Part of an occasional Round and Square
series that follows the blog’s main theme (east meets
west, round meets square, and past meets present), these
snippets from my early fieldnotes are reproduced as they
were written by hand—and then revised on an ancient
desktop computer—during my first fieldwork stay in Taiwan
(1985-1987). All entries are the way that I left them
when I returned to the United States in 1987—some
nicely-stated and some embarrassing. Although the series began with
my assumption that the entries can stand alone, I have found that
separate comments and notes might help readers understand a world that
is now, well, history. These are always separate from the original fieldnote.
Comment
The information about the "historical" use of characters is generally solid, but I would not characterize it with quite the same glibness today ("nobody cares"). I just wish I had spent more time on the palm-writing idea. This is a good example of what some anthropologists call "headnotes." The simple fact of noting it in any form—even embedded in a little corner of an otherwise didactic and somewhat officious paragraph—is enough to call to mind whole areas of interpretation that might work their ways into ethnographic analysis. This is one of those places.
Note
In this particular note, I failed to mention tones. There are 420 sounds (guang, ji, se, and so forth), but the vast majority of these employ all four tonal variations. There is still extraordinary potential for rhyme in Chinese (all dialects), but the tonal variation makes for key distinctions.
Back in 1986, I almost always referred to the Mandarin dialect as "Chinese." It took a little more experience (which started in Taiwan with Taiwanese) to realize how complicated it all is.
4 January 1986
Taipei
Chinese has only four hundred and twenty sounds to base
its spoken language on. If you consider that Chinese has well over four
thousand commonly-used characters (actually there are over eighty thousand, but
the vast majority are historical, and of no interest to anyone, not even
historians, except for the government which reigned then), that makes an
average of ten common characters—with totally different meanings—per sound. Actually,
it is even more extreme, because certain sounds, like ji (it sounds very similar to “gee”) have maybe one hundred different characters.
In reading and writing
it is no problem, of course, because you can see the character. But when people
speak it can be confusing. (“Now did she mean `Your chicken meat is tender’ or
`Your muscles are flexible’?”) When
Chinese people are not sure of someone’s meaning, they ask “Is that the ji of “chicken meat” or the ji of ‘muscles” or “tendons?” Someone might
also draw the character on her palm so the other person can verify whether he
was understood or not. A friend of mine who doesn’t study Chinese thinks the habit
of drawing characters on your palm is funny, and I have been told me that it
looks like I am trying to wipe something off the tip of my finger.
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