One book which I bought this past year was the autobiography of Otto Jespersen, A Linguist's Life (translated by David Stoner, edited by Arne Juul, Hans F. Nielsen, and Jørgen Erik Nielsen). I think I first came across Jespersen in 2011 when I was teaching English on Jinmen Island, Taiwan, and happened to find his book The Philosophy of Grammar (1924) in the upstairs floor of a department store among a lot of books imported from China. I only read a couple chapters, but I was warmed by his friendliness and lucidity around linguistic concepts. The following year, after I started studying linguistics at Payap University in Thailand, I read in R. M. W. Dixon's Basic Linguistic Theory (vol. 1, pp.87-88) that The Philosophy of Grammar is a classic. Dixon calls it "[a]n impressive synthesis of typological theory at that point in time. Asks important questions and provides thoughtful and thorough answers. It may appear a little outdated but it is still worthwhile examining what Jespersen had to say on virtually any topic."
So late this year as I was languishing in my room here at Old World Apples, hopped onto Jespersen's profile on Wikipedia and found out that he'd published an autobiography in 1938, and that it was published in English in 1995. I scoured the internet for copies, and the ones for sale were all way overpriced, but finally I found the Danish university press that had published it, and was able to order it from there at a reasonable price. When it got here, I found a real treat in chapter 16, "Retrospect". Maybe old scholars like Jespersen have had some of the tartness seasoned out of them, and what remains is devil-may-care wisdom and advice based on life experiences. Sample the following:
On accepting one's limitations (pp.246-247)
A song at a party at the time when I was writing my Fonetik, had this to say of me:
[Otto's a mighty clever chap.
With vigour undiminished
He labours on his heavy tome,
Which never will be finished.]
Time has shown this judgement to be rather hasty; I have completed both the phonetics and other big books -- although there are several plans which I have not carried out, and for which half-finished, often very copious, drafts lie in my drawers...
This is the nub of the matter, I suppose: we are all limited and Goethe's words [("It is in limitation that the master truly reveals himself")] are only true if they are taken to mean, "[it is in recognition of his limitation that the master truly reveals himself]".
On jotting down observations (p.247)
I am above all an observer; I quite simply cannot help making linguistic observations. In conversations at home and abroad, in railway compartments, when passing people in the street and on the road, I am constantly noticing oddities of pronunciation, forms, and sentence constructions -- but more in my younger days than now, when much of what was then striking is familiar to me. I have jotted down much of what I have picked up in that way and have developed quite a skill in catching language subtleties on the wing.
Reading with pencil in hand (p.247-248)
I constantly read with a pencil in my hand, and when there is something I find worth noting, I put a small dot in the margin. Afterwards these things, individual forms or whole sentences, are entered on slips of paper... At the moment when something is noted down I very often have no idea what I am going to use it for, or whether it will prove or show anything of interest; quite frequently a rule or connection becomes clear to me only when I compare a number of slips which may have been written at intervals of several years; thus a system which emerges from many separate observations has not, as in the practice of some philologists, been deduced beforehand (a priori) -- a method which can easily lead one astray.
...[N]otes on small slips are a good help, because with the greatest ease they can be arranged and re-arranged and put together from various points of view, until one finds the final system. From the start it is all elastic and flexible, until it is fitted into the straitjacket of a system.
From notes to slips to drawers to books (p.250)
So when any topic comes up for treatment, I already have a fair number of individual observations and ideas to build upon... One of my pupils is said to have once depicted my procedure like this: Jespersen gradually stuffs a quantity of slips into compartments in his drawers; when one compartment is full, a little bell rings, and another book is finished. Well, it is not quite so easy as that, and certainly not everything that has been collected is put into the final version. It is a matter of discriminating between what is essential and what is inessential, that may be where my strength lies... the secret [of finding good examples] lies precisely in the fact that... I have already gathered so many examples of every phenomenon dealt with that I can reject many of the less apt or useful ones, so that only the good ones are left.
The art of presentation (p.251)
One thing that is related to my ability to weed out material, instead of pedantically wanting to include everything, is... the art of presentation. "It reads like a novel" has been said in reviews of several of my books... But in my books I am not a mere popularizer deftly presenting things that others have thought -- my books contain mainly things that I have myself observed and thought, which I have endeavored to arrange for the reader in such a way that without too much effort he will grasp the broad and basic problems and see the main lines. Although I have avoided many of the technical terms that make the reading of many scholarly works so difficult, I hope that it will be said of me that I have not dodged difficulties.
Feel free to rearrange (pp.252)
As regards the final drafting, I shall first pass on a piece of advice which [Henry] Sweet gives in one of his books: don't try to save paper; paper is cheap. So of course write on only one side. But if you are not absolutely sure of the final order of the sections, always write each paragraph, however short, on a separate piece of paper. This gives opportunity for later expansions, additions, and rearrangements.
Writing habits (pp.252-253)
Form habits of work that are as regular and practical as possible.
Relieve the reader of much time-consuming labour. So quote in the best way: in the text itself as far as possible, so that his eye does not have to glance up and down while reading...
Do not immediately number the pages of the manuscript but wait until the whole of it is finished...
Do not reread what you have written straight away, but wait until next morning, when you are more detached and look at it with fresh eyes. It is good to begin one's daily stint by looking through the previous day's work; it prepares the mind for continuing. Morley Roberts and, as far as I recall, Anthony Trollope give novelists the advice not to finish in the evening by concluding a chapter, but to write just the beginning of the next one; then it will be easier to get into the mood the next day.
Communication as labor to enable understanding (p.254)
All this is bound up with my whole basic view of the nature of language as human labour to enable one person to grasp another's thought, feeling, and will. From this there necessarily follows the evaluative view with its two poles: easy to produce and easy to grasp. The best is that which, with the least effort, achieves the easiest, fullest, and most certain understanding. But from this all the rest follows, including the ethical task of working for an approach to this ideal.
Random notes for random thoughts (p.254)
I have not used the slips of paper only for single observations or quotations; on many of them I have written thoughts, whole reflections, or series of thoughts in outline. These may often have been evoked in an odd way through an apparently random link with what I am reading, not infrequently on quite unconnected subjects, in books, periodicals, or newspaper articles. A single word or phrase may arouse thoughts in my own special field or outside this.
Thinking-walks (p.254)
I have had many good ideas on solitary walks (thinking-walks my wife used to call them, and when I was much preoccupied with a topic, she knew that either I had to walk alone or, if she was with me, she had better keep quiet, whereas at other times our conversation could be lively enough). On such walks I always have slips in my pocket and write quite a lot on them. For instance, Novial came into being mainly in the parks of Ermelunden and Dyrehaven.
Notes at night (p.254)
I have also worked with slips of paper at night. In Jægersborg, when I shared a bedroom with my wife, I accustomed myself to writing thoughts down in the dark in pencil (not on ordinary paper slips, but on special ones of cardboard). As a rule these night slips contain only a single word which in the morning sets off a whole train of thought that might otherwise easily have been forgotten; it may also remind me of something to be done during the day. Here at Lundehave, where I have my own bedroom, I can of course switch on the light for such jottings without bothering anyone. Particularly while working on Analytic Syntax I would frequently wake up thinking of some sentence or sentence type: Have I included that one? And how is it to be analysed and symbolized? This led to disturbed sleep and was an important factor in the mental strain and exhaustion which was evident in the summer of 1936.
Habits of sleep and work (p.255)
In my younger days I used to read much at night and consequently got up late. During my period as a teacher, however, I combated this by always making sure that my lessons were in the morning. As a professor I had to get up early on the days I had lectures from 9 o'clock: I had to leave Gentofte station at a little after eight, and it took me twenty minutes to walk there. But I might not wake up properly until I had almost finished dressing, or during breakfast, or even while walking up the hill along Bernstorff Park. But on the days when I did not have to go to the University, I slept in late. I have long since shaken off these bad habits, and for many years now I have consistently kept to the rule that I do not work seriously after about eight o'clock or so, often indeed not after our evening dinner at about six. I get out of my bed without fail at half past seven, sit down to breakfast at eight, then read newspapers or the day's mail, then work until exactly eleven, and then walk until a quarter past twelve or thereabouts (only in exceptionally nasty weather is the walk curtailed); lunch at 12.30 is followed by a rest on the sofa... At 2, 2.15, or 2.30 I am up again and as a rule work until dinner-time, but nearly always with an additional walk of 30 or 45 minutes, when there are no afternoon visitors. I like if possible to walk my seven kilometres a day.
On answering letters (p.255)
A habit, not quite consistently adhered to, is on Sunday morning to answer those of the week's letters which have not required an immediate response. But I prefer to reply at once, because then one does not need to read them through again and can at once consign most letters to the waste-paper basket.
On daily reading (p.255-256)
For some years I made it a rule every day to read something, whether much or little, in one of the languages that are not exactly a picnic to me. Although there were days when it amounted to very little, it all added up, and in that way I managed to read most of the Odyssey, some of Plato, Calderón, Tolstoy, some Old Norse, the Gothic gospels with the Greek text, Holberg's Latin epistles, etc. It was fairly easy to maintain such a habit when life followed its daily routine, but once the habit had been broken by a longish journey, it was hard to get started again.
On forgetting (p.256)
I have written and published so much that I oftentimes cannot remember whether something about which I know I have reached conclusions has found a place in my published works, or whether it exists half-finished in one of my manuscripts for lectures or the like...
It happens now and again when I dip into one of my earlier books, that I say to myself in amazement: What a lot you knew about that topic in those days. The reader may take this admission as he pleases, as an expression of vanity or as evidence of my poor memory.
On toning down criticism (p.257)
I am probably by nature of a critical cast of mind... Many of my best ideas have come to me when I have been reading or hearing the opposite views of others. In reviews and in books I have therefore often been polemical; it is my nature to put forward objections as sharply and definitely as possible and I may not always have expressed myself in as considerate a manner as possible. Here, however, I must thank my wife; she did not read much of my strictly scholarly works, but where possible, particularly in lectures, minor articles, and letters, she toned down over-sharp comments and persuaded me to see the justice of this. So I think I can rightly say that I have had, and continue to have, a good personal relationship with all those whose views I have publicly contradicted. (With perhaps a solitary exception.)
The fruits of progress (p.258)
I am happy that in my long life I have seen the introduction of telephones, bicycles, typewriters, fountain pens, cars, water closets, lifts, electric light, sound films, gramophones -- and not least: radio. And I am sure it is also a good thing that nowadays in Denmark we can eat tomatoes, bananas, and grapefruit, which were unknown in my youth. There are some points, after all, where the world progresses!
