The linearity principle is Saussure’s statement that, because linguistic signifiers are sounds (spoken words), they are intrinsically sequential (“linear”). They cannot be perceived simultaneously, the way visual signs are: they must be perceived one after the other, as a sequence in time. That principle is also carried over to writen words, as a visual representation of spoken words.
As an epigrammatic means of defining appropriate civility in exchanges on Quora: it is a very good ideal, and one that is lacking in many online fora. My libertarian heart has chafed against it, but I have appreciated how it has helped me off the ledge in interactions with other users on more than one occasion.
There are areas for interpretation which cloud it, of course. A forum that uses the “Be Nice” to ban sarcasm or swearing is not a forum I have much time for. The way it is used to suppress discussion of moderation actions is one I have consistently resented as specious. And any extension of BNBR to public figures, I regard as illegitimate.
But as an ideal for one-on-one interaction, yes, it is a good thing.
Its implementation, on the other hand, is as flawed as you’d expect. No transparency, rulings that leave you scratching your head, inconsistencies, vulnerability to vendettas.
Markos was the master of the Peiraeus tradition of rebetiko, which switched from an Anatolian, plaintive setting for songs about hashish and swag, to a Greek, jaunty setting for songs about hashish and swag.
Frangosyriani marks the beginning of the end of the tradition. Wikipedia says it was written in ’35, but it already sounds like it was written in ’36, when the Metaxas dictatorship censored both the lyrics and—more lastingly—the scales of rebetiko. It’s just a list of scenic locations in Syros where Markos would take his fellow Catholic girlfriend. Its music lacks the bite of what made Markos great.
But this is his lasting legacy, a tune that gets everyone swaying, a tune suffused with elegance and romance—and jauntiness.
If Markos was master of the Peiraeus blues, Tsitsanis was master of what came next: the transformation of rebetiko into a genre palatable to the masses, cleaned up, and with virtuoso flourishes.
Cloudy Sunday is the song that, at least when I was young, every Greek knew by heart, and was guaranteed to bring a tear to every Greek’s eye. It has a dignified, stately melancholy to it, a proud swelling of the heart.
Tsitsanis let it be understood that the song was written in 1942, while Athens all around him was starving. That was no doubt a big part of why the song became so well loved. The prevalent theory is that the lyrics were written in 1946 by a friend of his, because his soccer team had lost that Sunday.
In truth, that doesn’t diminish the song a bit. The song stands just fine on its own. Here’s the definitive performance by the great Stelios Kazantzidis.
Kazantzidis also wrote songs, and this is perhaps one of his greatest.
Kazantzidis is perhaps an acquired taste. In my youth, I dismissed him as boorish, mawkish, too Oriental. I matured, I learned there’s a place for that in life. I learned that pain in life deserves wallowing in music. And after I took part in a drunken singalong to this, I could never dismiss him again.
I’m living my last night tonight. And those who have embittered me so, now that I am leaving life behind, I forgive them all.
Everything is but a lie, a breath, a sigh. Like a flower, a hand will cut us one dawn.
Where I am going, tears and pain have no purchase. Suffering and sorrow will stay behind in life, and I will leave alone.
Life has two doors: I opened one and went in. I took a stroll one morning, and by the time sunset came I left by the other.
Theodorakis is a defining figure in Greek music and Greek politics; his star has been tarnished, but he expressed a generation, and that does not change, even if the generation has become disillusioned since.
This was likely his greatest song, where he transformed the bouzouki song into a a not-so traditional lament for the dead. The song was one of many Theodorakis used in his play on the reccent Greek Civil War—each and every one a hit.
And none more transcendental in its keening than this.
In a roundabout way: syllabus is ultimately derived from a garbling of the obscure Greek word sittyba, which got mangled progressively in manuscripts and then print editions of Cicero, and reinterpreted from its original meaning “title slip”.
If it is possible! You hear there, “It can someone to write in the language theirs using the grammar theirs but English words?” Hey not you us quit? For what you us passed, for revue? Not will I sit to you make theatre the how I speak, so you to break slab! Elsewhere these! Not they have slaughtered! Hey shoo!
Well I never! The nerve, “Can someone write in their language using their grammar but English words?” Why don’t you leave me alone! What do you take me for, a performing monkey? I’m not going to sit around making a show of how I speak for your amusement! Tell it to someone else! It ain’t happening. Get lost!