompassing all the following relations:

Schriftart, Schriftgrad, Buchstabenabstand, Mittel der Wortabtrennung, Zeichensetzung in engerem Sinne, Zeilenabstand, Zeilenanordnung (Zeilenblock, Strophenschemata), Seitenspiegel, farbliche Mittel, Randleisten, Vignetten, Papierart, Papierfaltung, Einbandart u. ä. Visuelles Wirkmittel im engeren Sinne ist das sogennante ‘Bild’ [...].<fnref n="7" /> (Breuer, 1990, S. 124)

The image of graphic space created by characters in a layout is the space
of the text itself. Although a work of literature may appear in various
editions with different typography, typesetting, page size and binding,
it invariably creates a textual space of letters, lines and punctuation
marks (or the lack of the latter), the visual paths of which the reader
explores so as to uncover the diverse strains of speech, to trace the links
of contextual correlations, and to discover the various potential threads
of sense. The space of the text can thus be marked by its conspicuous,
written locations of sense as it is shaped by textual relations and terrains
in which the interpretive process orients the reader visually. It is not by
chance that one cannot point out a particular location of the text easily
if one is not familiar with its layout, i.e., with the typesetting of the text
presented in a specific edition. A different layout exposes the textual
space of the work itself differently from that we are familiar with, so that
we have to adapt our perception to this difference of textual space in or-
der to find the specific location we are searching for. Our knowledge of
textual space develops throughout the process of (re)reading and yields
a map of textual paths and locations which (re)orient us visually within
the fabric of sign and sense. Günter Figal elaborates on this aspect of
the literary work of art in the following way:

> Daß Bücher Orte sind, wird nicht zuletzt deutlich, wenn man, eine Stelle
> in einem literarischen Werk meinend, auf das Buch weist: Hier steht es. [...]
> Mit der Ausgabe, auf die man sich bezieht [...] hat [man] sich für sie und ihre
> Einrichtung des Werkes entschieden, weil sie das Werk auf eine bestimmte
> Weise sich zeigen läßt. [...]

<footnote n="7">7. “Font type, font size, letter spacing, segmentation, punctuation in a narrow sense, spacing of lines, arrangement of lines (block of lines, strophe schemes), page size, colouring devices, margins, book covers, paper type, manner of folding, binding, etc. Visual devices in the narrow sense comprise the so-called ‘image’ [...].”</footnote>
Die phänomenalen Räume, die Kunstwerke sich zeigen lassen, sind im allgemeinen mehrfach bestimmt: als optische, akustische und hermeneutische Räume [...]. [...] [L]etztlich hat jedes Kunstwerk seinen eigenen Raum [...]. Das dieser Raum zum Kunstwerk selbst gehört, läßt vermuten, daß ein Kunstwerk nicht nur einen Raum einräumt, sondern selbst in sich räumlich ist.<fnref n="8" />

(Figal, 2010, S. 249–250)

As the work of art manifests itself in its genuine self-referentiality, the graphic character is also awarded the possibility to assert its phenomenality. However, the phenomenality of the graphic character is not restricted to art. Digitally conceived and functional layouts may also reveal that the typographic character, as an assortment of graphic relations, bears significance in its own appearance. Printed and digital surfaces manifest the self-referentiality of the sign in different modalities and manners, which underscores the versatility of their perceptual options in making sense. Digital layouts offer the possibility for characters to become variable within the same design, besides allowing for motion and interactivity within a virtual space of three dimensions. Without these options, digital design can only be the mere reproduction of print layouts on a screen. In print, characters are fixed within the design, their space is non-virtual and not interactive in a perceptual manner. The layout in print invests the page with an order of conceptual irregularities inherent in framed, fixed groups of signs. The reader is hence called upon by the design to unfurl its variability and its possible correlations without facilitating a virtually interactive relation or the changing appearance of graphic characters. In other words, readers must adapt themselves to a static design in an unchangeable frame, so that they may surpass their preconceived ideas and familiar conceptions, gaining hitherto unexperienced insight thereby. The printed page rules, and by ruling shapes the perception and the thinking of the reader, who must make an effort at finding sense in a layout that questions them, but provides no conclusive answer. Digital layouts display their genuine characteristics inasmuch as they allow the readers themselves to shape the design, to change it and interact with it, gaining insight by way of their own modifications of type in a virtually conceived textual space. In terms of digital layouts, then, readers are urged to put questions, but the answers also have to be provided by them in the course of their di-

<footnote n="8">8. “Not least does it become clear that books are locations when one, referring to a textual location in a literary work, points at the book: Here it is. [...] With the edition one opts for [...], [one] has already decided in favour of it and its layout of the work, since it allows for the self-manifestation of the work in a specific manner [...].</footnote>

<footnote>The phenomenal spaces exposed by works of art are generally determined in multiple ways: they are both visual, acoustic, and hermeneutic spaces [...]. [...] [A]fter all, every work of art has its own space. [...] That this space belongs to the work of art itself instigates the supposition that a work of art does not only organize space, but is in itself spatial.”</footnote>
алogue with virtual type. Thus, while print design requires a mutable
imagination for making sense of it, digital layouts necessitate a mutable
imagination for virtual perception. In the coming two sections, the pa-
per aims to explore the diverse facets and manners the different kinds of
layouts may manifest themselves in in terms of typography and textual
space, and the significance this may bear on the principles of perception.

Transition, Motion, Interaction

The idiosyncratic facets of digital typography and textual space unfold
themselves in terms of virtual graphetics. Virtual graphetics can be con-
sidered visual graphetics determined by the digital medium it is en-
twined with. "Visual graphetics investigates the graphic design features
of written signs, including the geometric shapes of which they are com-
posed [...]" (Coulmas, 2006, p. 177). Virtual graphetics encompasses the
digitally available design options inherent in the possibilities unfurled
by visual graphetics. It involves size, scaling and orientation options of
type unavailable in print design, as the latter is restricted to the static
representation of the three dimensions. Accordingly, virtual typogra-
phy not only allows for, but also requires more flexible and dynami-
cally adjustable typefaces, as these must adapt themselves to the volatil-
ity of the screen environment. Screen-based communication "encom-
passes computer screens and television screens, but also less obvious
devices such as mobile telephones, personal digital assistants (PDAs)
and car navigation systems" (Hillner, 2009, p. 36). Facilitating many
different purposes and available in various sizes, the digital screen ne-
cessitates the virtual (re)presentation of movement, which is also one
of the signalling features of virtual typography and the corresponding
textual space. The virtual (re)presentation of movement allows for the
creative realization of motion typography and transitional typography.
While motion typography constitutes moving type, transitional typog-
raphy presents gradually changing characters.<fnref n="9" /> As we shall see, in most
cases, transitional typography also involves movement, thus these two
aspects will be considered jointly.

The television title sequence *Profile*, created by the Why Not Asso-
ciates design group<fnref n="10" /> exemplifies how motion and transitional typogra-
phy can be fused on the screen. “The animation, produced for BBC4
in 2002, uses the rotary motion of typographic fragments to achieve
its visually intriguing effect” (ibid., p. 107). Various typographic frag-
ments rotate while moving on the screen and via this rotational motion

<footnote n="9">9. This distinction is drawn by Matthias Hillner (2009, p. 36).</footnote>

<footnote n="10">10. This example is described and illustrated by Matthias Hillner (ibid., pp. 106–107).</footnote>
assemble themselves into legible characters constituting the title “Pro-
file” itself. Thus, while rotating, the fragments gradually become type.
The pieces move, and while moving, transition into something they si-
multaneously are and are not. In this case, it is not an artistic instal-
lation which makes typography conspicuous by nature of its inherent
self-referentiality, but a commercial design which calls attention to the
mediality of type by way of motion and transition. Differently put, the
typographic elements become capable of referring back to themselves
solely on account of the digitally construed characteristics of their vir-
tual design. Graphic characters can also undergo changes in their ap-
pearance however, if their location is fixed on the screen. Even with-
out movement within its own textual space, transitional type allows for
change in the way it manifests itself. All the more so, as transition may
be the very aesthetic principle which allows for a typeface to become
self-referential. Tomi Vollauschek and the FL@33 design agency cre-
ated an animated typeface called *Unfolded* in 1999, which constitutes vir-
tually animated transition from geometrical shapes into graphic charac-
ters and the other way round. “The type evolves from diamond-shaped
graphic elements which virtually unfold into squares, then into lines,
and finally into letter shapes. The end result is a simple pixel font”
(Hillner, 2009, p. 41). This pixel font recedes back into the geometrical
shapes it unfurled from as soon as it manifests itself in its entirety.<fnref n="11" /> The
self-referentiality of *Unfolded* is also rooted in a virtual design principle
of the digital medium itself indeed. The typeface constitutes the tran-
sition from non-typographical shapes into graphic characters, revealing
and revelling in the versatility and mutability of its appearance.

Besides transition and motion, digital type also allows for virtual in-
teraction with the viewers, thus enabling them to shape textual space on
the screen in an idiosyncratic, continuously changing manner.

‘The whole’ remains unchanged when people look at static typography
because the relationship between the typographic elements remains static.
With virtual typography, ‘the whole’ changes constantly. The need for the
continuous reinterpretation of the changing information requires the viewer
to constantly adjust the mode of perception. (ibid., pp. 64–65)

As viewers are called upon to adjust their mode of perception to the
changing relations of textual space and the varying appearance of type-
faces, the peculiar mediality of typography in screen design also be-
comes noticeable. John Maeda and his Aesthetics & Computation Group
were among the first to seek the possibilities of virtual typography in
the light of programming, which also allowed for exploring potential

<footnote n="11">11. To view the animation, visit the homepage of FL@33 at https://www flat33.com/
and navigate to AAT—Animated, Acoustic Typefaces within the Typography cate-
gory.</footnote>
interaction with the screen. Maeda's work entitled *Flying Letters* (1996) offers the viewer the chance to create diverse, but always temporary typographic arrangements in nine possible layouts on the computer screen by way of moving the cursor (Maeda, 1996). In this manner, the virtually conceived textual space of graphic characters is in continuous evolution, shaped by the viewers themselves and thus explored. Type becomes a mutable phenomenon, revealing its versatile mediality on the digital screen, and manifesting its capability to bend the relations of its ever-transforming space. Viewers shape the spaces of the text by moving the cursor, but they also become entangled in the spaces they create thereby. This dynamic interaction yields the self-referentiality of virtual type in Maeda's work. The graphic characters assume volatile appearance and exhibit changeable spatial relations simultaneously, enabling the screen environment to demonstrate the perceptual uniqueness of type that surfaces in a textual space of an essentially undefinable order. Hence does Maeda's work offer the aesthetic experience of graphic characters on the screen.

<figure><img src="image_44.png" /></figure>

Flying Letters Copyright © 1996 John Maeda, DIGITALOUGUE Co., Ltd.

<caption>FIGURE 1. Nine screenshots from Flying Letters by John Maeda (A video demonstration of interacting with *Flying Letters* was retrieved from https://vimeo.com/37550568 on 29 July 2020).</caption>
The interactive exploration of the three dimensions in terms of the virtual space of the text is yet another mode of experience only the digital surface of the screen can offer the viewers. David Small's 1999 *Talmud Project* exposes these spatial dimensions of texts' virtual terrains by a software which allows the viewer to spatially relate passages from the Torah and the Talmud in English and French translations.<fnref n="12" /> “The blocks of text can be arranged interactively to shape walls through which the reader can navigate. Different text connections can be made according to the reader's preference” (Hillner, 2009, p. 44). The introduction of sacral texts to the digital screen reveals the potential for incorporating further sense relations into their interpretation by construing additional perceptual orders with the help of the three virtual dimensions. In such a digital environment, readers can establish virtual terrains of the text which may bear potential meaning and significance only to them. In this manner, it is not only the sacredness of the holy text which calls attention to itself, but also the spatial dimensions in which its passages can be arranged to reveal meaningful relations hitherto unthought of. Textual space refers back to itself by way of its virtual extension to three dimensions within the framework of a digital design.

Virtual type demonstrates the perceptual versatility inherent in typographic layouts designed for the screen. Transitional and motion type, interactivity and the changeable dimensions of textual space offer design options with inherent mutability and variability. The graphic character, thus, manifest itself as a phenomenon on account of the unique medial characteristics it exposes. Screen design demonstrates that the medium is inseparable from the sign and that the typeface does not merely stand for something else, but can also stand for itself, necessitating the viewers' mutable imagination to live up to the volatility of its perceptual relations.

## Structure, Gesture, Dialogue

The layout of the printed page does not offer the virtual variability of type and textual space in the manner digital surfaces do, and interacts with the reader differently than virtual design does. Type in print is static from a perceptual point of view, but this also allows for the creation of visual structures and textures which can be explored by the reader *over time*. The time the interpretation of the perceptual and sense relations involved in a piece of print design takes is not determined by the time of motion, but by the sensibility of readers. As such, type in

<footnote n="12">12. The City. Tian' Thesis Project. Spring 2013. Parsons MFA Design and Technology. Retrieved from https://tianxiethesis.wordpress.com/2013/03/06/reference-talmud-project/ on 29 July 2020.</footnote>
print can never be confined to the (re)presentation of motion as is of-
ten the case with transitional and motion typography. Print design is
a static perceptual structure manifesting its order in a fixed frame. Ac-
cordingly, it can refer back to itself by virtue of its statically conspicuous
typographical arrangements and the diverse inherent relations of sense.
Differently put, it is in the perceptual relations between graphic char-
acters and the potential interpretations embedded into these relations
that the self-referential character of typography manifests itself in print.
Entwined with the print medium, type can reveal what else it might be
besides a referential sign over the time of interpreting its fixed percep-
tional relations on the page. The digital screen can and must overstep
the confines of the printed page in order to reveal the essential character
of virtual typography, and its imaginative complexity reveals facets dif-
ferent from the ones characteristic of fixed, print design layouts. While
print design does not aspire to become virtual, digital layouts are not
merely virtual recreations of printed pages. As pointed out before, in art,
the particular manner in which typography draws attention to its visual
idiosyncrasies can become apparent, for the sign is not restricted to its
referential status. Literature as poetry allows for the self-manifestation
of typographic specificities both in verse and in prose. Visual poetry can
create shapes of words in verse, but it is not confined to picture poems.
The textual space of the printed novel may also involve visual cues and
arrays which divert attention to the layout, to type and to thus, to the
page itself. The visual ordering of text in a layout of prose thus may also
allow for print to become a phenomenon.

In Laurence Sterne's novel entitled *Tristram Shandy* (1760-1767), the placement of typographic characters within a spread and the orders of textual space allow for the sign to call attention to itself as a written symbol. By way of the self-referential state of specific signs, the space of the text can engage the reader in a different manner from a layout that is designed merely for the sake of making a text accessible. Sterne "saw that [the] printed page implied a visual rhetoric" (Holtz, 1970, p. 81). The printed page addresses the reader with its visually self-referential cues of typography, its spatial arrangements of text and its non-textual elements. In Sterne's work, one "is confronted with pages that are black, or mottled, or blank, and is constantly jerked to attention by a pointing finger [...]" (Iser, 2008, p. 63). Apart from these visual phenomena and self-referential cues, typographic markers such as varying numbers of asterisks, dashes of diverse length, brackets of diverse types and sizes, changes in typeface, and non-textual elements such as "wriggly lines" (Holtz, 1970, p. 84) of different kinds appear on the spreads of the book. According to William V. Holtz, "in the word *gesture* we seem to come closest to understanding the visual and kinaesthetic effect of Sterne's dash and some of his other devices" (ibid., p. 84) [Italics in the original— D. V.]. In fact, all visual constructions in *Tristram Shandy* serve as gestures
to call attention to unconventional horizons of sense, and, simultane-
ously, refer back to themselves as the visual manifestations which give
rise to these horizons. Sterne weaves symbols into the text while creat-
ing the text itself as a symbol, and thus allows for the page and for type
to be foregrounded in its printed characteristics.

The design of print layouts is oriented on the spread when books are
concerned, and the significance of the spread manifests itself in terms of
typography and textual space. The sections entitled "Slawkenbergius's
Tale" and "Excommunicatio" manifest peculiar layouts in the sense that
they are printed in Latin and English versions on facing pages. In this
way, the pages seem to mirror each other in terms of the narrative,
but in a typographical sense, they constitute divergent sets of graphic
characters and paragraphs of different lengths. In addition, "Slawken-
bergius's Tale"—the curious story of a gentleman with an enormous
nose—renders the Latin version of the text in italics, while the corre-
sponding English "translation" is presented to the reader in Roman type.
Such an unconventional textual order calls attention to the significance
of typographical self-manifestations in the course of interpreting the
narrative. The reader oscillates between the facing pages, tracing re-
lations and potential differences of sense between the two versions on
the basis of typographical cues and arrangements of the layout. The
Latin version of the religious excommunication in the eleventh chapter
of Book 2 is not rendered in italics, but manifests conspicuous leading,
as recurring characters and syllables are interpolated between the lines,
above specific words. In addition, the passages in English attributed to
the characters themselves are not rendered on the facing pages in Latin.
Omitting unholy remarks and prosaic digressions, the reader must face
blanks in the Latin version text of the excommunication, which is an
undeniable source of Shandean humour.

In both of the mentioned sections, therefore, the reader has to make
sense of the idiosyncrasies of type and textual space to be able to inter-
pret the narrative. Spreads frame the spatial orders of the facing pages,
confining the oscillatory movement of perception and interpretation to
a visually fixed field of print. It is no wonder thus, that the Gutenberg
Project version—rendering the text in HTML format—provides lengthy
explanations for changes in layout as compared to the print version.
In this HTML layout, character speech in English is not “mirrored” by
blanks in the Latin version of the excommunication, neither is it pre-
served within the boundaries of the page. The narration and utterances
of characters are extended typographically over the entire length of the
screen, overreaching the “parallel columns”<fnref n="13" /> which replace the facing

<footnote n="13">13. The Project Gutenberg EBook of *The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman*, by Laurence Sterne. Retrieved from https://www.gutenberg.org/files/39270/39270-h/39270-h.htm on 12 August 2020.</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_45.png" /><figcaption>FIGURE 2. The first spread of the “Excommunicatio” (Sterne, 1996, pp. 118–119)</figcaption></figure>

pages. Blanks in the Latin text standing for the untranslated passages within the print layout and the framing role of spreads disappear, while the irregular leading and the columns replacing the facing pages create new, narratively unaccountable blanks in the English HTML version layout. The disruption of the printed order illuminates the significance of the spread: it orients the reader within the textual space of the print layout, framing two pages, but also allowing for irregularities in typesetting and typography to manifest themselves in their self-referentiality by localizing them for the eye within a raster grid spanning an area of equal proportions. This also makes it apparent once again that print type and textual space cannot and do not seek to manifest themselves in a manner of perceptual mutability, like virtual design does. The print layout calls upon readers to create and recreate complex associative relations within the statically perceptual order of print. In this ever-developing process of interpretation, the typeface is not only a sign but also a phenomenon, a perceptual location of self-reference yielding invisible associations that extend and transform imaginative horizons in many possible directions.
The same principle of visual orientation winds through Sterne's work, sometimes on a smaller scale, but with all the more frequent manifestations. Besides the asterisks, dashes and brackets referred to before, Gothic type also surfaces in the text of *Tristram Shandy*. This typeface calls attention to itself and its graphic characteristics as it appears five times within a spread of a marriage contract, and hence recalls the ancient word of the law in mockingly associative terms. Small capitals of more than two lines also segment several pages within the book, often highlighting some seemingly insignificant thought, banality, or emphasizing a particular, potentially recurring verbal formulation. In this way, small capitals not only give relevance to the inconsequential and the erratic, as food for thought, but also manifest the importance of typographic phenomena in the order of the textual structure.

The visual idiosyncrasies of textual space reach beyond the possibilities of typography in *Tristram Shandy*, however, when “the impulse toward gesture surges beyond the bounds of punctuation” (Holtz, 1970, p. 85). The aforementioned “wriggly lines” illustrate the manners of conscious digression in Tristram’s narrative. Elsewhere, corporal Trim’s flourish made with his stick is meant to demonstrate the freedom of bachelorhood.

The pointing finger is yet another non-textual element besides the “wriggly lines” (and the linear line on the facing page below) that directs attention to the spatiality of the graphic structure merely by way of its appearance. Non-textual elements establish perceptually orienting and implicitly associative relations with the text, thus foregrounding the framing page in itself. That is, these elements offer the insight that reading occurs in terms of the visual as such and its various markers like the framing page and the spread. Non-textual elements also refer back to the sense and significance of their own visual appearance and the relations they create with and within the page, shedding light to the way in which a *typographic* layout can incorporate “merely” *graphic* shapes into its design. The interaction of the textual and the non-textual in *Tristram Shandy* reveals how the statically complex perceptual relations of a fixed print design create multiple, mutable relations and horizons of sense. Thus, already in the second half of the 18th century, Laurence Sterne recognized the possibilities inherent in the print medium. Type and textual space in Sterne’s terms are not mere tools to present narrative and its relations of sense, but bear significance in the way they are arranged, ordered and appear on the page. In this way do they become self-referential symbols of hitherto unimagined possibilities of insight.

“Whether printed or running across the screen, writing itself possesses a visual dimension, which the German term *Schriftbild* aptly captures” (Stöckl, 2009, p. 208). Stöckls formulation highlights that the written character has a visual facet, which allows for the sign to become a phenomenon in some typesetting designs and is merely referential in
<figure><img src="image_46.png" /><figcaption>FIGURE 3. The paths of narrative in Tristram Shandy (Sterne, 1996, pp. 332–333)</figcaption></figure>

others. Even if the employed typefaces and the textual space of a par-
ticular layout are restricted to the mere referentiality of the sign, the
potential is always inherent in them to become self-referential and thus
to manifest their phenomenal character. The digital screen and print
layouts present different directions in foregrounding the visual facet of
typography and textual space. The digital screen relies on virtually con-
struable transition and movement to reveal how the appearance of the
graphic character is intertwined with its medium, while print design can
only resort to a fixed perceptual order, which does not expose time in
the way it appears, but in the way it unfurls the potentially inherent re-
lations of sense and horizons of interpretation. Thus, the fixed percep-
tional order of print design is unique in the way it calls upon the reader
to make perceptual associations and associations of sense within the
static layout of shapes and graphic characters. Whichever mode of me-
diality the viewers or readers encounter, it is invariably the sign which
orients them in its characteristic mode of appearance and by its inter-
action with the surface of the particular layout. "Signs mark the texture
in diverse respects, in varied thickness and make thus clear the interrelatedness of motifs and connections. [...] The thickness of the texture is structured by the sign; the texture is *articulated*, so that one can traverse it in a particular manner" (Figal, 2010, p. 248) [italics in the original—D.V.].

## References

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— (n.d.). "The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. The Project Gutenberg EBook." URL: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/39270/39270-h/39270-h.htm (visited on 12 August 2020).

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<figure><img src="image_47.png" /></figure>
# Graphemic and Graphetic Methods
in Speculative Fiction

Yannis Haralambous · Frédéric Landragin · Kenichi Handa

*Abstract.* In this paper we define a model of literary prose text, in terms of an ontology: concepts, relations and rules. This ontology contains both concepts related to abstract linguistic entities and to material/geometric notions. Rules are included in order to modelize the conventions of orthotypographic tradition. Once the model established, we define "graphemic and graphetic methods" as transgressions to these rules and investigate the use of such methods in speculative fiction texts, based on a 20th-21st c. international corpus. We also investigate, whenever possible, to what extent and in what way graphemic and graphetic methods have been translated into and/or adapted to other languages.

## 1. Introduction

According to Nina Nørgaard (2009, p. 141) "there is a general tendency in literary criticism to disregard the semiotic potential of typography in literature by focusing monomodally on word-meaning only". This is even more true when meaning is created not only by the traditional methods of typography and layout, but also by transgressing the underlying rules. Breaking rules governing book design, whether these are written (in specialized manuals) or unwritten (observed in corpora), provides authors with a virtually unlimited potential of methods (graphemic or graphetic) and meaning layers to choose from.

Yannis Haralambous ID 0000-0003-1443-6115

Département Informatique, IMT Atlantique & UMR CNRS 6285 Lab-STICC,
Technopôle Brest-Iroise, CS 83818 29238 Brest Cedex 3, France

E-mail: yannis.haralambous@imt-atlantique.fr

Frédéric Landragin ID 0000-0002-0030-7200

CNRS, Lattice laboratory, ENS, PSL Research University, Sorbonne Nouvelle University, France

E-mail: frederic.landragin@ens.psl.eu

Kenichi Handa ID 0000-0002-2717-8971

Cyber Physical Security Research Center National Institute of Advanced Industrial
Science and Technology (AIST), Tsukuba, Japan

E-mail: handa.kenichi@aist.go.jp

Y. Haralambous (Ed.), *Grapholinguistics in the 21st Century 2020. Proceedings*

Grapholinguistics and Its Applications (ISSN: 2681-8566, e-ISSN: 2534-5192), Vol. 4.

Fluxus Editions, Brest, 2021, pp. 259–359. https://doi.org/10.36824/2020-graf-hara

ISBN: 978-2-9570549-6-1, e-ISBN: 978-2-9570549-8-5
We will study these methods and the intentions behind them. In order to do so, we will not turn to general literature (the cases being infrequent), but rather to science fiction, fantasy, and unclassifiable novels which have in common that they leave a large part to the imagination. These works of fiction can be grouped under the term "literature of the imagination," or "speculative fiction," a term we will use in this article. We will thus cite novels and authors from the golden age of American science fiction, authors who are now classics in the field of fantasy, as well as authors from the new generation of speculative fiction. The works cited are dear to us: in parallel to our research, all three of us are great readers of speculative fiction, and it is even a field in which some of us have already published (Landragin, 2015; 2018; 2020a,b,c; Landragin and Lehoucq, 2019; Landragin, Steyer, and Lehoucq, 2017; Landragin, Lehoucq, Robinson, and Steyer, 2019). We feel an immense fascination and respect for these works, for their authors, and for the imagination they have shown. Therefore, we will pay close attention to their graphic innovations, by using a descriptive and explanatory approach. We will thus focus on the graphemic and graphetic methods used by the authors we have selected in our corpus of study. We will describe in detail the characteristics of these methods, and will propose a formal model for them, which will enrich the existing models based on "standard" text.

Our longer-term objective is to better understand, better characterize, and increase awareness of this exceptional corpus produced by speculative fiction. In short, our starting point was initially the writing systems invented by science fiction authors and scientists to communicate with aliens, assuming that they exist and are able to understand our messages. Imagining communication with an alien is indeed an effective way to become aware of the difficulties posed by language and writing. It is well known that scientists have already sent messages to aliens—if they exist, of course (Oberhaus, 2019). There are the famous examples of the Pioneer plaques, the Voyager golden records, the Arecibo message, then the Eupatoria messages ("Cosmic Call 1" in 1999 and "Cosmic Call 2" in 2003) with the related research on a universal language that can be understood by everyone—aliens included, of course. This research led to *LinCos*, that is the *lingua cosmica*, and efforts are currently being made to develop a better *LinCos*. The aim is to communicate with extraterrestrial intelligence, and an important point here is that speculative fiction writers have imagined a wide variety of communication situations, long before the real scientific attempts. It is the study of these various situations that led us to constitute our corpus of study.

Before detailing this corpus (which will be the main subject of this article), let us take advantage of this introduction to take a look at some famous speculative fiction novels dealing with communication and language—the rest of the article will then focus on grapholinguistic aspects. First of all, we can cite *The Embedding* (1973) by Ian Watson (1943–) and *To-***
tal Eclipse (1974) by John Brunner (1934–1995), two examples among others illustrating Noam Chomsky’s ideas. According to Chomsky (1965), we are born with the ability to handle language, and therefore certain structures should be innate. Chomsky focused on syntax, but many writers of speculative fiction have understood the main idea, and applied it, not only to syntax, but in fact to all aspects of language, and not only to humans, but also to aliens (Barnes, 1974; Bould, 2009; Meyers, 1980; Watson, 1975; Westfahl, 1993). Another theory that proved highly influential in speculative fiction is the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, namely that the structure of a language affects its speakers’ world-view or cognition, and that people’s perceptions are thus relative to their spoken language. We call Edward Sapir’s and Benjamin Lee Whorf’s theory *linguistic relativism*. According to this theory, our language influences the way we perceive the world (e.g., time or colors). For many speculative fiction writers, the temptation to exceed the limits of the original idea was too strong. Thus, they moved easily from the weak hypothesis to the strong hypothesis, i.e., to *linguistic determinism*, according to which our language determines even our mental structures. Consequently, these mental structures are changed when we learn a second or third language. Linguistic determinism is an interesting idea, with many potential applications. In *The Languages of Pao* (1958) by Jack Vance (1916–2013), the rulers of a society that is losing a war force the population to change its language. The new language, more aggressive, especially in its morphology, is intended to encourage a reversal of the situation. In *Babel-17* (1966) by Samuel Delany (1942–), a civilization receives coded messages from extraterrestrials. But is it really a code? It is in fact a language, which, according to linguistic determinism, transforms those who learn it and turns them into traitors—a quite innovative version of the alien invasion trope. This way of forcing people to learn a language in order to have them think in a certain way is a facet of totalitarianism. This is the message of *Nineteen Eighty-Four* (1949) by George Orwell (1903–1950), and, long before that, of *We* (1924) by the Russian author Eugene Zamiatin (1884–1937), which describes a society where people have to think collectively and are therefore forbidden to use the first person singular, and may refer to themselves only in the plural form.

Closer to our concerns about the ways in which speculative fiction
writers have played with words and metatextual aspects, let us take three
final examples, which we will not describe in our article, but which are
part of prior and necessary common knowledge for the present study.
Among the most notorious fantasy texts are Tolkien’s novels, in which
a fictional family of languages, “Elvish languages,” are described. The
French author Frédéric Werst (1970–) went even a step further and in-
vented *fictional bilinguism*, in his *Ward* novels (2011, 2014), in which left-
hand pages are written in the Wardwesân language, which he imag-
ined in Tolkien’s way, and right-hand pages are their translations into
French, easier to read for readers not knowledgeable of the fictive lan-
guage. The second example, which is also an extreme case, is *Book from
the Ground* (2014) by Xu Bing (1955-). The entire novel is written us-
ing pictograms. There is no use translating, as we are very close to the
long-sought *universal writing system*—even though it is universal for hu-
mans rather than for aliens. Universality is a vast question. It should
be noted that in France, research on universal language (as well as on
the origin of languages) was banned as early as 1866, as stated in the So-
ciété Linguistique de Paris’s founding statutes (Gauthier, 2008, p. 2)—
new research has been happening for several decades now, but it is much
more multidisciplinary in its approach and much more careful, too. The
third example is *Arrival* (2016), a movie by Denis Villeneuve based on
the novella *Story of your Life* (1998), by Ted Chiang (1967-). The linguist
Jessica Coon (keynote speaker at the *Grapholinguistics in the 21st Century con-
ference*) was the linguistic advisor for this great movie. Let us just note
that the film brilliantly deals with the ideas of Chomsky (whose portrait
can also be seen in the main character’s office), with the Sapir-Whorf
thesis (at its extreme interpretation, otherwise nothing would happen
to Louise Banks) and, in fact, with everything that can turn speculative
fiction into linguistic speculative fiction—or “linguistic fiction”.

Now that we have given the general context of our corpus of study,
let us move to specifically grapholinguistic aspects. We will begin by
describing in detail a model which takes into account both graphemic
and graphetic aspects (Section 2).

2. A Model of Literary Text Using an Ontology and Rules

The goal of this paper is to list and classify graphemic and graphetic
methods encountered in speculative fiction. We have chosen this spe-
cific genre because of its inherent innovative character that reflects on
various linguistic strata, including graphemics and graphetics.

As we are looking for *nonstandard* methods and as we aim to classify
them, we first need to provide a model of literary text in its *normality*,
and more specifically of the novel or short story genre, as these are the
most representative in the speculative fiction sphere (i.e., we will not
deal with poetry, theater, etc.).

Such a model should include all components of literary text, from its
smallest element to its largest superstructure (a book, a book series),
considered both as abstract linguistic entities and as visual/material en-
tities.

It seems that a formal ontology with TEI semantics is in the works
(Ciotti and Tomasi, 2016-2017), but not yet available. But even if it ex-
isted it would not be suitable for our purposes because, although TEI
covers both abstract linguistic elements (morpheme, word, sentence,
etc.) and visual elements (glyph, line, block, etc.), it provides them
not as *standard components of the book*, but rather as special cases: glyphs
and blocks are defined for the representation of primary sources (manuscripts, etc.) (TEI Consortium, 2020, §11.4–5) and linguistic elements are defined for linguistic annotation of corpora (ibid., §15.4).

Furthermore, an ontology is necessary for formalizing the relations between various components of literary text. These relations are essential features of its structure: in languages having the notion of word, whether straight or curved or taking strange shapes, a “line” is always an ordered collection of “words” (with potentially a “word segment” at its beginning and/or end, because of word hyphenation).

In order to model the “standard” behavior of the text’s components in such a way that nonstandard methods can be identified, described and classified through it, we will use *rules*: for every relation between concepts we will define attributes (numeric values or geometric dimensions) and we will state the basic orthotypographical “rules,” that is the standard logical and/or visual properties of the text.

Once the rules are given, describing a nonstandard graphemic/graphetic method amounts to listing the rules that are broken, as well as the narrative intention of the method.

Rules also allow us to predict potential graphemic/graphetic methods not yet encountered.

In the graphical representation of our ontology (Fig. 1), we use the left side for abstract linguistic elements (grapheme, morpheme, etc.) and the right side for visual/material elements (graph, word segment, word, etc.). As some of these elements are homonymous, to avoid confusion we will add a γ prefix in front of visual/material elements, e.g., “γ-word” stands for graphical word while “word” stands for the linguistic notion of word (that occurs in some writing systems).

In the following we will describe our literary text ontology starting with its concepts, its relations and the corresponding rules. In Fig. 1 we have used the following convention:

- bold arrows represent “is-part-of” (meronymy) relations: the element at the destination of the arrow contains an ordered collection of elements at the origin of the arrow;

- all “is-part-of” relations are labeled by circled numbers, which will be used in the description of relations and rules;

- arrows marked by the letter “R” are representation or reification relations, e.g., a graph represents a basic shape, which represents a grapheme, etc.

- dashed arrows represent simple inclusion: the element at the origin of the arrow is included (at most once) in the element at the destination of the arrow;

- we have drawn elements from top to bottom so that upper elements are nested in lower elements and elements of approximately the same complexity are drawn at the same level (e.g., the concept “page num-
<figure><img src="image_48.png" /><figcaption>FIGURE 1. Graphical representation of the literary text ontology</figcaption></figure>

ber” is at the same level as “γ-word,” while “header” is at the same level as “line”).

## 2.1. Concepts

On the left side of the graphical representation in Fig. 1 we have placed the following abstract linguistic elements:

- “grapheme”: the elementary unit of graphemics used in 2nd articulation to obtain (written) morphemes;

- “punctuation”: called *topograms* by Jacques Anis, these graphemes *ensure legibility and contribute to meaning production* (Anis, 1988, p. 116);
- “space”: a grapheme with empty graph<fnref n="1" />;

- “morpheme”: *the minimal distinctive unit of grammar* (Crystal, 2008, p. 313); in our case: a minimal sequence of graphemes that carries sense;

- “word”: *a unit of expression that has universal intuitive recognition by native speakers, in both spoken and written language* (ibid., p. 521); in our case: in languages using writing systems containing that notion, sequences of morphemes separated by spaces or punctuation;

- “sentence”: in linguistics, it is *the largest structural unit in terms of which the grammar of the language is organized* (ibid., p. 432). For us it is also the meeting point between legacy linguistics and the document structure theory by Power, Scott, and Bouayad-Agha (2003), in which it is called “text-sentence” (level 2);

- “paragraph”: an ordered collection of sentences, level 3 for Power, Scott, and Bouayad-Agha (ibid., p. 224);

- “hierarchical subdivision”: a chapter, section, subsection, etc. (We do not include titles of hierarchical subdivisions in the ontology and consider them simply as paragraphs.) Power, Scott, and Bouayad-Agha (ibid.) call these $L_N$ for $N > 3$. Hierarchical subdivisions have a physical order (which is linear order for subdivisions of equal level and depth-first search order for subdivisions of different levels), and in some cases also a logical order (which is given by graphemically explicit numbering);

- “document”: the highest $L_N$ in Power’s approach, together with a set of metadata (title, author, publisher, etc.) as formalization of a material “book”;

- “corpus”: an ordered set of “documents,” formalizing a “book series”.

On the right side of the graphical representation we have placed visual/material elements. The “primary” and “secondary” directions depend on the script, e.g., for Roman, primary is horizontal left-to-right and secondary is vertical top-to-bottom; for Arabic, primary is horizontal right-to-left and secondary is vertical top-to-bottom; for vertical CJKV, primary is vertical top-to-bottom and secondary is horizontal right-to-left; and for Mongolian, primary is vertical top-to-bottom and secondary is horizontal left-to-right.

- “graph”: as defined in Meletis (2015, p. 123), a graph is a shape representing a grapheme;

- “basic shape”: as defined in Meletis (ibid., p. 47), a basic shape is an intermediate notion between graphs and graphemes, identifying a family of graphs;

<footnote n="1">1. We argue that spaces are graphemes since their presence can change meaning as in the following example: <intolerant communities> vs. <in tolerant communities>.</footnote>
- “primary direction space and γ-punctuation”: these graphs represent spaces and punctuation (the notion of direction exists only in graphetics);

- “γ-word”: a graphical word, that is a 1-dimensional sequence of graphs surrounded by horizontal spaces or punctuation and representing a “word”;

- “γ-word segment”: this concept is necessary because of word hyphenation. As we wish to describe the elements that constitute a line, we need to take into account:

1. word segments located at the beginning of the line that belong to a word of the previous line, which has been hyphenated,

2. word segments followed by a hyphen, located at the end of the line, and belonging to hyphenated words of the current line;

- “page number”: the page number is part of a page and occurs at most once in a page (in some styles, the first or the last pages of a chapter have no page number);

- “line”: typically a concept that has no linguistic counterpart, a line is an ordered collection of γ-words, potentially starting and/or ending by a γ-word segment and separated by horizontal spaces and punctuation. A line normally has a standard width, except for (potentially) the first line of the paragraph, which can be indented, and the last line of the paragraph, which can be shorter than the standard width;

- “interlinear annotation”: these are lines in smaller type placed between standard text lines;

- “secondary direction space”: secondary direction space is sometimes inserted between paragraphs, especially when they play the role of titles;

- “header”: in some book styles every page has at most one header, made of a single line of text;

- “γ-paragraph”: an ordered collection of lines, representing a paragraph;

- “line group”: as with γ-word segments, we had to introduce this notion, intermediate between lines and paragraphs, because sometimes paragraphs are broken between pages, so that we may have an initial line group on one page, potentially followed by complete pages (with no paragraph change), and ending by a final group of lines;

- “footnote”: a footnote is a line thread that is parallel to the standard line thread, but is set in smaller size and placed at the bottom of the page. A footnote can be broken between pages, and that is why we introduce the next notion:

- “footnote line group”: part of a footnote contained on a given page;

- “marginal note”: one or more paragraphs in smaller size and placed in one of the two margins. As marginal notes are never broken between pages, we don't need an intermediate structure for γ-paragraphs and footnotes;
- “page”: a 2-dimensional area repeated on both sides of each sheet of a book;

- “book”: a material book or a visual simulation of a material book on a computer monitor;

- “book series”: a material sequence of books belonging to a book series published by the same publisher and sharing the same visual/material properties and a common theme.

## 2.2. Geometrical Parameters

All visual/material elements have a geometric reality and therefore occupy space on the page area. We introduce Euclidean coordinates and measure the geometric/physical location of a point $x$ by functions $h(x)$ and $v(x)$, where:

- $h$ denotes projection on an axis parallel to the primary direction of a given script (horizontal for horizontal scripts, going from left to right for Latin, Greek, Cyrillic, etc. and from right to left for Arabic, Hebrew, etc.; vertical and going from top to bottom for vertical CJK and Mongolian);

- $v$ denotes projection on an axis parallel to the secondary direction of a given script (vertical and going from top to bottom for horizontal scripts, horizontal and going from left to right for vertical CJK, horizontal and going from left to right for Mongolian).

Various units have been defined for $h$ and $v$ (points, Didot points, etc.) but we will use, in our rules, only the unit “em” (an “em-space”) that is relative to the current font body size.

Elements graph, γ-word, γ-word segment, interlinear annotation and line contain an (invisible) primary direction line called *baseline*.

Visual/material elements occupy 2-dimensional space. We will consider that they are included in (not necessarily minimal) boxes (see Fig. 2) which we call *abstract baselined boxes*. We define functions $h_{min}$ and $h_{max}$ as the minimum and maximum value of the primary dimension of an abstract box, $v_{min}$ and $v_{max}$ as the minimum and maximum value of the secondary dimension of the box, and $v_{bas}$ as the value of the secondary dimension of the element's baseline, when available. For most of our rules we will use equalities between the values of these functions.

## 2.3. Relations and Rules

There are two types of rules on elements in our model. The first type, *constitutive rules*, are those that define a given element and breaking them invalidates membership of an instance to the given concept. For example, to be a marginal note, a paragraph has to be contained in the page margin: a paragraph that does not satisfy this rule is *not* a marginal note.
<figure><img src="image_49.png" /><figcaption>FIGURE 2. Abstract baselined boxes for (a) graphs, (b) γ-words and γ-word segments, (c) lines, (d) γ-paragraph.</figcaption></figure>

The second type of rule are optional rules: for example, the rule according to which graphs of a word have to be on the same primary-direction baseline (which we call RULE②-1, see below) is satisfied in the vast majority of cases, and breaking it becomes a graphetic method used by authors for specific purposes.

In the following, we set the description of constitutive rules in regular text and that of optional rules in boxes. The latter are numbered RULE☒-*n*, where “☒” is the number of the relation on which the rule is applied and “*n*” is a number.

To distinguish various levels of constitutive rules, we will structure this section by sub-sections referring to the target of the relations described: words (§2.3.1), lines (§2.3.2), paragraphs (§2.3.3), pages (§2.3.4), and the book *per se* (§2.3.5).

### 2.3.1. *The Target of the Relation Is a Word, a γ-Word or a γ-Word Segment*

#### Relation R①

Morphemes are represented by ordered collections of graphemes. When a script is phonographic or used in phonographic mode, this relation corresponds to second articulation, where meaning emerges from the identification of patterns of contiguous graphemes.
<table><tr><td>RULE①-1</td><td>The grapheme sequence belongs to the part of the language's graphemic solution space (Neef, 2012, p. 223) that is used by the orthographic component of the language.</td></tr></table>

If we consider case as a graphemic property (so that, e.g., <A> and <a> are different graphemes) then non-standard casing is a nonstandard graphemic method:

<table><tr><td>RULE①-2</td><td>For cased scripts, in a given morpheme, cases of graphemes belong to one of the three following cases: (a) all graphemes in lower case, (b) all graphemes in upper case, (c) first grapheme in upper case and the remaining in lower case. Proper names and brand names are not taken into account.</td></tr></table>

### Relation R<sup>5</sup>

In languages containing the notion of word, words are ordered collections of (bounded and/or free) morphemes.

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>5</sup>-1</td><td>In a given word, graphemic representations of morphemes are concatenated in a given, fixed order.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>5</sup>-2</td><td>In a given word, graphemic representations of morphemes are concatenated either without a separator or using a standard (language-dependent) separator.</td></tr></table>

For the Latin script, examples of standard morpheme separators are the dash (as in <up-to-date>) and the apostrophe (as in <aujourd'hui>). See Haralambous and Dichy (2019) for examples of separators used for gender-neutral writing. If we consider acronyms as words and their constituents as "morphemes," then the abbreviation dot is the corresponding standard separator.

### Relation R<sup>2</sup>

γ-words are built out of the concatenation of graphs. Let $g$ and $g'$ be two consecutive graphs.

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>2</sup>-1</td><td>Graphs of the same γ-word are concatenated according to the primary direction (i.e., $b_{max}(g) = b_{min}(g') + \kappa(g, g')$, where $\kappa$ is the kerning operation).</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>2</sup>-2</td><td>Graphs of the same γ-word share the same straight primary direction baseline (i.e., $v_{bas}(g) = v_{bas}(g')$).</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>2</sup>-3</td><td>Graphs of the same γ-word share the same size.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>2</sup>-4</td><td>Graphs of the same γ-word share the same style.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>2</sup>-5</td><td>Graphs of the same γ-word share the same font family.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>2</sup>-6</td><td>When two graphs of the same γ-word represent the same grapheme, then the same allograph is used to represent them.</td></tr></table>
### Relation R³

γ-word segments are parts of γ-words that appear when a γ-word is hyphenated. Left γ-word segments appear at line end and their last graph is a hyphen, right γ-word segments appear at line beginning (without indentation).

<table><tr><td>Rules RULE³-1 to RULE³-6</td><td>Similar to RULE²-1—RULE²-6.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE³-7</td><td>The frontiers of γ-word parts inside a line are hyphenation locations according to hyphenation rules specific to the current language (as well as region, historical period and/or publisher).</td></tr></table>

### 2.3.2. The Target of the Relation Is a Sentence, a Line or an Interlinear Annotation

#### Relations R¹⁰, R¹¹ and R¹²

Sentences are built out of words and punctuation. Spaces are included to separate words.

<table><tr><td>RULE¹⁰-1</td><td>In a sentence, words and punctuation must conform to the syntax of the current language.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE¹⁰-2</td><td>In a sentence, words and punctuation belong to the script of the current language.</td></tr></table>

#### Relations R⁴, R¹⁴ and R¹⁶

A line starts by a right γ-word segment or a primary direction space (called *indentation*) or γ-punctuation or a γ-word. It contains zero, one or more γ-words, γ-punctuation graphs and primary direction spaces. It ends with a γ-word segment, a γ-word, γ-punctuation or primary direction space.

<table><tr><td>RULE⁴-1</td><td>Primary direction interword spaces have the same width, which is of approx. 0.25–0.4 em. In some languages this width is greater after a sentence full-stop.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE¹⁴-1</td><td>γ-words in a line share the same primary direction baseline.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE¹⁴-2</td><td>γ-words in a line share the same size of graphs.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE¹⁴-3</td><td>γ-words in a line share the same font family.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE¹⁴-4</td><td>When two graphs of the same line represent the same grapheme, then the same allograph is used.</td></tr></table>

#### Relations R⁶, R¹³ and R¹⁵

Interlinear annotations behave like lines, with the particularity that the size of their graphs is smaller than that of graphs in lines of main text.
A specific kind of interlinear annotation is Japanese rubi, where morphemes (often in kanji sinographs) are annotated by smaller-size graphemes (in kana).

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>13-6</sup></td><td>Japanese rubi annotation provides phonetic realization of sinographs.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>13-7</sup></td><td>Besides the specific case of Japanese rubi, annotation is not used in fiction.</td></tr></table>

### 2.3.3. The Target of the Relation Is a Paragraph, a γ-Paragraph, a Line Group, a Footnote, a Footnote Line Group, or a Marginal Note

#### Relation R<sup>20</sup>

When moving from the concept of sentence to that of paragraph, we leave the traditional realm of linguistics, even though, in one of the few linguistic publications on the subject, Zadrozny and Jensen (1991) suggest that “the paragraph is a grammatical and logical unit [...] and the first reasonable domain of anaphora resolution and of coherent thought about a central topic”. We could use these two criteria as rules if only they weren’t broken so often in fiction, due to literary artistic freedom.

#### Relations R<sup>24</sup> and R<sup>23</sup>

A γ-paragraph is a rectangular block of lines, visually identified by three phenomena: the first line is indented (in some orthotypographic traditions this is not the case for the first γ-paragraph of a hierarchical subdivision or after a secondary direction space), the last line is incomplete and, in some cases, there is additional secondary direction space before and after the γ-paragraph. An initial line group is the first part of a γ-paragraph, it has to be the last γ-paragraph of the page (besides footnotes), an intermediate line group is a block of lines covering a complete page (besides footnotes), and a final line group is the last part of a γ-paragraph, placed at the top of the page.

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>24-1</sup></td><td>γ-Paragraphs and line groups are rectangular blocks, i.e., if ℓ and ℓ' are consecutive lines then b<sub>min</sub>(ℓ) = b<sub>min</sub>(ℓ') and b<sub>max</sub>(ℓ) = b<sub>max</sub>(ℓ'); if ℓ is indented then b<sub>min</sub>(ℓ) = b<sub>min</sub>(ℓ') + indent; if ℓ' is final, then b<sub>min</sub>(ℓ) = b<sub>min</sub>(ℓ') and b<sub>max</sub>(ℓ) ≥ b<sub>max</sub>(ℓ').</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>24-2</sup></td><td>All lines in a γ-paragraph or line group are filled by γ-words and interword spaces (with the exception of the first and last line, as in the previous rule).</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>24-3</sup></td><td>Lines in a γ-paragraph or in a line group are located at a fixed secondary direction distance, called “leading,” i.e., if ℓ, ℓ', ℓ are arbitrary consecutive lines of the same γ-paragraph or line group, then v<sub>bas</sub>(ℓ') - v<sub>bas</sub>(ℓ) = v<sub>bas</sub>(ℓ) - v<sub>bas</sub>(ℓ').</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>24-4</sup></td><td>Lines in a γ-paragraph or line group share the same size of graphs.</td></tr></table>
<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>24</sup>-5</td><td>Lines in a γ-paragraph or line group share the same font family.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>24</sup>-6</td><td>For cased writing systems and unless the γ-paragraph is a title, lines in a γ-paragraph or line group use lowercase with occasional uppercase letters at γ-word begin.</td></tr></table>

A paragraph can be split (according to the primary direction) into several columns. Columns of a γ-paragraph or line group behave like γ-paragraphs with respect to shape, baseline skip, graph size, and font family. We have the following additional rules:

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>24</sup>-7</td><td>Columns of a γ-paragraph or line group are of equal width.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>24</sup>-8</td><td>In a multi-column context, reading order is by column (first the entire first column, then the second, etc.).</td></tr></table>

### *Relations R<sup>25</sup>, R<sup>26</sup> and R<sup>27</sup>*

Footnotes, footnote line groups and marginal notes behave like γ-paragraphs and line groups, so they are subject to the same rules as RULE<sup>24</sup>-1 to RULE<sup>24</sup>-8. Footnotes, footnote line groups and marginal notes use graphs of smaller size than γ-paragraphs.

### *2.3.4. The Target of the Relation Is a Hierarchical Subdivision or a Page*

#### *Relation R<sup>30</sup>*

The lowest-level hierarchical subdivision (L₄ for Power, Scott, and Bouayad-Agha, 2003) consists of a title (which can be considered as a paragraph) followed by an ordered collection of paragraphs. Beyond that level, hierarchical subdivisions Lₙ (N > 4) consist of a title (a paragraph) followed by an ordered collection of subdivisions Lₙ₋₁.

The notion of *page* exists neither in linguistics nor in the document structure of Power, Scott, and Bouayad-Agha (ibid.). Relations R<sup>17</sup>, R<sup>28</sup>-<sup>29</sup> and R<sup>31</sup>-<sup>35</sup> contribute material to the page area.

#### *Relation R<sup>17</sup>*

Page numbers are unique numeric identifiers of pages in a book<fnref n="2" />. In some orthotypographic traditions, first and/or last pages of chapters do not carry page numbers (even though they participate in numbering).

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>17</sup>-1</td><td>Page numbers of consecutive pages are consecutive integer numbers in increasing order.</td></tr></table>

<footnote n="2">2. This is true for literary texts—in other genres, such as critical editions, pairs of pages containing text and translation carry the same page number.</footnote>
Relation R<sup>29</sup>

Headers are optional single lines of text that act as thematic descriptors of pages (often they are abbreviated versions of hierarchical subdivisions of the book). They are placed at the top (relative to the secondary direction of the script) of the page. First pages of chapters generally do not carry headers.

Relations R<sup>31-35</sup>

Contrary to technical or scientific books, in fiction, paragraphs on the same page share characteristics:

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>31-1</sup></td><td>γ-paragraphs on a page share the same color.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>31-2</sup></td><td>γ-paragraphs on a page share the same size of graphs.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>31-3</sup></td><td>γ-paragraphs on a page share the same font family.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE<sup>31-4</sup></td><td>γ-paragraphs on a page use the same allograph of a given grapheme.</td></tr></table>

As already mentioned, a final line group is always placed at the top of the page (under the header), followed by γ-paragraphs and potentially an initial line group. Underneath the last γ-paragraph or the initial line group (relative to the secondary direction of the script) are placed footnotes and footnote line groups (again we have initial and final footnote line groups behaving similarly to regular line groups). Marginal notes are placed in the secondary direction margin of the page, and they are not broken between pages. Footnotes and marginal notes are uncommon in fiction, the former occurring mostly in translations to provide comments by the translator.

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>34-1</sup></td><td>In fiction, footnotes occupy significantly less area than the main text.</td></tr></table>

2.3.5. *The Target of the Relation Is a Document or a Book*

Relation R<sup>40</sup>

Hierarchical subdivisions $L_N$ ($N > 4$) are nested, the highest level $L_{Nmax}$ being the document. Often $L_N$ subdivisions ($4 < N < N_{max}$) start with a paragraph functioning as a title. The document has metadata (title, author, publisher, ISBN, etc.) that can be part of its contents, in which case they are called *paratext* (Genette, 1997).

Subdivisions can be ordered in two ways: by *physical order*, which is the order of subdivisions as parts of the (physical) book and by *logical order*, which is the order given by explicit numbering in the text.

<table><tr><td>RULE<sup>40-1</sup></td><td>Whenever logical order is given, physical and logical order coincide, with the exception of special subdivisions (preface, introduction, epilogue, etc.) that are generally not numbered.</td></tr></table>
Relation R④

A (physical) book is made of sheets, the two sides of which are pages. As such, pages have the geometric characteristics of 2-dimensional objects (while sheets, and therefore also the book per se, have a third dimension: thickness).

<table><tr><td>RULE④-1</td><td>Graphs in pages share the same color.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE④-2</td><td>Pages share the same background color.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE④-3</td><td>Graphs in pages share the same size of graphs.</td></tr><tr><td>RULE④-4</td><td>Graphs in pages share the same font family.</td></tr></table>

Even though it seems obvious, we include a rule to prevent blank pages:

<table><tr><td>RULE④-5</td><td>No blank pages are allowed in the body of a book, except for potential even pages necessary to have highest-level subdivisions start at odd pages.</td></tr></table>

After having described concepts, relations and rules we turn now to the main topic of the paper: graphemic and graphetic methods in speculative fiction that break the rules of our ontology.

## 3. Breaking Rules

### 3.1. Breaking RULE①-1: Eye Dialect and Nonstandard Spellings

Bowdre (1964, p. 1) defines *eye dialect* as “words and groups of words which for any one of a number of possible reasons have been spelled in a manner which to the eye is recognizably nonstandard, but which to the ear still indicates a pronunciation that is standard”. As Baroni (2013) mentions, “[an] important aspect of Eye Dialect is that it is nonstandard as regards the graphic appearance of the word but is still regular as regards the relationship between phonemes and graphemes”. For this reason, eye dialect has been, ever since the early 19th century, a graphemic method used to attach non-linguistic information (such as regional origin or education level) to the transcriptions of utterances of fictional characters.

In the following we will describe three nonstandard eye dialect cases.

#### 3.1.1. Lost Memory

The short story *Lost Memory* (1952) by British author Peter Phillips (1920–2012) appeared in the magazine *Galaxy Science Fiction*. The story is about a civilization of robots founded centuries earlier by a computer
that taught the robots English but erased all words related to humans and human activities. When a human crashes with his starship on this planet, the robots communicate with him, but do not understand parts of his vocabulary and this has dramatic consequences for him as he ends up dying burnt alive. To mark the words that fail to be recognized by the robots and hence allow the reader to identify shortages in communication between robots and the human, Phillips uses eye dialect. Interestingly, the communication is multimodal: one robot, capable of receiving and analyzing sound waves interacts orally with the human, and transmits the dialog to the others in computer-internal form (which, again, is presented to the reader as written form).

The short story has been translated into German (1958), French (in 1954 and 1974) and Japanese (in 1957 and 1962). The translating challenge was to misspell, in a plausible way, the same words as in the original English version. Here are the most important misspelled words in the various versions (translated words with an asterisk have not been misspelled in the translations, "NT" means "not translated"):

<table><thead><tr><th>Original<br>(1952)</th><th>French<br>(1954)</th><th>Japanese<br>(1957)</th><th>German<br>(1958)</th><th>Japanese<br>(1962)</th><th>French<br>(1974)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>mann</td><td>omm</td><td>*人間</td><td>mensch</td><td>*人間ン</td><td>omm</td></tr><tr><td>seks</td><td>sekse</td><td>*性</td><td>Geschlekt</td><td>性の区別</td><td>seks</td></tr><tr><td>ogod</td><td>odieu</td><td>NT</td><td>ogot</td><td>NT</td><td>ôdieu</td></tr><tr><td>wumman</td><td>famm</td><td>*女</td><td>frau</td><td>〈once〉</td><td>fam</td></tr><tr><td>deth</td><td>more</td><td>*死</td><td>*Tod</td><td>し</td><td>mor</td></tr><tr><td>blud</td><td>san</td><td>*血</td><td>Blud</td><td>ち</td><td>san</td></tr><tr><td>wor</td><td>*guerre</td><td>NT</td><td>Krig</td><td>せんそウ</td><td>guère</td></tr><tr><td>zoot</td><td>skafandre</td><td>NT</td><td>anzuck</td><td>ズート</td><td>skafandre</td></tr><tr><td>burds</td><td>oisos</td><td>*小鳥</td><td>*Vögeln</td><td>*小鳥たち</td><td>oisos</td></tr><tr><td>feeld</td><td>chan</td><td>NT</td><td>Felt</td><td>野はラ</td><td>chan</td></tr><tr><td>fethers</td><td>plumms</td><td>NT</td><td>*Federn</td><td>〈羽毛〉</td><td>plumms</td></tr><tr><td>brest</td><td>mamell</td><td>*胸</td><td>*Brust</td><td>〈胸〉</td><td>mamèle</td></tr><tr><td>erth</td><td>terr</td><td>*大地</td><td>*Erde</td><td>〈地球〉</td><td>tère</td></tr></tbody><tfoot><tr><td>Total: 72</td><td>56</td><td>0</td><td>49</td><td>26</td><td>59</td></tr></tfoot></table>

The 1957 Japanese translation contains no misspelled words whatsoever, but nevertheless, four words that should be written in kanji have been written in hiragana. Using characters such as <人> (“man”), <女> (“woman”) or <鳥> (“bird”) in the first Japanese translation leads to logical contradictions: if these characters are unknown to robots, how can they establish the connection between phonetic and logographic representation? This has been corrected in the second translation, at least for <女>, which is replaced by its phonetic transcription: 〈once〉. The word “suit” misspelled as <zoot> is translated by the annotated <ズート>, where the rubi have the meaning of “spacesuit” (probably a
translator's hint to the reader) and the base characters are the phonetic transcription of /zuuto/, the original English misspelled word <zoot> in Japanese phonemic space.

Phillips manages to introduce a Shakespearean quotation into the text, uttered by the human: <who is silv-ya what is shee that all her swains commend her>, translated as <wer ist silvja, das alle menner sie so preisen> in German (all lowercase!), omitted in the 1954 French translation, and translated as <qui est silv-ya-que tous ses amants couvrent de louanges> in the 1974 French translation (where one may wonder how robots could manage to keep the word <amants>, "lovers," in their de-humanized vocabulary).

Using eye dialect as an indicator of the lack of semantic information is an innovative idea, but the realization leaves the demanding reader wanting, e.g., the spelling <plumms> is not part of the French graphemic solution space and its phonetic realization is not /plym/ (for the correct *plumes*) but /plʌm/. It seems that translators have chosen improbable phonetic representations to keep the text accessible to the average reader, unfamiliar with IPA notation. On the other hand, the spelling <skafandre> may not be part of the French graphemic solution space either, but is very close to IPA notation: /skafʌdɪ/.

### 3.1.2. Flowers for Algernon

The novel *Flowers for Algernon* (1966) by the American author Daniel Keyes (1927–2014) is one of the most popular speculative fiction books and has been translated into 27 languages (Hill, 2004).

In the story, a mentally disabled person, Charlie Gordon, undergoes an operation that increases his IQ dramatically until, at the end, he regresses again into his former condition. The novel consists of a collection of progress reports and the eye dialect method is used to connote the evolution of Charlie's IQ. Here is an excerpt of the very first report:

> Dr Strauss says I shoud rite down what I think and remembir and evrey thing that happens to me from now on. I dont no why but he says its importint so they will see if they can use me. I hope they use me becaus Miss Kinnian says mabye they can make me smart. I want to be smart. My name is Charlie Gordon I werk in Donners bakery where Mr Donner gives me 11 dollers a week and bred or cake if I want.

We notice that misspelled word or syntagms are either homophones (<rite>, <importint>), or missing apostrophes (<dont>, <its>), or letter permutations (<mabye>). Here is a polynomial fit of the number of errors per report (we have covered only the period March 4th-April 8th and November 1st until the end, as in the intermediate period Charlie produces no misspelled words):
<figure><img src="image_50.png" /></figure>

The German translation (1970) of the same excerpt:

Dr Strauss sagt fon nun an sol ich aufschreiben was ich denke und woran ich mir erinere und ales was ich erlebe. Wiso weis ich nich aber er sagt es ist wischtisch da mit sie sen ob sie mich nemen könen. Ich hofe sie nemen mich weil Miss Kinnian sagt fileich könen sie mich Intelgent machen. Ich möchte gern Intelgent sein. Mein name ist Charly Gordon ich Schafe in der Bäckerei Donner Mr Donner gibt mir 11 dollers die woche und brot und Kuchen wen ich wil,

introduces additional elements: first of all a strong regional accent (<wischtisch> for “wichtig”) and a lack of knowledge of the German graphemic indicators of long and short syllables (e.g., in the spelling <hofe>, the first syllable is long while the verb “hoffe,” “to hope,” has a short first syllable), so that many of the misspelled words are not homophones of the correct versions.

The French translation (1972) of the same excerpt:

Le Dr Strauss dit que je devrez écrire tout ce que je panse et que je me rapèle et tout ce qui marive à partir de mintenan. Je sait pas pourquoi mais il dit que ces un portan pour qu'ils voie si ils peuve mutilisé. J'espaire qu'ils mutiliserons pas que Miss Kinnian dit qu'ils peuve peut être me rendre un télijan. Je m'apèle Charlie Gordon et je travail à la boulangerie Donner. Mr Donner me donne 11 dolar par semène et du pain ou des gâteau si j'en veut

is strictly homophonic. Errors are manifold: merged pronouns with verbs (<marive>, <mutilisé>), wrong conjugations (<je devrez>, <ils mutiliserons>), split words (<un portant>, <un télijan>), missing dashes (<peut être>), missing plural suffixes (<11 dolar>, <des gâteau>), etc.

In the Japanese translation (1978) of the same excerpt:

ストラウスはかせわぼくが考えたことや思いだしたことやこれからぼくのまわりでおこたことわぜんぶかいておきなさいといった。なぜだかわからないけれどもそれわ大せつなことでそれでぼくが使えるかどうかわかるのだそうです。ぼくを使てくれればいいとおもうなぜかというとキニアン先生があのひとたちわぼくのあたまをよくしてくれるかもしれないとしたからです。ぼくわかしこくなりたい。ぼくの名まえわ
チャーリイゴードンでドナーぱん店ではたらいててドナーさんわ一周かんに11どるく
れてほしかればばんやけえきもくれる。

we find 202 hiragana, 19 katakana, and 11 kanji, that is a distribution of (87%, 8%, 5%) while the standard distribution in Japanese is rather of (44%, 7%, 49%), which shows that kanji are significantly underrepresented. The difficulty level of the kanji used in the translation is quite low: among them, five (大,先,生,名,一) are of school level 1 (age 6), three (考,思,週) are of school level 2, two (使,仕) are of school level 3 and one (周) is of school level 4 (age 9).

In the excerpt above we also see four places where katakana text is written in hiragana: <パン> instead of “ぱん” (twice), <ドル> instead of “どる” and <けえき> instead of “ケーキ”—in the last case we have an additional error: instead of “え,” Charlie should have written a prolonged sound mark <ー>. This is not the only error typical of the lack of knowledge of Japanese morphology—we also encounter the following: <わ> instead of “は” for the topic marker particle, missing small “っ” signs (<使て>, <いた>), etc.

In addition to the graphemic methods described above, the translator of *Flowers for Algernon* into Japanese (1992), Fusa Obi (1932–), also uses a graphemic method specific to sinographic characters, namely an innovative type of eye dialect based on the choice of sinographic character components and invention of new component combinations:

<table><thead><tr><th>English syntagm</th><th>Misspelled</th><th>Correct</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>&lt;reeding&gt;</td><td>俥</td><td>読</td></tr><tr><td>&lt;keep reckerds&gt;</td><td>讎</td><td>録</td></tr></tbody></table>

The first misspelled character occurs 14 times and the second once. In both cases the phonetic component (on the right) is correct, so that phonetic realization is appropriate, while the semantic component (on the right) is wrong. The (intended) semantics of both characters belong to the domain of intellectual activities (reading, keeping records, in the sense of writing down data), as if Charlie insisted in using a kanji for those two activities because they are related to script, and failed in doing so. Since neither of the two characters actually exists, the reader has to undergo the mental process of identifying the correct semantic component out of a set of homophones, given by the phonetic component.

In the postface to the translation, Fusa Obi recalls the intellectual and technical difficulties of the task:

> As a translator, I have always tried to be faithful to the original, but I have found that I can't always be faithful to the original in Charlie's writing. First of all, the reader has to understand and be able to get into the story smoothly.
I also thought about replacing a misspelled word with a misprint—a kanji that doesn't exist. The editorial department told me that it would take a lot of time and effort to make each type because it was a letterpress printing at the time.

The method of re-combining sinographic character components in order to create non-existing sinographic characters was used abundantly by Xu Bing, in his *Book From the Sky* installation (1988).

### 3.1.3. Feersum Endjinn

The novel *Feersum Endjinn* (1994) by the Scottish author Iain M. Banks (1954–2013) consists of 10 chapters, each one of which (with the exception of the last) is subdivided into four sections, corresponding to four characters evolving in a cyber-fantasy universe. The character of the fourth recurrent section, Bascule, the only (one who is a) narrator, writes in eye dialect and even confesses that he does so because of a “weird wiring in his brain”:

<table><thead><tr><th>Original (1994)</th><th>German (2000)</th><th>French (2013)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>[...] but unlike evrybody els I got this weerd wirin in mi brane so I cant spel rite, juss ½ 2 do evrythin foneticly. Iss not a problim cos u can put eny old rubish thru praktikly anyfin evin a chile's toy computir & get it 2 cum out speld perfictly & gramatisized 2 & evin improvd 2 thi poynt whare yood fink u waz Bill bleedin Shaikspir by thi langwidje. (p. 98)</td><td>[...] abba bei mir kömmd hinzu waz bei andren nüch der fall = nehmlich daz isch so 1e obschkure elekdrohnik im göhirn hab die bewirkd daz isch nüch richtich schreim kann + bei mir allez schrifdliche irndwie fonetisch wird. Darin = kle schwierichkeit zu sehn weil man praktich jeden blöden schrifdlichen kwatsch vom kompjuter selbzd m schpülzeuch-kompjuter in völlich korrekt göschriehmnen + auch in der gram-mattik richtichen tekzd umwanneln lazen kann + er wird sogar ferbesserd biß die schprach so gud = daz man denkd man wär leibhafftich der aldie Schäksbier.</td><td>[...] mè kontrèreman o zotr personn jé anefé kelkö choz de kuriözman branché dan lö servo, ski fè kö jö ne pö pa ékrir normalman. Tou skö jékri sor an fonétik. Sö né pa z1 problem étan doné kon pö tou kolé pratikeman dan ninport kel machinn, mêm 1 or-dinatör pour anfan & sa vou sor le tou remi an bon nanglé avek lor-tograf & la gramèr & mêm dé zaméliorasion & du kou on a kazi linprecision kö C sö fichu Bil Chékspir ki vou zékri.</td></tr></tbody></table>

Interestingly, Banks's phonetic transcription uses the phonetic values of digits and logotypes (FIGURE, <@>, +, <=) in a way similar to
what would become SMS language a few years later—indeed, the novel appeared in the same year as the first SMS-enabled mobile phone, the Nokia 2010. But contrary to SMS language, which is usually rather informal, Bascule uses educated language strewn with cultural references (like the reference to <Shaikspir> in the excerpt above<fnref n="3" />).

Once the reader is well-trained in reading Bascule's eye dialect, Banks provides additional challenges by introducing new characters with specific accents and vocalics. For example, there is lisping sparrow:

So thare u r Mr Bathcule,
ithnt it ol tewwibwy,
tewwibwy interethtin?
I think tho 2-o look, i
think i juss thaw a flee
on yoor leg thare; may I
preen u? (p. 87)

Ja alzo würglich mr. Bas-
kül = daz allez nüch gö-
waltich schrekklich in-
tressant? Isch findz auch
... Ach hörn Sie x isch
glaab grat hab isch auf
Ihrem b1 1e milbe gö-
sehn daaf isch Sie lau-
zen?

& donk voila Mr Bafkul,
fé dloeman intéléfan, tou
fa non? Fé byin fe kö
je panfè. O mè kefkö je
voi? Unn vièlenn puf fui
votlö pat. Je pö vou fèl la
toilèt, Mr Bafkul?

where the English text uses transformations 
→<th> and <r>→<w>, the German one transformations <i>→<ü>, <ch>→<sch>, and the French one transformations 
→<f> and <r>→<l>.

The /s/ in “Bascule” can be used both for a lisping /th/ and for a hissing /sh/ tic. This happens through a hissing sloth:

I qwite undirshtand yoor
angwish, yung Bashcule
[...] But itsh not yoor
folt shertin pershinch r
tryin 2 pershicute u. [...]
Zhat woz zhe impreshin
I formed from what I
overherd Zhey did not
sheem 2 b intereshtid in
eny ov ush. Zhey were
lukin 4 shumbody elsh
zhey shuspected ush ov
harberin. (p. 216)

Isch ferschdeh total waz
du m1zd Baskül junker
froind [...]. Abba ez = ja
nüch d1e schultt daz gö-
wize persoonen hintern
dir her sünd. [...] Nach
allem waz isch göhörd
hab = daz m1 1drukk
[...]. Ez hatte gantz den
ansch1 daz se an unz gar
nüch intressiet warn. Sie
suchden wen fon dem
se d8en daz er bei unz
ferschdekkd =.

Jönn Bachcule, jö kon-
pran for byin votr agoich
[...] Mè chi chertèn per-
chonn écheye de vou
perchécuté, chö né pa de
votre fot. ... Ché byin
linprechion kö mon doné
1 chertin nonbre de lör
propo [...] Aparaman, il
nö chintéréchè pa du tou
a nou zotr. Il cherchè
kelk1 kil nou chuchpektè
déberjé.

In the English and French texts Banks and his translator use the 
→<sh> transformation, while the German translation has more difficulties in distinguishing the sloth's accent from the sparrow's accent.

<footnote n="3">3. According to Drakakis (1997), “explicit allusion to literary figures such as Shakespeare destabilizes the traditional boundaries between high and popular culture,” which is certainly the goal here.</footnote>
While Kincaid (2017) suggest that “Bascule’s broken speech is often used to express the commonsense views of the author,” Corbett (2012) qualifies his eye dialect as an “anti-language”:

An anti-language is the means of realization of a subjective reality: not merely expressing it, but actively creating and maintaining it. Bascule’s anti-language identifies him as a member of a subculture that stands apart from mainstream society and its linguistic conventions. Ultimately, Bascule’s anti-language constructs him as that most alien of creatures, a young teenager.

### 3.1.4. The Two-Timer

The British author David I. Masson (1915–2007) studied English Language and Literature at Oxford. In the SF domain he published only ten short stories, all of them masterpieces. The short story *The Two-Timer* (1968) is written in a pastiche of 17th-century English, as it is the narration of accidental time travel of a 1683 gentleman into 1964. Here is the incipit of this story in the original, as well as its German translation (1984):

... I was standing, as it chanc'd, within the shade of a low Arch-way, where I could not easily be seen by any who shou'd pass that way, when I saw as it were a kind of Dazzle betwixt my Eyes and a Barn, that stood across the Street. (p. 62)

... ich stund, da's sich begab, im Schatten eines niedren Tor-Weges, darin ich nicht ohne weitres gesehen werden konnte von jemand, der vorüberwollen mochte, da erblickte ich wohl etwas gleich einem Geflimmre zwischen meinen Augen und einer Scheuer am jenseitigen Rande der Straße. (p. 70)

When the main character encounters 20th century people, he is at first unable to understand their utterances and represents them in eye dialect:

He: *Lowgh. Naugh dwenthing foyoo?*
(With a kind of Questioning voice.)

Myself: *Prithee, Sir, do you converse in English?*

At this he frown'd, and turn'd back thro' his Door, but left it open, for I heard him in speech with another, as follows.

Er: *H'llou. Kannich irndwih bälfn?*

(Das sprach er in einer Art von Frage-Tonfall.)

Ich: *Um Vergebung, Sir, conversiret Ihr engeländisch?*

Darauf schnitt er ein sauersichtig Mie-ne und entschwund hinter die Türe, nicht ohne jedoch sie offen zu belassen, denn ohnverzüglich hört ich ihn und eine andre *Person* die folgenden Worte wechseln.
He: *Chappea lux lau ikhttauon crauea.
Now entbing bau ootim? Caun bonstan za-
klay wottee sez.*

The Other: *Nowoulman. Nopmaugh pid-
gen enwaya. Prapseez thatfla caimea mon
thcow. Breezdin breezdaught. Weo tav
moce curetay.* (p. 67–68)

Er: *Da 's 'n Kähl dä sieht us wie 'n Ausrub-
fer. Kännen Se den? Konntnich gnau vas-
teen wasser sacht.*

Jener: *Neeh alde Jong. Sowieso nich mein
Bibr. Flaicht der Buhsche wofor ein Mo-
naht bihrwar. Kahm rin unn is wier weck.
Wibr solltn bihr meer Sichrheitsforkeerun-
gen bahm.* (p. 77)

It is interesting to note that Masson's eye dialect is much more realistic than those by Keyes or Banks thanks to his use of meaning-independent segmentation, e.g., when he writes <mon thcow> for "month ago," he attaches the <th> digraph to the second word (the German translation uses standard word segmentation).

Translating a short story written in 17th-century English is a *tour de force* and it is not surprising that, as far as we know, besides the German translation by Horst Pokullus, there has been no translation in any other language.

## 3.2. Breaking RULE①-1: Nonstandard Casing

Person names such as <MacArthur> or <DeForest> and brand names such as <FedEx> or <AugEyez> frequently use nonstandard casing, the former for historical reasons and the latter as syllabic abbreviations or portmanteaus, therefore we do not consider them to be special graphemic methods. Here are two cases of innovative use of nonstandard casing:

### 3.2.1. The Flight of the Dragonfly

Robert L. Forward (1932–2002) was an American science-fiction writer and physicist specialized in the theory of gravity and working at the research labs of Hughes Aircraft. In his novel *The Flight of the Dragonfly* (1984), he describes a very intelligent but non-technological species, the Flouwen, who start communicating with human visitors on their planet, through an AI platform. Humans initiate communication with the Flouwens through simple arithmetic operations:

"Two TIMES Three equals Six!" said Jill, almost triumphantly.

*SsSsSsIiIiIiXxXxXx!* said the red cloud, enunciating each trill and over-tone with exaggerated care.

"SSSsssIIIiiXXXxxxx," said Jill, its electronics still stumbling over the acoustic nuances of the word.

*zzzzzzzzzz!* exploded the red cloud. Jill tried again.

"SsSsSsIiIiIiXxXxXx," said Jill's sonar finally.
Similarly, a few pages farther:

*Two plus Two is...* continued the alien.

$TtWwOoooo$ came the reply, and the high-pitched scream startled the humans again.

Alternating upper and lower case is an astute method of representing a
screamy sound, while keeping the underlying word recognizable.

### 3.2.2. Embassytown

China Miéville (1972–) is a British science-fiction author and political activist. In his novel *Embassytown* (2011), he describes a civilization of aliens, the Ariekei, communicating orally by using not one, but two speech organs emitting simultaneously (see also §3.19.3). Ariekei perceive utterances as being language only when sounds originate from two synchronized sources. To communicate with them, humans have therefore genetically engineered monozygotic twins sharing the same mental processes and therefore speaking simultaneously. These twins appear and act always together and their names are systematically bisyllabic, each syllable representing one of the two individuals (<MagDa> for individuals <Mag> and <Da>, etc.).

In coherence with the logic of considering a pair of twins as a single entity (that is, in the way they are perceived by Ariekei), Miéville uses plural number when bisyllabic names are in subject position:

<table><thead><tr><th>Original (2011)</th><th>German (2012)</th><th>French (2016)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>I liked MagDa: they were one of the Am-bassadors who hadn't treated me differently since my falling out with CalVin. (p. 69)</td><td>Ich mochte MagDa: Sie waren einer der Bot-schafter, die mich nach meinem Zerwürfnis mit CalVin nicht anders behandelten als zuvor.</td><td>Derrière eux, MagDa m'ont souri. Je les aimais bien: elles comp-taient parmi ceux qui ne me traitaient pas différemment depuis ma brouille avec CalVin.</td></tr></tbody></table>

To show the importance of the bisyllabic structure and to increase symmetry between the human twins, Miéville capitalizes both syllables. Here are the names obtained through this method, most of them reminiscent of bisyllabic (human) given names:

EzCal (138 occurrences), EzRa (133), MagDa (102), YLSib (90), CalVin (83), JoaQuin (21), DalTon (16), EdGar (15), MayBel (11), XerXes (9), AgNes (5), JasMin (5), WilSon (5), LeRoy (4), PorSha (4), RanDolph (4), ArnOld (3), BenTham (3), EsMé (3), HenRy (3), KelSey (3), LeNa (3), SecStaff (3), AnDrew (2), CharLott (2), FeyRis (2), GaeNor (2), LoGan (2), and hapaxes:
BrenDan, DagNey, EzLott, HerOt, LuCy, OgMa, RedRag, ShelBy, SibYl and
SidNey.

3.3. Breaking RULE②-1: Change of Primary Direction

Primary direction can be inverted in three ways:

(1) by keeping the standard shape of graphs (no rotation, no mirroring):
<noitcerid yramirp>;

(2) by rotating graphs by 180° (no mirroring):
<uoījwvjwip l.ewijid>;

(3) by mirroring graphs (no rotation):
<noitcweib gwsmiq>;

(there is no fourth way because if we both rotate and mirror graphs, we
return to primary direction). We have encountered occurrences of all
three primary direction inversion types:

3.3.1. The Neverending Story

Michael Ende (1929–1995) wrote his most important work, *The Neverending Story* in 1979. Being the son of a surrealist painter, Ende frequently uses symbols in his writing and, in particular, mirrors (which he cherished to the point of writing a collection of short stories entitled *The Mirror in the Mirror*). *The Neverending Story* is an initiatory epopea in which the main character, Bastian Balthazar Bux, travels to an imaginary world (Fantastica), lives various adventures and finally returns to reality, back to his loving father. The initiation starts with Bastian's entrance into a bookstore, where he discovers and borrows the (auto-referential) book of *The Neverending Story*. The novel starts a bit earlier, in the bookstore, before Bastian's entrance, so that the first paragraph of the novel displays the shop's inscription from the inside, i.e., mirrored (inversion type 3):

<figure><img src="image_51.png" /></figure>

Diese Inschrift stand auf der Glastür eines kleinen Ladens, aber so sah sie
natürlich nur aus, wenn man vom Inneren des dämmerigen Raumes durch
die Scheibe auf die Straße hinausblickte.⁴ (p. 5)
When approaching Bastian’s transition to the imaginary world, which is the first climactic event of the novel, and in order to convince Bastian that Fantastica is real, a monk-like figure called the “Old Man from the Wandering Mountain” starts reading *The Neverending Story* anew, a narration through which Bastian realizes that he has become part of the story he is reading. But as the story narrated by the Old Man matches exactly the text of the novel, it begins with the inverted inscription, this time in oral mode, that is with standard graphs (inversion type 1):

> Dennoch waren ihm die ersten Worte, die der Alte sprach, unverständlich. Sie klangen etwa wie »Tairauqitna rednaerok darnok Irak rebahni«.⁵ (p. 212)

Illustrating the perfect formal symmetry of the novel, the inscription reappears on its last page, from a point of view opposite to the initial one: this time, Bastian is inside the bookstore, looking outside to his father, who stands on the other side of the road. He opens the door and exits the bookstore heading towards his father, so that the return to reality is complete:

> Herr Koreander begleitete ihn bis zur Tür. Als sie darauf zugingen, sah Bastian durch die spiegelverkehrte Schrift der Glasscheibe, daß der Vater auf der anderen Straßenseite stand und ihn erwartete. Sein Gesicht war ein einziges Strahlen.

> Bastian riß die Tür auf, daß die Traube der Messingglöckchen wild zu bimmeln begann, und rannte auf dieses Strahlen zu.⁶ (p. 486)

The inverted inscription is a structuring beacon of the novel, in which it is mentioned thrice: (a) in the incipit it is displayed as an image, (b) in the center it is given in text form, and (c) at the end of the novel it is referred to as “reversed writing on the glass pane”.

(Interestingly, the French 1984 translation leaves the second occurrence in German language (p. 221):

> C'était quelque comme «Tairauqitna rednaerok darno Irak rebahni.»

We don't know whether this was a conscious choice or an omission by the translator. It has been corrected in the 2014 revised edition of the book.)

This inscription could be seen on the glass door of a small shop, but naturally this was only the way it looked if you were inside the dimly lit shop, looking out at the street through the plate-glass door.

5. Yet he did not understand the first words the Old Man said. They sounded like: “Skoob dlo rednaeroc darnoc Irac.”

6. Mr. Coreander took him to the door. Through the reversed writing on the glass pane, Bastian saw that his father was waiting for him across the street. His face was one great beam. Bastian opened the door so vigorously that the little glass bells tinkled wildly, and ran across to his father.
### 3.3.2. Bâtons, chiffres et lettres

The great French novelist and co-founder of the Oulipo, Raymond Queneau (1903–1976) is the author of *Bâtons, chiffres et lettres* (1950) (“Sticks, digits and letters”), a collection of stories and essays, including an essay entitled *Délire typographique* (“Typographical delirium”). This essay deals with a 19th-century typographer called Nicolas Cirier (1792–1869) (Aouillé, 2001), author of the book *L'Apprentif Administrateur*, in the title of which the second word is inverted by rotation (inversion type 2). Queneau mentions the book title twice, and in both cases performs the same operation:

> insigne (je ne l'ai jamais vu figurer sur un catalogue de libraire et je crois bien qu'il n'est jamais passé en vente publique) ¹: L'apprentif siûiûwv ṁêwv (1840).

on page 289 and

> contre la gastronomie. Dans aucune de ces productions, on ne retrouve le prote déchaîné de l'Apprentif ṁêwv siûiûwv. Nicolas Cirier mourut, croit-on, en 1869.

on page 291. Besides the difference in capitalization between the two titles, we notice that on page 289 Queneau has to break the word and uses the fundamental principle of bidirectional typesetting (Haralambous, 2007, p. 135), namely that a block in the opposite direction is broken in parts according to the primary direction, and inside each part, inverted primary direction is used. As we can see in the example, the word <ṁnɔ̄lɑ̄siūmpv> is broken into <siuipv>, placed on the upper line and <n̄nɔ̄lɑ̄>, placed at the beginning (left side) of the lower line, so that the eye has to move to the end of the upper line, read the first part, go the lower line, move to the right until the beginning of the second part, read the second part, and then move again to the beginning of <n̄nɔ̄lɑ̄> to read the rest of the line. Probably to avoid confusion (Queneau was a perfectionist and wouldn't allow for such an error to remain in his text) Queneau used no hyphen at the end of the first part of the word.

### 3.3.3. "REDRUM"

The word “REDRUM” is probably the most famous anagram in history. It is the type 1 inversion of the word “MURDER” and is famous for having been used by Stephen King in his novel *The Shining* (1977). It appears 32 times in the novel, as follows:
1. 4 times as <Redrum>, in Chapter 8 (when Danny is glimpsing at the Overlook hotel while still in the car), in Chapter 9 (when thinking of it while talking with his father), in Chapter 16 (when he has an epileptic attack), and in Chapter 37 (in the ballroom),

2. 6 times as <redrum>, always when others are uttering the word: in Chapter 16 (when the doctor talks with Danny's parents), in Chapter 25 (when Danny is sitting outside Room 217 and is hearing voices), and in Chapter 29 (when Danny quotes Tony mentioning it).

3. 22 times as <REDRUM>, in Chapter 4 (when Danny sees the word written on the mirror in green fire), in Chapter 7 (when Danny, under his blanket, imagines the word flashing in red) as the last word of Part I, in Chapter 16 (when visiting the doctor), in Chapter 21 (when thinking of it while in the hotel), in Chapter 37 (when he sees it mirrored in the ballroom's mirror and realizes it is the anagram of "MURDER") and finally as the title of Chapter 50.

We can interpret the three allomorphs of "REDRUM" as follows: <Redrum> when it is used in Danny's speech or verbal thought, <redrum> when it is used in other people's speech, <REDRUM> when Danny visualizes it in reality or in memory.

In Chapter 16, King is emphasizing the ignorance of the anagrammatic nature of "REDRUM" by giving a false hypothesis on its etymology:

"What things, Danny?"

"I can't remember!" Danny cried out, agonized. "I'd tell you if I could! It's like I can't remember because it's so bad I don't want to remember. All I can remember when I wake up is REDRUM."

"Red drum or red rum?"

"Rum."

"What's that, Danny?"

"I don't know."

This paragraph has been a challenge for the various translations:

<table><thead><tr><th>French (1979)</th><th>Swedish (1980)</th><th>Italian (1981)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>— Qu'est-ce qu'il t'a montré, Danny?</td><td>— Vad då för saker, Danny?</td><td>«Quali cose, Danny?»</td></tr><tr><td>— Je n'arrive pas à m'en souvenir! s'écria Danny, au supplice. Je vous le dirais si je le pouvais! C'est comme si je ne voulais pas m'en souvenir. La seule chose que j'ai retenue en me réveillant, c'est le mot TROMAL.</td><td>— Jag kan inte komma ihåg! skrek Danny plågad. Jag skulle tala om det om jag kunde. Det är som om jag inte kunde komma ihåg för att det är så hemskt. Jag vill inte komma ihåg. Det enda jag kommer ihåg när jag vaknar upp är TEDROM.</td><td>«Non riesco a ricordare!» gridò Danny, in preda alla sofferenza. «Se mi ricordassi glielo direi! È come se non riuscissi a ricordare perché è così brutto che non voglio ricordare. L'unica cosa che mi ricordo quando mi sveglio è REDRUM.»</td></tr></tbody></table>
— Trop mal, en deux mots?

— Non, TROMAL en un seul mot.

— Qu'est-ce que c'est, Danny?

— Je ne sais pas.

— Rum eller rom, Danny?

— Rom.

— Vad är det?

— Jag vet inte.

«Red drum o red rum?»

«Rum.»

«E che cos'è, Danny?»

«Non lo so.»

<table><thead><tr><th>German (1982)</th><th>Spanish (1982)</th><th>Japanese (1986)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>»Was für Dinge sind das denn, Danny?«</td><td>— ¿Qué cosas, Danny?</td><td>「どんなものだい、それは?」</td></tr><tr><td>»Ich weiß es nicht mehr!«</td><td>— ¡No me acuerdo! — gritó el chico, torturado.— ¡Si pudiera se lo diría!</td><td>「覚えていないってば!」ダニーは悲痛な面持ちで叫んだ。「もし覚えていたら話すよ! 覚えてないのは、なんだかあまりいやなものだから、思い出したくないからみたい。目がさめてから思い出せるのは、レドラムって言葉だけなんだ」</td></tr><tr><td>schrie Danny gequält.</td><td>Es como si no pudiera recordarlas porque son tan malas que no quiero recordarlas. Lo único que puedo recordar cuando me despierto es REDRUM.</td><td>「レッド・ドラム、それともレッド・ラム?」</td></tr><tr><td>»Ich würde es Ihnen sonst sagen. Ich weiß es nicht mehr, weil es so schlimm ist, dass ich mich nicht daran erinnern will. Wenn ich aufwache, weiß ich nur noch DROM.«</td><td>— Redrum... Red drum... Red rum... ¿Tambor rojo o ron rojo?</td><td>「ラムだよ」</td></tr><tr><td>»Was ist das, Danny?«</td><td>— Ron.</td><td>「それはなんだい?」</td></tr><tr><td>»Ich weiß es nicht.«</td><td>— ¿Y eso qué es, Danny?</td><td>「わかない」</td></tr><tr><td></td><td>— No lo sé.</td><td></td></tr></tbody></table>

<table><thead><tr><th>Greek (1992)</th><th>Romanian (1993)</th><th>Portuguese (1999)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>«Τί πράγματα ἦταν αὐτά, Ντάνι;»</td><td>— Nu-mi aduc aminte! strigă Danny chinuit. Ţi-aş spune dacă aş putea! Parcă nu-mi aduc aminte — pentru că e atât de rău, că nu vreau să-mi aduc aminte. Tot ce-mi am-intesc când mă trezesc e AMIRC.</td><td>— Que coisas, Danny?</td></tr><tr><td>«Δὲ θυμᾶμαι», φώναξε μὲ ἁγωνία ὁ Ντάνι. «Αν μπορούσα θὰ σᾶς ἔλεγα! Ἱσως δὲν μπορῶ νὰ τὰ θυμηθῶ, γιατὶ εἶναι τόσο ἄσχημα ποὺ δὲ θέλω νὰ τὰ θυμηθῶ. Τὸ μόνο ποὺ θυμόμουν ὅταν ξύπνησα ἦταν ἡ λέξη ΣΟΝΟΦ». «Σύνοφ;»</td><td>— A-mirg sau a-rnirc?</td><td>— Não consigo me lembrar! — gritou o menino, agoniado. — Se eu conseguisse, eu diria! Acho que não me lembro porque é tão ruim que não quero me lembrar. Tudo que me lembro quando acordo é REDRUM.</td></tr><tr><td>«Ναί».</td><td>— Mirc.</td><td>— Red drum ou red rum?</td></tr><tr><td>«Τί θὰ πεῖ αὐτό, Ντάνι;»</td><td>— Ce-i asta, Danny?</td><td>— Rum.</td></tr><tr><td>«Δὲν ξέρω».</td><td>— Nu ştiu.</td><td>— O que é isso, Danny?</td></tr><tr><td></td><td></td><td>— Não sei.</td></tr></tbody></table>

We observe four approaches:

1. "REDRUM" remains in English: this is the case of Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and Japanese. In the case of Italian, Portuguese and Japanese neither "REDRUM" nor its pseudo-etymologies are translated. In the case of Spanish, the etymologies are translated into Spanish («¿Tambor rojo o ron rojo?») and Danny replies in Spanish («Ron»).
2. "REDRUM" is translated, but no false etymologies are given: this is the case of German <DROM> and Greek <ΣΟΝΟΦ> where the inversions of word "murder" can hardly be interpreted as any meaningful entity.

3. "REDRUM" is (faithfully) translated and some pseudo-etymology is given: "room or gypsy?" in Swedish, "a-mirg or a-mirc" in Romanian.

4. "REDRUM" is translated by a word different than the anagram of "MURDER": this is the case of French where the word used is <LA MORT> ("death," with a definite article) so that the anagram <TROMAL> is phonetically close to "trop mal" ("too much pain"). When asked by his father, Danny explains that in fact it is a single word, leaving open psychoanalytic interpretations.

It should be noted that the same word, but written <REΔΙΑΥΜ>, (or <REΔΙΑΥΜ> (in the latter, letters <M> and <U> are inverted as well), it is impossible to distinguish the two as the word is handwritten), a mix of inversion types 1 and 3, is written in blood letters on a door in Kubrick's movie *The Shining* (1980).

"REDRUM" has acquired a word status, has a dedicated Wikipedia page and has been used for a movie title, a rock band, songs, a TV series and even an architectonic project. It is also the title of a French novel, by Jean-Pierre Ohl (1959–).

### 3.3.4. Text Inversion on Book Covers

Here are some examples of text inversion on book covers.

<figure><img src="image_52.png" /></figure>

The Greek novel *Στις ὁμοφιές σου εἶσαι σήμερα!* (*You are looking beautiful today*) by Katia Kissonergi (1973–), a novel published in 2000 and displaying on the cover a swanling looking at its mirror image as a grown-up swan. On the cover (and on the back), the title is mirrored (inversion type 3).

*Le Phalanstère des langages excentriques* (2005), an essay on artificial ("excentric") languages by Stéphane Mahieu (1957–), regent for Social and
Culinary Sciences at the notorious Collège de 'pataphysique'. On the cover, the illustrator's name is inverted (inversion type 2).

*Whatever you think, think the opposite* (2006) by Paul Arden, where the second part of the title sentence is inverted to illustrate the notion of “opposite thinking,” with a nice visual symmetry of the horizontally aligned words `<THINK>` and `<ЖИІНТ>`.

*Comportament inadecvat* (2015), the Romanian translation of Richard H. Thaler's *Misbehaving* (2015), where two letters of the word “inadecvat” (“inappropriate”) are mirrored (inversion type 3). As the word is type-set in italics, the inversion effect is very salient: `<insdevat>`. The word operates as a metaphor of society, in which some individuals (= letters) misbehave by heading into the opposite direction.

And finally, **質問/Questions** (2018) which is actually the merge of two versions of the same book (Japanese and English): the Japanese version starts on the left, every left part of a double-page containing a question in Japanese, and the English version starts on the right, every right part of a double-page containing a question in English (for a total of 365 double pages). Each cover (left and right) is the mirror of the other: on the left cover, the Japanese title is written correctly and the English title is mirrored (`<質問 2НОІТ2ЕУО>`), the opposite happens on the right cover (`<問質 QUESTIONS>`) (inversion type 3). If Western and Oriental worlds are “incompatible” as the two covers of this book seem to imply, the book has managed to establish a perfect symmetry between its two languages (the only exception being the barcodes on the right cover, which are mandatory and are placed on what is “back cover” in Japan, namely the right cover).

## 3.4. Breaking RULE②-2: Graphs of the Same γ-Word Not Sharing the Same Straight Baseline

### 3.4.1. The Demolished Man

Alfred Bester (1913–1987) was an American Science-Fiction author, whose novel *The Demolished Man* (1953) won the first Hugo Award in history. He was probably the author that used the most innovative graphemic and graphetic methods, in particular when representing telepathy or synesthesia. Here is a short example of a γ-word the graphs of which do not lie on a straight line:

<footnote n="7">7. http://www.college-de-pataphysique.fr/. Let us mention the graphologically important fact that the apostrophe in the name of the discipline <'pataphysique>, introduced by Jarry (1911, p. II.VII), functions as a morphological label to distinguish it from the adjective <pataphysique>.</footnote>
— Étouffe ça, Linc. Ne fuse pas comme ça. Tu es gêné. Voyons si je n’arrivrerai pas à me faufiler à travers son écran mental.

— Écoute...

This example has been taken from the 2007 French translation of *The Demolished Man*, entitled *L'homme démoli* (p. 161), and seems to be an initiative of the French translator Patrick Marcel, since it doesn't appear in the original English text (we have consulted the British edition by Penguin Books, 1966). The word <faufiler> can be translated as “sneaking out” or “dodging,” but in this context is the translation of “thread-needling”<fnref n="8" />. The dialog is done in telepathic mode, so we can assume that curving the baseline is a graphetic equivalent to the common gesture of sneaking-out.

### 3.4.2. Le petit sauvage

Alexandre Jardin (1965–) is a French author. In his book *Le petit sauvage* (*The little savage*) he uses many graphetic methods to illustrate the transformation of the main character, Alexandre Eiffel, who experiences a return to his youth. The first part of the book is typeset in a standard way, using a regular serif font. Once the transformation has occurred, the font switches to sans serif and the text is strewn with graphetic particularities. One of them is the following paragraph (p. 191):

<figure><img src="image_53.png" /></figure>

describing the main character's journey on the sea and his sea-sickness. While Bester, in the previous example, has imitated a gesture, here Jardin generates a discomfort similar to sea-sickness by requiring the reader to read the wavy lines. The method used here is based on what Leeuwen (2006, p. 146) calls the 'experiential metaphor', namely when "a material signifier has a meaning potential that derives from our physical experience of it".

<footnote n="8">8. The original of this excerpt is: "Choke it, Linc. Don't jet off like that. You're embarrassed. Let's see if I can't maybe thread-needle through that mind block.' 'Listen—'" (p. 98 of *The Demolished Man*).</footnote>
### 3.5. Breaking RULE②-3: Graphs of the Same γ-Word With Different Sizes

Again in the second part of *Le petit sauvage*, Jardin uses graphs of progressively smaller sizes (p. 205)

GRAND. MAIS PEU

À PEU MES PAUPIÈRES SE REFERMENT,

JE NE VOIS plus rien... m... m...

while keeping the same (very large) lead-in. The sentence translates as: "But slowly my eyelids close, I don't see anything anymore...". By forcing the reader's eye to progressively switch from extra-large to tiny type, Jardin manages to produce a sensorial effect of tiredness and sleepiness. Part of the method is the switch from all-caps to lower case for the two last words, and then the repeated use of the first letter <r> of the word <rien> indicating both that the act of conscious thought has stopped and that snoring has started.

### 3.6. Breaking RULE②-4: Graphs of the Same γ-Word With Different Styles

Richard A. Lupoff (1935-) is an American science-fiction author and anthology editor. In his short story *With the Bentfin Boomer Boys on Little Old New Alabama*, he uses several graphetic methods, including style change inside a word: "believe" (p. 280), "centimeters" (p. 285), "lowcut" (p. 289), "something" (p. 318), "inside" (p. 321), and "usships, themships" (p. 339). We can assume that the switch to italics represents sonic salience.

### 3.7. Breaking RULE②-5 or 6: Graphs of the Same γ-Word From Different Font Families, or Being Different Allographs of the Same Grapheme

It seems that the concept of word is tightly connected to the uniqueness of font family or allographic representatives, therefore we were not able to find examples of these rules being broken.
having Asperger's syndrome, the main character has behavioral difficulties. When walking alone at the Paddington railway station he faces an anxiety crisis caused by information saturation (p. 208–209):

and then I took my hands away from my ears and I groaned to block out the noise and I looked round the big room at all the signs to see if this was London. And the signs said:

<figure><img src="image_54.png" /></figure>

But after a few seconds they looked like this

<figure><img src="image_55.png" /></figure>

because there were too many and my brain wasn't working properly and this frightened me so I closed my eyes again

The first image is a series of brand marks and logotypes, with a few (innocuous) pictograms (toilets for men and ladies, information, smoking forbidden), separated by interword spaces and hyphenated (using a hyphen) at line end. The second version is rearrangement of brand mark and logotype parts, interspersed by aggressive pictograms (sculls, bombs, bolts of lightning, the toilet for men pictogram without the ladies counterpart, etc.). There are no interword spaces anymore, and hyphenation is done without a hyphen. But even without interword spaces, fonts are alternating in such a way that parts of brand names and logotypes are still recognizable. Using the method of 'experiential metaphor', Haddon manages to transmit to the reader the feeling of being lost and terrified in a labyrinth of meaning. Probably as a private joke (or as a glimpse into the
main character's soul) at the beginning of the eight line we read <qed>
("quod erat demonstrandum") the acronym that acts as a beacon of salva-
tion to mathematicians since it marks the ends of proofs.

Among the translations of this novel, the Brazilian, German and Ital-
ian ones keep the English version of these images, the Dutch, French and
Spanish ones adapt them linguistically, and the Portuguese one uses the
Spanish adaptation.

3.10. Breaking RULE⑤-2: Nonstandard Morpheme Separators

In one of his early novellas, *Nous rêvions d'Amérique* (2002), the French author Thomas Day (1971–) uses the following title (p. 3 and 5):

N.OUS R.ÊVIONS D'A.MÉRIQUE

In this sharp critique of contemporary America, an aged Hopi Native American, Hoijer, leaves his reservation for a journey to an NRA convention in San Francisco, in order to kill as many participants as possible, as revenge for a mass murder that occurred two years earlier, in which his 5-year old grand-daughter was among the victims.

The title of the novella, "We were dreaming of America," is a common
locus for generations of Europeans—nevertheless its nostalgia is dis-
rupted by the "intruder" dots in the title, which unveil the initials "NRA".
Combining the acronym method with the regular title is a graphemic
method acting in a way similar to ateji (cf. §3.18), as it injects new layers
of meaning and establishes a dialog between them. Day's achievement is
to have reached this goal without adding any new morphemes, as would
be the case in ateji annotation.

3.11. Breaking RULE⑩-1: Nonstandard Syntax

Speculative fiction abounds with cases of nonstandard syntax, starting
with the famous Yoda syntax "Found someone, you have, I would say,
hmmm?" (Star Wars, Ep. 5), which illustrates OSV word order, as in
Japanese.

In this paper we are interested in graphemic and graphetic methods,
and nonstandard syntax as in Yoda's case is perfectly standard from the
graphemic point of view. We will, nevertheless, mention three texts in
which nonstandard syntax is combined with graphetic methods.

3.11.1. Sparkie's Fall

The author Gavin Hyde is a complete unknown.<fnref n="9" /> His entire œuvre con-
sists of three short stories and *Sparkie's Fall* (1959) is the last among them.

<footnote n="9">9. In Pohl (1960, p. 166) one reads: "A few years back, in Ireland, Ray Bradbury spent some very productive months. Not only did he write the script of one of the best</footnote>
In this 4-page very short story, a human is forced to land on a planet and his ship is surrounded by two gigantic whale-like aliens. He communicates with them through a device called a "mechanical Translator".

This device writes sentences with explicit intention marking (an exclamation mark at sentence beginning), syntagm variants (in parentheses) and keywords for categories such as NAME and GARBLE.

Here is an excerpt:

"NAME, I am worried. Could Sparkie (eat) (be nourished by) GARBLE?"

And then the answer: "!, (stop) (cease) (desist from) worrying, NAME. Sparkie is (in admirable condition) (fine)!":

It had taken him twenty years to get "Sparkie" out of his family's vocabulary. And now the first two "people" he met in outer space called him Sparkie.

Just because they were bigger than he was!

After having telepathically scanned Sparkie's memory, the two aliens seem to be very knowledgeable about his condition as they are discussing him like an old married couple:

"NAME-"

"?"

"It is (odd) (strange) (perplexing)."

"?"

"I am thinking of Sparkie's mind ... NAME!"

"I am awake!"

"Sparkie is so (small) (weak) (defenseless)."

"(Hm) (Mm) (Mmm)."

"His mind is like a (piece) (sheet) of GARBLE. We think on the (bases) (conditions) (roots) of our experience, our perceptions which are multiplied by (objects) (things) (forms of matter) which we have sensed. Sparkie must think with the (toys) (playthings) of his earth only. How can he understand us? What does he know of GARBLE, GARBLE or GARBLE for example, this (small) (weak) (defenseless) being? NAME!"

"! Go to sleep."

motion pictures of recent years—Moby Dick was its name—but on a side trip he met a young writer [= Gavin Hyde] who had just turned his hand to science fiction, and persuaded him to let American editors see the results. Star was delighted to acquire two of them" (followed by the titles of two stories by Hyde). According to @Valorum from the scifi stackexchange.com forum, Gavin Hyde is probably yet another pseudonym of Ray Bradbury, because of the following facts: (1) Bradbury is said to have "discovered him" on a trip to Ireland (which seems unlikely), (2) Bradbury had a history of using pseudonyms, (3) there exists no other biographical information for this quite competent author, and (4) in his texts one encounters repeated uses of chess imagery, something that Bradbury would use often.
The story has a tragic end as Sparkie leaves his vessel to face the aliens and the Translator continues to “spit papers, violently” and “[a] great rocking bellowing sound [is heard] and a smell of sorrow spread skyward”.

We don't know whether Hyde was professionally involved in early versions of automatic translators (after all, it was in the fifties that automatic translation had its first spectacular outburst), but the use of parentheses to annotate variant translations (even for interjections such as Hm/Mm/Mmm) and of capitals for generic syntactic categories must have been quite surprising for an average reader in the fifties.

### 3.11.2. Silent Brother

Algis Budrys (2931–2008) was the son of the Lithuanian consul general in the US when the Soviet Union occupied Lithuania in 1940 and his family left the diplomatic service and became chicken farmers in New Jersey. It is no wonder that his novels and stories are filled with Cold War fear and suspicion. In his short story *Silent Brother* (1956), which he signs as Paul Janvier, he describes the slow appropriation of the main character's body and psyche by an alien. At some point, a device built by the alien during the main character's sleep emits a beam that blocks his thoughts. Budrys writes the following paragraph to illustrate the main character's mental confusion:

<table><thead><tr><th>English (1956)</th><th>German (1965)</th><th>French (1969)</th><th>Japanese (1969)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>Blink can't think<br>blink rhythm I<br>think blink trick<br>think blink sink<br>blink wink—<br>CAN'T THINK!</td><td>Blink kann nicht<br>denken blink Rhyth-<br>mus ich denke<br>blink Trick den-<br>ken blink sink<br>blink wink—kann<br>nicht denken!</td><td>Paupières peux<br>pas penser pau-<br>pières pulsations<br>pense paupières<br>poisson d'avril<br>penser paupières<br>patatras paupiè-<br>res papilloter—<br>PEUX PAS penser!</td><td>またたきのリズム<br>がおれの考えをま<br>たたかせ、またたき、<br>考え、またたき、ト<br>リックがまたたき、<br>おれは考えをまた<br>たこうとして—だめ<br>だ!</td></tr></tbody></table>

The lack of syntax, the alternation of roman and italics and the repetitive <ink> suffix motive show the despair of the main characters trying to resist but not able to build a single sentence. The German version is a nearly-identical translation of the English one (even though the word “wink” does not have the same meaning in the two languages), while the French version is based on the repetition of words starting with a <p>. The Japanese version is a standard translation (words “sink” and “wink” have been omitted) where words for “trick” and “rhythm” are in katakana, since they derive from English.
### 3.11.3. Old Testament

Jerome Bixby (1923–1998) was an American science fiction author who wrote, among other things, a *Twilight Zone* episode and four *Star Trek* episodes. His short story *Old Testament* (1964) is a pun to pseudoarchaeological theories like the ones exposed in Pauwels and Bergier's *The Morning of the Magicians* (1960) and in Charroux's *One Hundred Thousand Years of Man's Unknown History* (1963). In it, a human spaceship visits theSirius IV planet, avoiding as much as possible being noticed by the indigenous primitive civilization. When the humans leave the planet, they discover a native baby abandoned in a basket. They immediately return and discreetly deposit the baby in the middle of a village. In the second part of the short story, an indigenous narrator gives eir version of the baby's return, where the astronauts have become “good gods” and the child a self-proclaimed prophet, “Messenger of the Good Gods,” to which “They” have given a “fragment of the Sun,” which is actually a flashlight pen (called “pencil-flash” in the story, p. 103) the child has stolen from the ship:

<table><thead><tr><th>English (1964)</th><th>Italian (1964)</th><th>French (1983)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>I happy. Everybody like little one. He friend of good gods. Other mothers take care of him. Let him drink. Let other little ones drink. Do for each other, I happy because good gods bring him back<br>to His people, and the First Night did ring with rejoicing; for He had returned from the Land Beyond the Sky and He said unto those who waited They are Good Gods, and I am Their Messenger, and lo! They have given to me a fragment of the Sun that I may shed light over darkness and open your eyes to good and gentle ways.</td><td>Io felice. Tutti volere bene mio piccolo. Lui amico di buoni dèi. Altre madri avere cura di lui. Lasciare lui succhiare. Lasciare altri piccoli senza madre succhiare. Servire uni per altre, e io felice perché buoni dèi portare lui indietro...<br>alla Sua gente, e la Dolce Notte risonò di canti; poiché Lui era tornato dalla Terra al di là del Cielo per dire a coloro che aspettavano: Essi sono gli Dèi Benigni, e io sono il Loro Messengero, e guardate! Essi mi hanno dato un frammento di Sole, affinché io possa spandere la luce tra le tenebre e aprire i vostri occhi sulle cose buone et gentili.</td><td>Moi heureux. Tous aimer petit. Petit ami bons Dieux. Autres mères prendre petit, donner boire petit. Faire les uns pour les autres. Bien. Moi heureux parce que bons Dieux ramener petit<br>à Son peuple, et la Première nuit fut emplie de réjouissances, car Il était revenu du Pays Au-Delà du Ciel et Il dit à ceux qui attendaient qu'ils étaient de bons Dieux et qu'il était leur Messager! Voyez! Ils m'ont donné un fragment de Leur Soleil pour que Je puisse répandre la Lumière dans les ténèbres et ouvrir vos yeux sur ce qui est juste et bon.</td></tr></tbody></table>
In the middle of the narration there is a transition: from syntax-less pidgin language, the narrator switches to a pastiche of Biblical text where all pronouns referring to the astronauts are capitalized, as they are called “Gods”. This transition is emphasized by two graphetic methods:

1. the first line of the “Biblical” text starts exactly underneath the location where the pidgin text ends;

2. pidgin text is in roman and “Biblical” text in italics (the styles are reversed in the French version, and in Italian there is no style change because the magazine is set by typewriter).

The story ends when the reader discovers that the “Biblical” text is in fact an excerpt from the “Sirian Bible,” which a young Galactic Federation student is reading and wondering where the “Gods” came from, before closing it and moving to the next interstellar Bible.

### 3.11.4. The End

The American author Fredric Brown (1906–1972) is known for his very short and ingenuous stories. One of them, *The End* (1961), a 105-word story, first published in the 'adult' magazine *The Dude*, is perfectly symmetric with respect to word order: at the climax of the story, when a scientist having invented a machine making time run backwards pushes a button, the entire story is written anew, backwards word-wise, so that it consists of 52 words in standard order, followed by a pivot word (<backward>) and the same 52 words in reverse order.

Here is the central part of the story in three languages (we have underlined the pivot word):

<table><thead><tr><th>English (1961)</th><th>French (1963)</th><th>German (1963)</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>Pushing a button as he spoke, he said, “This should make time run backward run time make should this,” said he, spoke he as button a pushing.</td><td>Et, tout en appuyant sur un bouton, il dit: «Ceci devrait faire repartir le temps à rebours à temps le repartir faire devrait ceci», dit-il bouton un sur appuyant en tout, et.</td><td>Er drückte einen Knopf, während er sprach, und sagte: „Das sollte die Zeit zurücklaufen lassen zurücklaufen Zeit die sollte das“, sagte und, sprach er, während Knopf einen drückte er.</td></tr></tbody></table>

In French, whenever there is an elision phenomenon, the two words are considered as a single one, such as <j'ai>. Even the composite and elided <l'équation-clé> is considered as a single word and hence remains unchanged in the reversed text. In the case of German, the (same) composite word is inverted: <Zeit-Theorie> becomes <Theorie-Zeit>—this only happens because the constituents are separated by a dash, while the
undashed composite word <Schlüsselgleichung> remains unchanged in
the reverted part of the story.

The story ends with the inversion of the title: <END THE> (resp.
<N.I.F> in French and <ENDE DAS> in German). In a Whorfian per-
spective, it raises the question whether it suffices to reverse word order
in order to experience time backwards.

3.12. Breaking RULE⑩-2: Insertion of Fragments in Other Scripts

Introducing non-Latin script text fragments into ordinary Latin-
alphabet text is a very rarely used graphemic method—after all, no au-
thor or publisher expects eir readers to be able to decipher foreign
scripts. We have found two exceptions to this rule.

3.12.1. Rendez-vous pour amant·e·s égaré·e·s

In the 2018 novel *Rendez-vous pour amant·e·s égaré·e·s* by young French au-
thor Éric Abbel, the two main characters O and U are lovers of unde-
fined gender, and thanks to gender-neutral writing (cf. Haralambous
and Dichy, 2019), nothing in the novel allows the reader to identify
their genders. When introducing a third character, a math professor
who interferes in the relationship between O and U, Abbel uses the Russ-
ian/Ukrainian word <Одержимый> (“passionate”) (p. 40):

Ce lundi-là comme chaque lundi, O posait pour l'Académie des Arts Ap-
pliqués, dans la classe du professeur Oдержимый, qui enseignait la perspec-
tive dans l'art abstrait.

We notice that more than the half of the graphemes of <Одержимый>
(namely <д>, <ж>, <и>, <ы> and <й>) are unrecognizable by the av-
erage French reader. The name is used nine times in the novel and it
would be interesting to find out what reading strategies readers of the
novel apply to render it phonetically.

3.12.2. Le Voyage de Mao-Mi

French author Lisa Bresner (1971–2007) wrote several children books,
in which Chinese characters are inserted into French text to familiarize
children with sinographs.

Here is an excerpt of her 2006 novel *Le voyage de Mao-Mi*:
<figure><img src="image_56.png" /></figure>

As this excerpt appears towards the end of the book (p. 40), Bresler uses sinographs instead of French words (mainly representing numbers), while at the beginning of the book sinographs often repeat French words, which are then set in bold face, as here for the word <Bonjour> (p. 8):

<figure><img src="image_57.png" /></figure>

### 3.13. Breaking RULE④-1: Nonstandard Spaces Between Words

Charlemagne Ischir Defontenay (1819–1856) was a French physician and author. His novel *Star ou Ψ de Cassiopée* (1854) is one of the first science-fiction works in history. Defontenay was discovered by Raymond Queneau, who considered him as yet another “fou littéraire” (literary madman).

Citing Jaccaud (2008),

As an amazing precursor of modern poetry, Defontenay, seeking to build estrangement, discovers the importance of space between words, the void that generates universes.

Indeed, when narrating the discovery of alien artefacts on the Himalayah, Defontenay uses irregular spacing between words or syntagms to increase the effect of estrangement and of cold. Here is an example of this graphetic method (p. 19):

<figure><img src="image_58.png" /></figure>
### 3.14. Breaking RULE⑭-1: Words on Nonstandard Base Lines

In §3.4 we gave an example of graphs of a given γ-word not sharing the same straight baseline. Here we deal with γ-words individually set in a standard way but belonging to sentences set in nonstandard way.

The following telepathic dialog appears on p. 24 of Bester's *The De-molished Man*. Bester uses vertical dimension to denote temporality and imaginary base lines as discursive unit identifiers. We have attempted to identify discursive units and display them through colored arrows on the right side:

<figure><img src="image_59.png" /></figure>

<figure><img src="image_60.png" /></figure>

It is interesting to note that these discursive units seem to interfere with each other, for example towards the middle of the time frame, we have, in different sentences, expressions related to time: “very shortly,” “much longer,” “just about”. In particular, there is confusion in the center of the diagram: the sentence “He’s just taken his Guild Exam. and been classed 2nd.” (violet arrow) occupies the imaginary line of the sentence starting with “Frankly, Ellery...” (orange arrow). If this is the case, then the word “The” on line 13 does not belong to any sentence, and the sentence “is just about ready...” (blue arrow) starts out of nowhere. Bester has brilliantly managed to illustrate both the power and the confusion of telepathic communication, as long as we admit that telepathy uses communicative units equivalent to (1-dimensional) phonemes and not to (2-dimensional) graphemes.