Being a foreign word ending in a non-Greek ending, there is no plural. In Modern Greek, if a noun ends in something other than a vowel or sigma, it can’t be declined. (Nu is archaic; rho xi psi even more so.) So το βαμπίρ, τα βαμπίρ.
I see that at least one person online has named themselves Vampirissa “vampiress”, forming a feminine of the form. But that would be considered informal usage: formal usage would just put a feminine article in front of βαμπίρ.
As any search for “Quora” on Upwork will show, plenty of people are being paid to write answers on Quora, without being state agents. Quora has strictures against spam; it does not have strictures that I know of against propaganda.
From my outside perspective, I keep thinking Quora is one bad news story away from being in a world of hurt. But the bad news story hasn’t happened since 2014. And at least this year they’ve hired a lawyer.
Spam is not the right category for suspected professional propaganda or astroturf, but it’s close enough to serve for reporting, and it’s better than mere “factually inaccurate”. Do give an argument for your suspicion if you make a report, though.
Modern Greek has nasal Sandhi. That means that following a word ending in /n/, any voiceless stop is voiced. (And in the case of /ks/ and /ps/, so is the following /s/.) The /n/ in turn assimilates in place of articulation to what follows.
So:
patera “father”, san patera [sam batera] “like a father”
keo “I burn”, ðen keo [ðeŋ ɡeo] “I don’t burn”
psixi “soul”, stin psixi [stim bziçi] “to the soul”
kseno “stranger”, ton kseno [toŋ ɡzeno] “the stranger”
Of course, we don’t have transcripts by Plato of chats with Socrates, we have dialogues he made up. But Socrates is constantly addressed in Plato’s dialogues as “O Socrates” (ὦ Σώκρατες), with monotonous regularity—over 1200 times in the works of Plato. Socrates in turn addresses his trollees (er, interlocutors) as “O partner” or “o good man” (ὦ ἑταῖρε, ὠγαθέ).
I didn’t get to know my paternal grandparents well; I met my grandfather only once, my grandmother twice. My grandmother was somewhat vague by the time I met her, and I had real trouble with her dialect. My grandfather was vaguely feared, but I couldn’t particularly see why at eight years of age; I hadn’t been brought up in his hardscrabble household, after all.
My maternal grandparents, I got to know well. My grandfather was proud, unsmiling, stern. He was the village beadle, and a denizen of good standing in the community. He was descended from Sfakia, the southwest of the island, where people pursue vendettas and dress in permanent black, and think dancing beneath them. He was slightly out of place in the village in easternmost Crete, where people are relaxed and docile, and do not shoot firearms into the air at weddings. He ran a cafe in the upper village, before my time; I could not understand how—the kafedzis is supposed to be the life of the party.
He wasn’t cold, as such, although perhaps more affectionate to infants than to children. But critical, and very concerned with public perception. When I’d goof off as a teenager, he’d scowl Λίγη σοβαρότης δε βλάφτει. “A bit of seriousness wouldn’t do you any harm.”
He often said that if he was ever debilitated, they should give him rat poison: he was too proud a man to want to go without command of his faculties. He was felled by two strokes, and lived out his final days with no faculties, and no rat poison. He deserved a better end than that.
My grandmother was—is—as cheerful as my grandfather was stern, and as kindly as he was critical. She’d laugh a lot, with a gentle chuckle, and often without much obvious cause. She’d still get annoyed about things, often including me goofing off. But her annoyance never lasted long.
She’s still going at 94, although not quite there as much as she was. Then again, she’s more there than her children allow. When my wife and I visited her, she asked my wife’s name, and when she was trying to pronounce “Tamar”, my uncle jumped in and hollered “Maria! Her name’s Maria!” (A generation of Albanian migrants can testify to Greeks refusing to learn foreign names.) My grandmother chuckled, “Well, I guess I’ll call you Maria then.” In fact, here’s the footage:
As other answers have pointed out, the vrikolakas is an indigenous Greek creature rising from the grave, with its own mythology, which is only somewhat similar with that of the vampire. Andreas Karkavitsas‘ harrowing novella The Beggar (1897) depicts the associated superstitions in detail.
When I was a kid, as far as I remember, the Vampires of Eastern Europe or Hollywood were rendered as vrikolakas. They now appear to be rendered as vampir.If you are referring to the vampires of western popular culture, as opposed to blood drinking beings that people used to actually be afraid of, vampir is a safe bet.
You know, for someone who has said publicly that they have made their peace with the market, I’m still scoring pretty socialist. For someone who despairs of the morass of modern Western democracy, I’m still scoring pretty democratic. For someone who thinks globalisation is proving a mistake, I’m still scoring pretty internationalist. And for someone who thinks there is more to tradition than the (non-American) Western consensus admits, I’m still scoring pretty progressive.
I don’t think the problem is the test (although I did put in some “neutral” answers). I think the problem is that I keep thinking I really am supposed to be Ché Guevara, and I’m a disappointment when I turn out to be a mere Fabian…
