My friends,

Zola’u nìprrte’ ayngaru nìwotx! Welcome to you all! It’s a pleasure to post this first message to Na’viteri (Concerning Na’vi), my blog about the language of the inhabitants of Pandora in James Cameron’s seminal film, “Avatar.” I hope that everyone with an interest in Na’vi—from the casually curious to those aspiring to mastery—will find something useful here.

I have three main goals for Na’viteri that will be reflected in three different kinds of posts:

1. BEGINNERS’ CLASSROOM—NUMTSENGVI AYSNGÄ’IYUÄ

This is the place for Na’vi 101, a series of friendly, progressive language lessons, starting from scratch, for beginners. Here you’ll find conversations and dialogs where you’ll not only see the language in written form but be able to click on a button and hear it spoken as well. You’ll also find brief, non-technical grammatical explanations, passages for reading and listening comprehension, and practice exercises.

I want to make one thing clear at the outset. As many of you know, a wealth of learning materials for Na’vi is already available on the Internet—discussion boards in at least 18 languages, Na’vi language lessons, dictionaries, sound recordings, videos—created by devoted fans of “Avatar” and Na’vi who have formed a spirited and passionate Na’vi Community. (You’ll find links to some of those sites under “Na’vi on the ‘Net” at the right.) The quality of many of these materials is extraordinarily high; the fact that talented people have put in so much time and effort to help others learn Na’vi is for me a great source of pride. What I myself will present here is not intended to substitute for or supplant those materials but rather to supplement them. At times, in fact, I may refer you to a particularly clear or insightful explanation, discussion, or example that someone else has provided.

2. LANGUAGE DISCUSSION—TÌPÄNGKXO LELÌ’FYA

In these posts, aimed at intermediate and advanced learners, I’ll be discussing various points of grammar and usage and responding to questions. I’m grateful for the probing queries I’ve gotten from members of the Community, many of which have helped me see where Na’vi needs further elucidation and development. This blog will be a central location where I can offer suggestions and address issues of interest to those who are already using the language for communication.

3. NEW EXPRESSIONS, NEW RULES—MIPA AYLÌ’FYAVI, MIPA HOREN

This is the place for introducing new vocabulary and expressions and presenting new or extended rules of grammar and usage.

While Na’viteri will be an English/Na’vi bilingual blog, there will inevitably be more English than Na’vi. Ideally everything would be in both languages, but that would take more time than I have. Like all of you, I’m still a learner myself and not yet at the point I can write as quickly and easily in Na’vi as I can in my own native language. That said, I’ll try to include as much Na’vi as I can for intermediate and advanced students.

This is my first-ever blog—and it will soon become clear, if it hasn’t already, that I am very much feeling my way around. So as we go along, don’t be surprised if you come across inconsistencies and errors of various kinds or if you notice changes to format and organization as I discover better ways of doing things. Your constructive comments and suggestions are always welcome. I also want to say how grateful I am for the offers of help I’ve received from kind volunteers in the Community—irayo, ma oeyä eylan (thank you, my friends); as things go along, I may indeed enlist your assistance. Right now, though, I want to acknowledge the invaluable guidance I’ve received from Britton Watkins and Josh Feldman, without whose generous help I’d still be scratching my head and wondering how in the world to get started. Needless to say, any mistakes or omissions are my own.

And so . . . Awnga sngivä’i ko! Let’s begin! Check back here soon for Na’vi 101 Lesson 1 and the first posts to the discussion room. Until then, kìyevame ulte Eywa ngahu—so long, and Eywa be with you.

Paul Frommer

NìNa’vi:

Ma oeyä eylan,

Tse . . . Nìawnomum, fwa oel fìtìkangkemvit¹ sngeykivä’i² krrnolekx nìtxan, slä nì’i’a³ tsun oe pivlltxe san Zola’u nìprrte’ ne pìlok⁴ Na’viteri sìk! Tìmweypeyri ayngeyä seiyi irayo nìngay. Sìlpey oe, awngeyä lì’fyaolo’ìri fìpìlok lìyevu pxan, ulte frapo—ftxey sngä’iyu ftxey tsulfätu⁵—tsìyevun fìtsenge rivun ’uot lesar.

Lu pìlokur pxesìkan sì pxefne’upxare:

1ve: NUMTSENGVI⁶ AYSNGÄ’IYUÄ

Fayupxare layu aysngä’iyufpi, fte lì’fyari awngeyä fo tsìyevun nìftue nìltsansì nivume.

Ma oeyä eylan, faysänumviri rutxe fì’ut tslivam: Nìltsan omum oel futa ayhapxìtul lì’fyaolo’ä awngeyä txantsana aysänumvit ngolop fte aylaru kivar. Faysulfätuä tìkangkem oheru meuia luyu nìngay. Kllkxayem fìtìkangkem oeyä rofa⁷—ke io—pum°¹⁰ feyä.

2ve: TÌPÄNGKXO LELÌ’FYA

Fayupxaremì oe payängkxo teri horen lì’fyayä leNa’vi fpi sute a tsun srekrr tsat sivar. Ayngeyä sìpawmìri kop fmayi fìtsenge tivìng sì’eyngit. Nìawnomum tolel oel ta ayhapxìtu lì’fyaolo’ä pxaya sìpawmit atxantsan a vay set ke ’oleyng. Sìlpey oe tsnì tsìyevun nì’i’a tsakem sivi fìpìlokfa.

3ve: MIPA AYLÌ’FYAVI, MIPA HOREN

Pìlokä fìhapxìyä tìkan lu law.

Lu law ’uo alahe, ma eylan. Krro krro°¹¹ fìtsenge oe tìkxey sayi. (Ke plltxe san sasyi sìk!) Txo tsive’a ayngal keyeyt, rutxe oeru piveng fte tsivun oe sa’ut leykivatem.

Ha awnga sngivä’i ko! Ziva’u nìmun ye’rìn . . . tsakrr rayun ayngal ayupxaret amip.

’Ivong Na’vi.

ta Pawl

¹ tìkangkemvi ‘project, piece of work’

²Make sure to distinguish between the two senses of “begin”—intransitive (as in “The work began”—Tìkangkem sngolä’i) and transitive (as in “She began the work”—Poel tìkangkemit sngeykolä’i).

³ nì’i’a ‘finally’ Na’vi has different words for the two senses of “finally” in English. Nì’i’a is “finally” in the sense of “at long last”—“I’ve finally finished!” For “finally” in the sense of “lastly”–“Finally, we need to talk about the budget”—use nìsyen .

⁴ pìlok ‘blog’

⁵ tsulfätu ‘master of an art, craft, or skill; expert’ Related expressions: tsulfä ‘mastery,’ tsulfä si ‘to master’

⁶ numtsengvi ‘classroom, division of a school’

⁷ rofa (ADP-) ‘beside, alongside’

^°10pum ‘possession, thing possessed’ Pum is used as a “dummy noun” with the genitive pronouns to form “disjunctive possessives”—that is, words like “mine,” “yours,” “theirs.” Example: Kelku ngeyä lu tsawl; pum oeyä lu hì’i. (Your house is large; mine is small.)

^°11 krro krro ‘at times, on occasion’

Edit (30 June): Corrected two errors: *faysänumeviri–>faysänumviri, *aysänumevit–>aysänumvit

Irayo nìtxan, ma eylan! Thanks very much, friends, for all your kind and encouraging words. They warmed my heart.

A few thoughts:

Corrections and a note to the Na’vi in my first post

Thanks to everyone who pointed out some minor errors. I corrected two of them without comment soon after the post went up but missed a third, which I’ve now revised, noting the edit at the bottom of the post. I plan to continue with that policy: if I catch something wrong within, say, an hour of posting, I’ll fix it without comment; later than that, I’ll make the correction but also indicate what was changed.

That correction, by the way, was to eliminate the extraneous e in two forms of the word sänumvi, ‘lesson.’ Thanks to the folks who pointed that out, and my apologies if it caused consternation! It was nothing more than a goof.

Despite my efforts at proofreading, such things will inevitably get through. So when you see something that doesn’t look right, please continue to let me know. You can do that in a public comment or a private e-mail—I’m perfectly happy either way! Chances are I’ll respond with one of the following: (1) “Whoops! That was a mistake. Thanks!” (2) “Both forms—the way I wrote it and the change you’ve suggested—are correct.” (3) “Although it may look odd, the way I wrote it is right, and here’s why . . .” Hopefully we’ll learn something in all these situations.

A note on srekrr, an adverb that usually means “before,” which as I used it in the post precipitated some discussion. (As many of you know, the form of the word is an exception to the rule: we would expect srehrr.) Srekrr means “before (time adv.), beforehand.” And “beforehand,” which my dictionary defines as “ahead of time, in advance,” shades into “already.” So the translation of the sentence in question—Fayupxaremì oe payängkxo teri horen lì’fyayä leNa’vi fpi sute a tsun srekrr tsat sivar—would be something like: “In these messages I’ll chat about the rules of the Na’vi language for people who can use it ahead of time”—i.e., people who can already use it. Irayo to Wm. Annis for the excellent analysis in his learnnavi.org post.

The language of comments

I was very impressed by the quality of the Na’vi in the comments. It’s so gratifying to see how far some of you have already come in using Na’vi for genuine communication!

As you know, this is a bilingual blog, and comments are welcome in English, in Na’vi, or in a combination of both. (And if anyone wants to leave a brief comment in another language, that’s fine—just please translate it so the rest of us can understand!) When it comes to all-Na’vi comments, though, I’ve received some feedback that I wanted to share with you.

Na’vi-only comments have both pros and cons:

PROS: They reinforce the idea that Na’vi is not a game but a means of genuine communication. They also give writers a chance to use their Na’vi in a public way and give others a chance to practice their reading comprehension. Providing an English translation of every Na’vi post would defeat those purposes. (For example, it’s hard to resist going immediately to the translation rather than puzzling out the Na’vi for yourself without help, a more productive activity.) They also give beginners a sense of how far some Community members have come and provide the incentive for them to get there themselves.

CONS: Na’vi-only comments are directed to a relatively small audience (assuming the blog will eventually get traffic from newcomers!) and create the sense of insiders vs. outsiders. They can be off-putting to new arrivals and curious people who have not yet learned much, if anything, of the language, who might react to the blog with, “Whoa. This is much too advanced for me.” And they might also imply that posters who write in English only are somehow not measuring up.

Please understand: Other than what I’ve indicated above, I’m not going to make rules for the language of comments. Whatever anyone prefers to do is fine—and very welcome! But I’m curious if people have strong feelings about this question one way or the other.

Request for stories in very simple Na’vi

For the Na’vi 101 beginner lessons, I’d like to include some little stories early on—short paragraphs in very easy Na’vi (simple structures, simple vocabulary) that could be used for listening and/or reading comprehension. These could be about anything at all—a little scenario taking place on Eywa’eveng (Pandora) or ’Rrta (earth) involving characters from the film, characters of your own invention, animals, plants, descriptions of environments, diary entries . . . anything at all that’s plausible. Although the grammar should be simple, it’s not necessary that every structure be something that’s already been introduced and explained. If the listener or reader understands what’s going on, that will be a step towards language acquisition even if not every grammatical process has been discussed at that point.

Although I’ll be working on such stories myself, I think it would be fun if many of them came from you! It won’t be easy—writing very simply and clearly while still sounding natural is a challenge. But if this sounds like something you’d like to try, by all means start thinking about it, and when you have something, send it to me in an e-mail. I’ll reserve the right to edit and change things based on pedagogical considerations, but if I use your story in a lesson I’ll definitely give you credit.

More soon. Trr/txon lefpom! (Have a good day/night!)

A couple of questions have come up regarding ambiguous structures in Na’vi that I thought would make a good topic for the first post in the Language Discussion section—Tìpängkxo leLì’fya—for intermediate and advanced learners.

Note: These kinds of posts may be somewhat discursive, and I won’t hesitate to talk about general language issues in addition to specific aspects of Na’vi. If you’re among the “grammatically curious,” I hope you’ll enjoy the discussions. But if that’s not you, it’s OK! Feel free to skim a post lightly or skip it entirely. Some people flourish with extensive discussions of grammar, others don’t. Remember: You don’t need a conscious understanding of grammar to know a language well! We’ll be talking more about this in future posts. We’ll get to the Na’vi examples in a moment, but first some general observations about ambiguity.

Linguists say an utterance is ambiguous when it has two or more distinct interpretations. It’s safe to say that every natural language contains ambiguous elements or structures, and these can sometimes interfere with clear communication.

In English, for example, two of the most notoriously ambiguous words are “right” and “hot.” Here’s a little snippet of conversation in a car that illustrates the first problem:

A: So I should turn left at the next corner, correct?

B: Right!

And if someone says, “This soup is too hot for me to eat,” what is she saying—that the soup needs to cool down first or that it’s too spicy?

But it’s not just words themselves that can create ambiguity—it’s often a question of how words “hang together.” (In technical terminology, the distinction is one of lexical vs. structural ambiguity.) If your friend says, “I hate raw fish and onions,” will he tolerate fried onions, or are all onions, raw or not, off the menu? And here’s an example I’ve used in my classes on Advanced Writing for Business: “Give me the report you wrote on Thursday at 5:00.” You’ll be able to get three distinct meanings out of that one. (By the way, the reason ambiguity comes up in a writing course is that good writers need to anticipate how something they’ve written that may seem perfectly clear to them might be interpreted differently by readers, and then revise their writing to reduce the possibility of misunderstanding.)

Other languages have similar problems. For example, when I was studying Mandarin Chinese I learned early on that nán meant ‘male.’ Then I learned it also meant ‘south.’ And then I found out it also meant ‘difficult.’ (The written forms of those three words are distinct, but the spoken forms are identical.) Before that, in my elementary German class, I came across the phrase die Frau die das Kind liebt, which can mean either “the woman who loves the child” or “the woman who(m) the child loves.”

With all this potential for ambiguity, why don’t we misunderstand each other more often than we do? For two reasons: First, an utterance that’s theoretically ambiguous in isolation may not be ambiguous in context—the context will disambiguate for us. For example, if someone said, “That’s a huge bill,” we’d interpret it one way in a budgetary discussion and another way if the speaker were on a bird-watching trip. (Such things, of course, are the stuff of puns. Some of you probably know the little story about the duck in the pharmacy. <g>) Second, speakers can usually find ways to rephrase things so as to eliminate ambiguity when the context doesn’t help: if you order a smoked-turkey-and-Gouda sandwich (never had it but it sounds good) and it’s not going to be clear whether you want your Gouda cheese smoked as well as your turkey, you can rephrase your request as either a Gouda-and-smoked-turkey-sandwich or a smoked-turkey-and-smoked-Gouda sandwich, neither of which is ambiguous in the way the original phrasing was.

Two ambiguous structures in Na’vi

With that behind us, let’s turn to two structures in Na’vi with the potential for troublesome ambiguity.

1. Pre-Nominal Lenition-Triggering Adpositions and Short Plurals

Don’t worry—this is less complicated than the heading makes it sound.

As you know, the plural prefix, ay-, triggers lenition, the phonological process that changes px to p, p to f, t to s, etc., in nouns beginning with a consonant that can undergo the process. (To avoid that awkward wording, I’ll use “lenitable” for these consonants, even though I’m not sure it’s a real word. The rule then becomes: The plural prefix triggers lenition in nouns that begin with lenitable consonants.)

Example: river = kilvan, rivers = ayhilvan

You also know about “short plurals” for such nouns: Alternatively, rivers = simply hilvan.

Furthermore, you know that certain adpositions—among them fpi, ìlä, mì, ro, sre, and wä—also trigger lenition when they’re pre-nominal, i.e. before a noun.

Example: in the river = mì hilvan

You probably see where this is going. How do you say “in the rivers”?

If you use the full plural there’s no problem: mì ayhilvan (Note: Although the writing doesn’t change, the mì + ay- combination is pronounced may. So mì ayhilvan is pronounced as if it were mayhilvan. Other examples of this process: nìayoeng ‘like us, as we do’ is pronounced nayweng; aynantang sì ayriti ‘viperwolves and stingbats’ is pronounced aynantang sayriti.)

But if you use the short plural you’re back to mì hilvan, which is now seen to be ambiguous: it can mean either ‘in the river’ or ‘in the rivers.’

Is this a problem? Not always. As we’ve seen above, the context will often make the meaning clear. If someone told you he saw Neytiri swimming mì hilvan, chances are she was swimming in only one river at a time. By the same token, if someone said Lu fayoang alor mì hilvan Eywa’evengä, hilvan is almost certainly plural, since Pandora presumably has more than one river. (That’s an assumption, although I hope a plausible one. Apparently we’ll all find out a lot more about Pandoran bodies of water in Avatar 2!) But if you were told that Neytiri likes to swim mì hilvan a lok Kelutral, and you didn’t know if there was more than one river close to Hometree, you might not interpret the message correctly.

In cases like these, speakers rely on a convention:

RULE FOR PLURALS AFTER ADP+: If there is the potential for misunderstanding and the plural is intended, the full plural form is used. The lenited form without ay- is interpreted by default as singular.

2. Comparison of adjectives with to

This one is trickier.

As you know, comparison of adjectives in Na’vi is simple: There’s no “comparative degree” of the adjective as there is in English (old vs. older, good vs. better). You simply use the adjective in its root form along with the word to, which corresponds to ‘than’:

(1) Po to oe lu koak. ‘She is older than I (am).’

What kind of word is to? At first glance it looks like an adposition, just as ‘than’ in English looks to many people like a preposition. In fact, however, ‘than’ is classified as a conjunction. (If it were a bona fide preposition, then “She is older than me” wouldn’t raise an eyebrow, whereas it’s often considered substandard or at best only for informal contexts.) In my personal lexicon, I’ve classified to as PIV—that is, a pivot. (In “A is ADJ-er than B” constructions, B is the “standard of comparison” and ‘than’ is the “pivot.”)

In any event, the question for us here is whether to behaves like an adposition, and the answer is yes: You can put it either before or after the noun it’s connected to. In other words, ‘than I’ is either to oe or oeto, just like ‘with me’ is either hu oe or oehu.

But that means that a sentence like (2) is well formed:

(2) Poto oe lu koak. ‘I am older than she (is).’

Now when Na’vi is written, there’s a difference between (1) and (2), even if it’s a small one, which means there’s no ambiguity. But what about the spoken language? (Keep in mind that writing was introduced to the Na’vi by the Sawtute; it was a spoken-only language long, long before that.) If (1) and (2) sound precisely the same, then we could really be in trouble, since they say opposite things.

There are two ways out of the dilemma. One is to make sure that if you use structures like (1) and (2), you convey your intended “bracketing” ( po [to oe] vs. [po to] oe) with your voice, through rhythm and intonation. This is, in fact, a natural thing to do. In slow, deliberate speech it’s quite simple. Here are my attempts to distinguish the two in reasonably fast speech. See if you think the difference is clear:

• Po to oe lu koak.

• Poto oe lu koak.

The other way out is simply to avoid word orders like (1) and (2) in situations where there’s a danger of misunderstanding. The following sentences don’t have the potential for ambiguity that (1) and (2) do:

(3) Poto lu oe koak.

(4) Po lu to oe koak.

(5) Oe lu poto koak.

(6) Oe lu to po koak.

And many more . . .

Irayo to kwami/roger for passing along this question from Wikibooks and to Prrton for a lucid private discussion.

I just discovered that the number of posts to the fora of learnnavi.org has passed a quarter of a million. Tewti! Wou!!

Today’s post introduces some useful things you can add to your written and spoken Na’vi, along with a few new vocabulary items.

The Diminutive Form

Lots of languages have a way of adding something to a word to mark it as “little” version of the original. Na’vi has this too.

The diminutive marker is –tsyìp. It’s a suffix, always unstressed, which you attach to the end of a word—usually a noun, but pronouns can take –tsyìp as well. (This is unusual in Earth languages.) And you can use it productively—that is, you’re free to add it to most nouns, including proper nouns, and pronouns—but see below.

Don’t use the diminutive simply to indicate that something is small—for that you use hì’i. For example, “small tree” is hì’ia utral/utral ahì’i, not utraltsyìp. What, then, is the diminutive for? Three things:

1. To form new lexical items that originated as small versions of a noun but may have lost the small connotation. Since their meanings are not always predictable, words in this category are listed in the dictionary. Examples:

puk ‘book,’ puktsyìp ‘booklet, pamphlet’

utral ‘tree,’ utraltsyìp ‘bush’

säspxin ‘illness, disease,’ säspxintsyìp ‘minor ailment’

Note that you can modify many of these words with tsawl without contradicting yourself—for example, tsawla utraltsyìp ‘large bush.’

2. To express affection or endearment. Here –tsyìp may or may not be associated with physical smallness. Examples:

Za’u fìtseng, ma ’itetsyìp. ‘Come here, little daughter.’ (Could be said even to an adult daughter.)

[Digression: With verbs of motion, ne can be optionally omitted if the destination comes after the verb. So you can say Po zola’u fìtsengne or Po zola’u fìtseng. But *Po fìtseng zola’u is ungrammatical; it has to be Po fìtsengne (or ne fìtseng) zola’u.]

Kempe si nga, ma sa’nutsyìp? ‘What are you doing, little mommy?’ (This would not be said to an actual mother, which would be disrespectful, but rather to a young girl, in endearing anticipation of her becoming a mother.)

Kamtsyìpìl wutsot yerom. ‘Little Kamun is having dinner.’ (Kamun might be a little boy, but he might also be a huge adult Na’vi, in which case –tsyìp is ironic and/or affectionate. Note that when –tsyìp is added to a proper name of more than one syllable, the name is often shortened. The full form, in this case Kamuntsyìp, can also be used.)

Ngatsyìp yawne lu oer. ‘I love you, little one.’ (Could be said to any loved one, not only to a young child.)

Ngari tswintsyìp sevin nìtxan lu nang! ‘What a pretty little queue you have!’ (tswin ‘queue.’ Note that in sentences like this that involve possession, especially “inalienable possession, the –ri form (i.e. the topic marker) is slightly more idiomatic than the possessive pronoun, although both are correct. So “Ngeyä tswintsyìp . . .” is fine, although many Na’vi would prefer to say “Ngari . . .”)

3. To express disparagement or insult.

Fìtaronyutsyìp ke tsun ke’ut stivä’nì. ‘This (worthless) little hunter can’t catch anything.’

Ngatsyìpìl new peut ta oe? ‘What does little you want from me?’ (Note that while ngatsyìp was endearing in the previous example, here it’s disparaging. To tell which is which, you need to consider the context, facial expressions, and body language.)

Nga nìawnomum to oetsyìp lu txur nìtxan. ‘As everyone knows, you’re a lot stronger than little old me.’ (Here –tsyìp is used ironically, for mock self-deprecation. Also, oetsyìp is pronounced WE.tsyìp.)

Be careful not to confuse –vi and –tsyìp: there are similarities, but they’re not the same. Rather than indicating a small version of the original, the –vi suffix is used for a part or division of a whole, or a “little bit of” something. So atanvi ‘ray’ is a bit of atan, light; txepvi ‘spark’ is a bit of txep ‘fire’ (txeptsyìp would possibly be a ‘dear or cute little fire’); lì’fyavi ‘linguistic expression (word, phrase, sentence)’ is a bit of lì’fya ‘language.’ Also, -vi is not as freely productive as –tsyìp. This is worth some explanation.

Take the English suffix –er that’s added to verbs to get the “agent”—the one who is doing the verb: eater=one who eats, hunter=one who hunts, etc. You can add –er to most verbs, and you’ll get another word whose meaning is predictable. So even if you don’t know what it means to burble, you do know that that a burbler is one who burbles. (This doesn’t always work: people who type or cycle are better called typists and cyclists than typers and cyclers. But it works more often than not.) We say that the –er suffix is productive.

In contrast, adding the suffix –ment to a verb to get a related noun is not freely productive. From govern we get government, which is a body that governs. From replace we get replacement, but that’s not a body that replaces—it’s the thing replaced. And there’s no *eatment, *huntment, *feelment, etc. (I’m not sure about burblement.) So the –ment suffix is not productive: we can’t add it freely to verbs, and when we can, the meaning isn’t necessarily clear. Words with –ment have to be learned individually, and so they’re listed in the dictionary.

Similar things are true in Na’vi. Certain affixes (prefixes, infixes, and suffixes) are productive, others not. For example, almost all the verb infixes (-er-, -ol-, -iv-, -ay-, -ìm-, etc.) are productive: you can use them with any verb at all, as long as you know the right place to insert them. The agentive suffix –yu is also freely productive. On the other hand, the prefix tì-, which forms nouns out of verbs, adjectives, and other nouns, is not freely productive. You can’t come up with your own tì- words—you need to make sure they’re in the dictionary. And when they are, the meanings won’t always be predictable: tìftang means ‘stopping,’ but tìrol doesn’t mean ‘singing’ but rather ‘song.’ (Note that when you want to talk about an action—as in “Swimming is great exercise”—you can always use the Na’vi gerund, which is a two-affix form: use the tì- prefix along with the –us- infix: tìyusom ‘eating,’ tìtusaron ‘hunting,’ etc., and that process is productive. Example: Tìkusar eltur tìtxen si. ‘Teaching is interesting.’)

Finally, some affixes are midway on the productivity scale. The adverb-former nì- is productive when used with adjectives: nìngay ‘truly,’ nìwin ‘fast,’ nìsti ‘angrily,’ nìftue ‘easily,’ etc. But it’s sometimes also used with other parts of speech—nìtut ‘continually,’ nì’eyng ‘in response,’ nì’awtu ‘alone’—and these words have to be learned as separate lexical items; you can’t take them as patterns on which to base new forms.

And with that I’ll just say: Sìlpey oe, ayngari fìtìpängkxotsyìp eltur tìtxen silvi.

Some Conversational Expressions

Here are some miscellaneous expressions you might find useful in conversation.

1. Responding to thanks

Depending on the situation, there are different ways to respond to someone who thanks you for something:

• Kea tìkin. Literally: no need. That is, there’s no need to thank me.
• Nìprrte’. Literally: gladly, with pleasure. That is, what you’ve thanked me for, I did with pleasure.
• Oeru meuia. Literally: an honor to me. That is, it was an honor to be of help to you.
• Hayalo ta oe/Hayalo oeta [pronounced WE.ta]. Literally: next time from me. That is, I’ve done something for you and you’ve thanked me, but next time you’ll do something comparable for me, and I’ll thank you. ( hayalo ‘next time,’ hamalo ‘last time’)
• Pum ngeyä. Literally, yours. That is, you’ve thanked me, but I really should be thanking you. The thanks belong to you. [Pronounced pum NGE.yä]

2. Responding to a compliment

It’s not customary to say irayo in response to a compliment. Instead, there are three common responses:

• Ke pxan. Literally: not worthy. That is, I don’t deserve your praise.
• Tstunwi. Literally: kind. That is, it’s kind of you to say that. ( tstunwi ‘kind, thoughtful, considerate’)
• Ngaru tsulfä. Literally: to you the mastery. This is said in a situation where the one praising you is better at the activity you’re being praised for than you are yourself. For example, if a native Pandoran says to you, Nga nìNa’vi plltxe nìltsan, you should respond with Ngaru tsulfä , which implies: When it comes to Na’vi, you’re obviously the master, so you have the right to give me praise, which I humbly accept.

3. Congratulating someone

Upon hearing about someone’s good fortune, the Na’vi say Seykxel sì nitram! Literally: Strong and happy! That is, may you derive strength and happiness from this event, accomplishment, etc. Note: seykxel and txur are both adjectives meaning ‘strong,’ but they aren’t the same: txur refers to physical strength, seykxel to inner strength, a quiet feeling of confidence in one’s own capability. [Pronunciation: sey.KXEL sì nit.RAM]

Hayalovay . . .

Today’s post provides some new vocabulary, mostly from the A-priority list of the LEP (Lexical Expansion Project), along with a few usage notes.

In the abbreviations indicating parts of speech, VT and VI refer to transitive and intransitive verbs respectively. As you know, transitive verbs are the ones that take objects; with these, the subject is in the agentive or ergative case (L-family endings) and the object is in the objective or patientive case (T-family endings): Oel ngati kameie. Intransitive verbs don’t take objects, and their subjects are unmarked: Po herahaw.

For verbs of more than one syllable, I’ve used the excellent notation I discovered on learnnavi.org (●) to indicate where the first- and second-position infixes are inserted.

Usage Notes

’A’AW
Used only with countable nouns (people, plants, rocks, days, ideas, . . . ), not with uncountables (water, air, time, patience, anger, . . . ). Like numbers, ’a’aw is used with the singular of the noun. Example:

Lu poru ’a’awa ’eylan. OR Lu poru ’eylan a’a’aw. ‘He has several friends.’

(These are good sentences for practicing your glottal stops!)

Don’t confuse ’a’aw ‘several, a few’ with hol ‘(only a) few, not many’:

Oel tse’a ’a’awa tutet. ‘I see several people.’

Oel tse’a hola tutet. ‘I see only a few people.’

Note that pxay ‘many’ is exceptional in that it can be used with either singular or plural nouns: pxaya tute and pxaya sute are both allowable. The form with the singular is appropriate for all contexts, while the one with the plural is mainly used colloquially.

’OKROL and ’OKVUR
’Okrol refers to the ancient tribal history of the Na’vi contained in the First Songs; ’okvur relates to more recent events, e.g. oeyä soaiayä ’okvur ‘my family’s history’ or ’okvur Sawtuteyä mì Eywa’eveng ‘the history of the Sky People on Pandora.’

ALU
Used mainly for nouns or noun phrases in apposition—e.g. ‘my friend Amhul,’ ‘Eytukan, leader of the Omaticaya,’ ‘Eywa, the Great Mother,’ etc. It comes from a + lu, with a fusing of the two words into one and a change in stress to the first syllable. Example:

Tskalepit oel tolìng oeyä tsmukanur alu Ìstaw. ‘I gave the crossbow to my brother Istaw.’

You can also use alu conversationally as an “explainer,” in the sense of “that is to say” or “in other words”:

Txoa livu, yawne lu oer Sorewn . . . alu . . . ke tsun oeng muntxa slivu. ‘Sorry, but I love Sorewn . . . in other words, you and I cannot marry.’

HAWNGKRR and YE’KRR
These are adverbs, not adjectives:

Hawngkrr rä’ä ziva’u! ‘Don’t come late!’

If you need the adjectives, they’re lehawngkrr and leye’krr: tìpähem leye’krr ‘an early arrival’

HEK
This verb conveys the idea of something appearing odd, strange, unexpected, or surprising.

Ngeyä säfpìl Sawtuteteri heiek oer nìtxan. ‘Your idea about the Sky People is very interesting to me (because it seems unusual).’ OR ‘I’m very curious (and delighted) about your idea regarding the Sky People.’

Note that nìhek is a sentence adverbial only, not a manner adverbial . . . alu . . . nìhek is ‘strangely’ in the sense of the speaker making a comment about the situation:

Nìhek fo nìNa’vi plltxe. ‘Strangely, they speak Na’vi.’

If on the other hand you want to say that someone does something in a strange manner, you’d use nìfya’o a hek, ‘in a way that’s strange’:

Fo nìNa’vi plltxe nìfya’o a hek. ‘They speak Na’vi strangely.’

Note the difference between the verb hek and the adjective stxong ‘strange, unfamiliar, unknown.’ Hek is used for something odd, unexpected, or puzzling but not necessarily bad. Stxong is stronger and usually has a negative connotation: it’s applied to something previously unknown or unimagined that appears threatening or dangerous. Example:

Larmu tsatsamsiyuhu tìvawm a lu stxong ayoer. ‘That warrior carried with him a darkness unknown to us.’

KI
Don’t confuse slä and ki. Ki is ‘but’ in the sense of ‘not A but (rather) B.’ (Speakers of German will see the parallel with aber vs. sondern.) Ke and ki form a pair:

Nga plltxe ke nìfyeyntu ki nì’eveng. ‘You speak not like an adult but a child.’

NETRÌP
See SYAYVI.

RENG and TXUKX
These words primarily refer to physical depth: kilvan areng, kilvan atxukx. They can’t be applied to people: *tute areng makes no sense. But as in many languages, they are sometimes applied metaphorically to thoughts, ideas, analyses, etc.: e.g. aysäfpìl atxukx ‘deep thoughts.’

ROLUN
Rolun and tolel are conversational exclamations used for “Eureka!” moments. The difference is that Rolun! means you’ve found something, e.g. a lost object, the answer to a question, the solution to a problem, whereas Tolel! means you’ve had a flash of insight and now you “get it”—you’ve received knowledge or understanding.

SMAR
This word appears in a famous Na’vi proverb:

Ätxäle si palulukanur tsnì smarit livonu. ‘Ask a thanator to release its prey.’ Refers to a futile gesture, an attempt to achieve something that might be desirable but will clearly not happen. In conversation it’s usually shortened to Ätxäle pa(lu)lukanur. (In fast speech, palulukan tends to simplify to palukan, which is acceptable in colloquial style.)

SUNU
This important verb, which works similarly to Spanish gustar, is used to say you like something:

Sunu oeru teylu. ‘I like teylu.’ (Teylu sunu oeru is also possible.)

Sunu and prrte’ lu both mean that the speaker enjoys something. While sunu is ‘like’ in the general sense, prrte’ lu is generally deeper and more heartfelt; it’s often used in social situations, translating to “It’s a pleasure . . .”:

Furia tsolun oe ngahu pivängkxo, oeru prrte’ lu nìngay. ‘It was really a pleasure to be able to speak with you.’

[Digression: The prrte’ construction can be a bit confusing. Prrte’ is an adjective meaning ‘pleasurable,’ so an alternate way of saying the previous sentence is:

Fwa [fì’u a] tsolun oe ngahu pivängkxo oeru prrte’ lu nìngay. Literally: ‘The fact that I was able to speak with you is really pleasurable to me.’

The structure of the original sentences with furia is more like: ‘As for the fact that I was able to speak with you, (it) is really pleasurable to me.’ Either structure is acceptable.]

Mowan implies physical or sensual pleasure, and often has a sexual connotation:

Plltxe fko san ngaru lu mowan Txilte ulte poru nga. ‘I hear you like Txilte and vice versa.’

Mowan is also used slangily as a general term for ‘like’:

Tìtusaron mowan lu oer nìngay. ‘Hunting really turns me on.’

SYAYVI
Syay by itself means ‘fate’ in the sense of one’s destiny—the arc of one’s life:

Tsakrr syay ayngeyä, syay olo’ä oeyä layu teng. ‘Then you will suffer the same fate as my clan.’

Syayvi refers to a “little piece of fate”—that is, chance or luck in a particular situation. For example, the expression for ‘Good luck!’ is Etrìpa syayvi!

Note that nìsyayvi means ‘by chance, by coincidence, as luck would have it’—it does not mean ‘luckily.’ For that you use netrìp.

TOLEL
See ROLUN.

TXUKX
See RENG.

ZO
This stative verb indicates that “all is well” with the subject—something or someone is functioning correctly. Both zo and lu fpom can mean the subject is well, but there’s a difference in usage. Fpom is a noun meaning ‘well-being, peace, happiness.’ Zo is a verb with a narrower scope, usually implying physical health. So contrast these two questions:

Ngaru lu fpom srak? ‘Are you well?’ (Are you experiencing a general sense of happiness and well-being?)

Nga zo srak? ‘Are you well?’ (Have you recovered from your illness? Are you OK after that nasty fall?)

Examples of the derivative verbs zoslu and zeyko:

Oeri nì’i’a tsyokx zoslolu. ‘My hand is finally healed.’

Eywal zeykivo ngat nìwin. ‘May Eywa heal you quickly.’

Frawzo is from fra’u + zo. Compounds with ’u often lose the glottal stop. Here the resulting au combination has changed into a diphthong as well.

Edit 17 July–Two errors corrected: nìhek classed as ADV; glottal stop added to ftxìvä’.

Here’s a little two-minute listening comprehension exercise for intermediate and advanced learners that I hope will be fun.

You can use it any way you like, but I’d suggest the following:

First, review the recent vocabulary. Some of the newer terms appear in the passage.

Then listen to the narrative all the way through without stopping, and do that several times. Your goal is simply to follow the gist of the story. It’s likely you won’t get everything, and that’s perfectly OK—the important thing is to understand as much as you can without analysis. Try to avoid translating the passage—do your best to put your own language out of your mind. Just see and feel as much as you can of the story in your head.

After that, if you want to jot down a few things to look up or transcribe anything that’s puzzling for later analysis, that’s OK. Just don’t begin that way.

By the way, there are a couple of new words here (based on ones you already know) and also a new idiom. You should be able to understand all of these from the context.

Sivunu ayngar fìtskxekengtsyìp! Have fun!

• Tìng Mikyun fte Tslivam #1.

P.S.—Continued thanks for all the comments. I owe a lot of people replies, which I’ll try to get to soon.

Kaltxì, ma oeyä eylan. Sunu oeru fwa fìtsengit terok oel nìmun. It’s nice to be back after my hiatus.

In this post it’s my pleasure to convey to you some terrific work of several of our Sulfätu leLì’fya—Language Masters.

Our friends Kemaweyan, Plumps, Prrton, and Tirea Aean have come up with a uniquely Na’vi way of listing and pronouncing the 33 phonemes (distinct sounds) in the language—20 consonants, 7 vowels, 2 “pseudo-vowels” (ll, rr), and 4 diphthongs (aw, ay, ew, ey). Here’s their list:

( ’ ) tìFtang, A, AW, AY, Ä, E, EW, EY, Fä, Hä, I, Ì,

KeK, KxeKx, LeL, ’Ll, MeM, NeN, NgeNg, O, PeP, PxePx,

ReR, ’Rr, Sä, TeT, TxeTx, Tsä, U, Vä, Wä, Yä, Zä

As you see, in reciting this alphabet you pronounce the vowels, pseudo-vowels, and diphthongs exactly as they sound. The consonants, though, are interesting: there’s a distinction between those that can’t come at the end of a syllable and those that can. For the former group, you just add the vowel ä to get the name of the consonant: Fä, Hä, Sä, etc. For the latter group, you use the vowel e but you also put the consonant at the end of the name, keeping it capitalized: KeK, KxeKx, Lel, MeM, etc. I really like how the names of these sounds reflect something about how they’re used. (The exception is the first letter of the alphabet, the glottal stop; if it followed the rule, its name would be ’e’, but that might be a challenge to distinguish from E. Instead, the word tìFtang, meaning “stop,” is used.)

As for the ordering, which largely parallels that of Roman-based alphabets on Earth, Prrton writes: “The order is sadly determined by ‘Rrtan ‘informatics’ conventions that we can’t do much about. This is how Excel et all sort (with the exception of our having Txetx come before Tsä). We’ll just have to manually compensate for that when required.”

How do you ask how a word is spelled? “Spelling” is pamrelfya. (Recall that “writing” is pamrel.)

So, from the most formal way to the most colloquial:

1. Tsalì’uri fko pamrel si fyape? ‘How is that word written?’ (Literally: ‘As for that word, how does one write (it)?’
2. Pamrelfyari fyape? ‘How do you spell it?’ (Literally: ‘As for (its) spelling, how?’)
3. Pamrel fyape? ‘How do you write it?’ (Most colloquial)

Example:

–Lì’uri alu tskxe pamrel fyape? ‘How do you spell the word tskxe?’

–Pamrelfya lu na Tsä, KxeKx, E. ‘It’s spelled ts, kx, e.’ (Literally: (Its) spelling is like ts,
kx, e.)

Note that this Na’vi alphabet reflects a phonemic analysis of the language: for example, the word tskxe has 3 phonemes—not 5!—which is paralleled in giving the spelling. And if a Pandoran linguist invented an indigenous alphabetical writing system for Na’vi, it would take only 3 distinct symbols to write that word.

In honor of the re-release of Uniltìrantokx tonight, here’s Part 1 of the Na’vi color system along with a bit of new vocabulary.

Colors

As the graphic indicates, Na’vi has 9 basic or primitive color terms:

TUN: covers the red-to-orange part of the spectrum
RIM: yellow
EAN: green to blue
’OM: violet to purple to magenta
LAYON: black
TEYR: white
VAWM: deep dark colors including browns
NEYN: light colors—“shades of white”
NGUL: gray or drab

To further subdivide the spectrum and name colors more specifically, Na’vi has 3 distinct mechanisms:

(1) Na-constructions
(2) Adverbial modification with nì-
(3) Compounding

Here I’ll discuss the first of these, which is the productive mechanism, and leave the other two for another time.

Before anything else, note that these color terms are regular adjectives–not nouns, not stative verbs. To form color nouns, just add -pin. So for example:

Fìsyulang lu rim. ‘This flower is yellow.’
Fìsyulang arim lu hì’i frato. ‘This yellow flower is the smallest of all.’
Ke sunu oeru rimpin. ‘I don’t like the color yellow.’

Note that when the basic color term ends in -n, the n is pronounced m before the p of pin. (Linguists would call that an instance of regressive nasal assimilation.) And the spelling changes to reflect that. So we have tumpin , eampin , neympin , la yom pin. This happens in other places in Na’vi (for example: txampay ‘sea, ocean’, a compound of txan ‘much’ + pay ‘water’) and of course in ’Rrtan languages as well (cf. ‘indelicate,’ ‘inadequate,’ ‘inhuman,’ ‘interminable,’ ‘insufficient,’ etc. but ‘impatient,’ ‘imperfect,’ and so on).

For more specific colors, Na’vi uses na-constructions (na = like, as) for comparison to the colors of well-known objects in the environment. For example, to specify that the kind of ean you mean is the blue color of Na’vi skin, you say ean na ta’leng or ta’lengna ean, ‘skin-color blue.’ (Note that “modifying a” is not normally used between na and the basic color term.)

The syntax is straightforward. For ease of reading, hyphens are inserted when na-colors are used attributively (before or after a noun). Examples:

Fìsyulang lu ean na ta’leng. OR Fìsyulang lu ta’lengna ean. ‘This flower is skin-blue.’

To say ‘This skin-blue flower is very beautiful,’ you have 4 choices:

1. Fìsyulang aean-na-ta’leng lor lu nìtxan.
2. Fìsyulang ata’lengna-ean lor lu nìtxan.
3. Ean-na-ta’lenga fìsyulang lor lu nìtxan.
4. Ta’lengna-eana fìsyulang lor lu nìtxan.

The na- process for colors is productive–that is, Na’vi speakers are free to come up with these comparisons on their own, as long as there’s good reason to expect that the listener will understand the comparison and be able to visualize the color. So, for example, if the particular shade of ean you have in mind is the color of the chin of a Great Leonopteryx, you can refer to it as ean na tsuksìm torukä. Here are some more examples:

º1: vawm na nikre–the dark color of Na’vi hair
º2: ’om na mikyun–the purplish color on the inside of a Na’vi ear
º3: layon Note that layon and teyr are not modifiable except in poetry.
Layon is solid black, the total absence of color; teyr is pure white.
º4: rim na nari (Although there are lots of different kinds of eyes on Pandora, in the
absence of further specification it’s understand here that nari means nari leNa’vi.)
º5: ean na ta’leng–skin-blue
º6: ean na pil–facial-stripe blue
º7: neyn na txärem–the light color of bone
º10: tun na eyktan–“leader red,” the reddish color that distinguishes the dress of Na’vi leaders
º11: ean na rìk–leaf-green (as on earth, not all leaves are green, but most are. Ean na rìk and ean na ta’leng are the most common ways to distinguish green from blue.)
º12: neyn na yapay–the light, nondescript color of mist or fog
º13: vawm na uk–dark-shadow color
º14: ngul na tskxe–the drab color of stone

As you might expect, some na-comparisons are idiosyncratic while others are common and universal. Some of the very common ones have developed one-word forms that are part of the standard lexicon. For example:

ta’lengna ean > ta’lengean

rìkna ean > rìkean

kllna vawm > kllvawm ‘brown’

I’ll talk more about these–and the other color-forming mechanisms–in a later post.

Thanks to everyone who provided me with references and links to the fascinating scholarly work on color systems in various Terran languages. And I especially want to thank Prrton for the gorgeous graphics. Irayo nìtxan ayngaru nìwotx!

New vocabulary

Here’s a list of (mostly) new terms I hope you’ll find useful. There’s no rhyme or reason for these right now as opposed to others, except that some of them will help us talk about Avatar more easily:

Note: tor and syen both mean ‘last,’ and there’s some overlap. The difference is that syen usually refers to the last in series: tìpawm asyen: the last question asked (e.g. Q #5 in a series of 5); tor refers to something that will bring about finality: tìpawm ator: the ultimate question, the answer to which will end all discussion, debate, or contemplation.

Txo mipa Uniltìrantokxit ayngal tsìyeve’a fìtxon fu trray, ma eylan, sìlpey oe tsnì sivunu ayngaru nìwotx!

Kaltxì, ma eylan. And hello from Copenhagen, where we’ve spent 4 rainy but very interesting days.

My talk in Stockholm at the Bonnier GRID 2010 conference is already online: if you’re interested, you can find it here. I’m afraid it’s nothing you haven’t already seen. I went way over the time limit, but so did a lot of other presenters, so I don’t feel too bad about that. And I got some nice comments from several attendees.

On another note, I know several of you have already seen this article on how language shapes thought that appeared in the New York Times a few weeks ago. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it. There’s a lot there that’s relevant to Na’vi.

We’re off to Paris in a little while, where hopefully I’ll have more time to stay in closer touch.

Makto zong!

ta Pawl

Kaltxì, ma oeyä eylan. Greetings from Los Angeles, where for a couple of days now I’ve been trying to overcome jet lag. I had hoped to post something from Paris, but a minor ailment had me out of commission for a while, and when I recovered, there was too much sightseeing to cram in in the remaining time. Pari yawne lu oer nìngay!

This post concerns some practical expressions useful when meeting new people. It represents a collaboration: a large part of the content originated with awngeyä ’eylan alu Prrton, whom I thank for his excellent suggestions and tireless efforts on behalf of tì’ong lì’fyayä leNa’vi.

The next post will continue the conversational theme, dealing with some common topics you might want to talk about with your new acquaintance.

INTRODUCTIONS

Proper Introductions

If you need to get people’s attention first:

1. Your attention, please, everyone!
Rutxe tivìng mikyun, ma frapo.

The general “introduction formula” is easy: You don’t use a verb but simply say, “To you my X,” where X, in the objective (or patientive) case, is the person you’re introducing.

2. Allow me to introduce my colleague.
Ngaru oeyä lertut.

3. Everybody, please allow me to introduce (to you) my sister, Newey.
Ma frapo, ayngaru oeyä tsmukit alu Newey.

In highly formalized or ceremonial situations, the honorific pronouns are available:

4. Allow me to introduce my sister, Newey te Tskaha Sorewn’ite.
Ayngengaru oheyä tsmukit alu Newey te Tskaha Sorewn’ite.

As in many human languages, knowing a person or a place in Na’vi requires a different expression from the one you use for knowing a fact. So, for example, you cannot say *Oel pot omum for ‘I know him.’ For ‘know’ in the sense of ‘be acquainted with,’ use the verb smon ‘be familiar’: Po smon oer. ‘I know him.’ (Literally: ‘He is familiar to me.’)

5. Do you know my friends Entu and Kamun?
Srake smon ngar oeyä meylan alu Entu sì Kamun?

For ‘Please introduce yourself,’ use the transitive verb lawk, ‘discourse on, talk about, say something concerning.’ Example: Poel oeti larmawk. ‘She was talking about me.’ For ‘introduce oneself,’ just add the reflexive infix:

6. Please talk a little bit about yourself.’
Rutxe läpivawk nì’it.

Note for the record that a reflexive verb does not take an ergative (agentive) subject: For example, ‘He talked about himself’ is Po läpolawk, not *Pol läpolawk.

Casual Introductions

7. This is Ìstaw.
Fìpo lu Ìstaw.
OR
Fìpor syaw fko Ìstaw.

Be careful to distinguish between fìpo and fì’u. The former means ‘this person,’ the latter ‘this thing or concept.’ Using fì’u for a person would be highly insulting.

8. Say hello, Ìstaw.
Kaltxì sivi, ma Ìstaw.

Self-Introductions

9. Hi! Excuse me. May I interrupt a moment? I’m Va’ru from the plains. How about you? Who might you (all) be?
Kaltxì. Hìtxoa. [This can be accompanied with the “I See you” hand gesture in the appropriate context and atmosphere. The gesture increases the level of formality.]
Tsun miväkxu hìkrr srak? Oe lu Va’ru a ftu txayo zola’u. (Ay)Ngari tut?

As you can guess, hìtxo a is a “small forgiveness,” used routinely where politeness is called for: “pardon me,” “excuse me,” etc. Oeru txoa livu is a more serious apology for something you know you did wrong.

Mäkxu [ m••äkxu ] is a transitive verb meaning ‘interrupt’ or ‘throw out of harmonious balance’ in the context of an ongoing activity. In English it’s possible to ‘interrupt’ a person directly, but in Na’vi mäkxu is only used for activities or established conditions, not people. Pol moläkxu ultxati. ‘He interrupted the meeting.’ It does not necessarily have a negative connotation even though it evolved from a compound containing the component kxu, which in other contexts is clearly ‘harm.’ In contrast, hultstxem [h•ultstx•em] is a transitive verb meaning ‘hinder’ or ‘be an obstacle to.’ Its object can be either an activity or a person, and it usually has a negative connotation. Example: Hìtxoa, ke new oel futa fìtìpängkxot ayngeyä hivultstxem, slä tsun miväkxu hìkrr nì’aw srak? ‘Excuse me. I don’t want to derail your chat, but can I interrupt for just a moment?’

By the way, notice that to say you come from somewhere, you use ftu, not ta. Ftu pairs with ne: they indicate directions from and to a place respectively.

10. Hi. You’re Sorewn, right? I’m Tsenu. Sister Rini over there suggested that I introduce myself. She said you’re really into cooking and that we might share that in common.
Kaltxì. Nga lu Sorewn, kefyak? Oer syaw fko Tsenu. Tsatsmukel alu Rini molok futa oe ngar muwäpivìntxu. Poltxe po san Sorewnìl kan’ìn tì’emit nìtxan ulte kxawm tsatxele mengane za’atsu nì’eng.

This example contains a number of interesting things.

First, note that when two nouns are in apposition with alu, only the main noun—the one before alu—gets the case marking. So in this case it’s Tsatsmukel alu Rini, not *Tsatsmukel alu Rinil.

Next are two useful transitive verbs, mok ‘suggest’ and muwìntxu [ muw•ìntx•u ] ‘introduce’ or ‘present.’ This latter word can be used not only for introducing a person but also for presenting an idea, report, analysis, etc. Here it has the reflexive infix for ‘introduce oneself.’ Remember, though, that the most usual way to introduce another person omits the verb entirely. See 2 and 3 above.

The transitive verb kan’ìn [ k•an’•ìn ] means ‘focus on, specialize in, be particularly interested in.’ Example: Entul kan’ìn tìwusemit. ‘Entu specializes in fighting’—that is, fighting is a major interest of his or focus of his activity.

The expression for ‘share an interest in common’ is za’u nì’eng, literally, ‘come in a level or equal manner.’ Example: Tìrusol za’u ne fo nì’eng. ‘They share an interest in singing.’ (Literally, ‘Singing comes to them equally.’)

Finally, note how san works in the last sentence. (Sìk is not required here, since the utterance ends with the quoted material.) Tsenu needs to quote what Rini said exactly, so a less natural but more literal translation would be, ‘She said, “Sorewn is really into cooking, and perhaps the two of you might share that matter in common.”’ That explains the appearance of menga ‘the two of you’ where you might be tempted to use oeng ‘you and I.’

Edit 27 Sept: Sorewn corrected to Sorewnìl in last sentence of #10. Irayo, ma Plumps!

This post continues the conversational theme. Here we’re beyond the introduction stage and beginning to find out things about the person we’re speaking with. Thanks again to Prrton for his great work on this.

First, some useful expressions to help out generally in oral communication:

WHEN YOU’RE STUCK OR DON’T UNDERSTAND

11. Sorry, I didn’t get that. Could you repeat it, please?
Hìtxoa, ke tslolam. Rutxe liveyn.

The transitive verb leyn means ‘repeat, do again.’ It’s applicable to any action or activity. For example, a mother can say to a naughty child who’s just been chastised for a misdeed, Rä’ä liveyn! ‘Don’t do that again!’ In the context of a conversation, it’s understood that the action in question is speaking, so you’re asking the speaker to repeat the last thing he/she said.

For added politeness:

12. I didn’t quite understand. OR I may not have understood.
Ke tslolatsam.

The response on the part of the repeater is:

13. Sure. (Gladly. With pleasure.) What I said was . . .
Nìprrte’. Poltxe san . . .

If you need clarification:

14. Could you make that a bit clearer? Could you explain that further?
Tsun nga law sivi nì’it srak?

To ask the meaning of something specific:

15. What does X mean?
Tsalì’uri alu X, ral lu ’upe?

This actually means, of course, ‘What does the word X mean?’ If it’s not a word but a phrase you’re after, substitute tsalì’fyaviri for tsalì’uri .

A shorter and highly colloquial version of 15 is acceptable in informal circumstances:

16. What does X mean?
X-(ì)ri peral?

Finally, what happens if you’re groping for a word or expression that’s not there, and no circumlocution comes to mind? Assuming you share another language with your audience, rather than having communication come to a screeching halt it’s better to insert the needed word or expression in the language you both know into the Na’vi sentence, preceded by nì’Ìnglìsì, nìFranse, nìToitsye, nìTsyungwen, etc. E.g., Sunu oeru nì’Ìnglìsì basketball nìtxan. (Of course, if you were Na’vi, you’d be more likely to pronounce “basketball” something like päsketpol, so that would be fine in this context as well.)

INITIAL CONVERSATIONS

17. Tell me a bit more about yourself.
Nga läpivawk nì’it nì’ul ko.

18. Tell me all about yourself.
Nga läpivawk nìno ko.

The adverb nìno means ‘in detail, expansively, thoroughly.’ The root on which it’s based, no, conveys the idea of fine detail. It’s not used by itself in modern Na’vi, but certain forms derived from it are found in the lexicon. Examples:

• hìno adj. ‘fine, detailed, precise, intricate–(of things)’
  Pol ngop frakrr sìkenongit a hìno lu nìhawng.
  ‘He always creates excessively detailed examples.’
• leno adj. ‘thorough, detail-oriented–(of a person)’
  Leno lu Loak nìtxan.
  ‘Loak is very thorough.’
• tìno n. ‘thoroughness, attention to detail’
  Längu tìkangkem feyä luke tìno.
  ‘Unfortunately there is no attention to detail in their work.’

The polite expression for “may I ask” is Ätxäle si oe pivawm , literally ‘I request to ask.’ (In an early version of the Avatar screenplay, the newly-arrived Norm is talking to a Pandoran for the first time in his overly formal, stilted Na’vi, and says: Ätxäle suyi ohe pivawm, peolo’ luyu pum ngengeyä? ‘May I ask what tribe you belong to?’)

19. May I ask who the people in your family are?
Ätxäle si oe pivawm, ngari soaiä ayhapxìtu lu supe?

A couple of things to note here: First, the genitive of soaia ‘family’ is irregular: soaiä (not *soaiayä). Also, supe is ‘who (pl.)’—i.e., ‘what people’ as opposed to ‘what person.’

To ask someone’s age:

20. How old you are?
Ngari solalew polpxaya zìsìt? OR Ngari solalew zìsìt apolpxay?

Literally, this is: ‘As for you, how many years have passed?’ Note that polpxay , ‘how many,’ behaves like an ordinary adjective.

In conversation, the age question may be shortened in several ways. The following are all possible, with decreasing formality as you move down the list:

• Ngari solalew polpxay?
• Ngari solew polpxay?
• Solew polpxay?

As you see, if zìsìt will be understood from the context, it can be omitted. Also, in quick, casual speech, solalew reduces to solew, just as palulukan reduces to palukan. These reduced forms, however, are not used in written Na’vi except when you want to reproduce the effect of casual speech. (Compare “going to” vs. “gonna” in English.)

To answer an age question:

21. I’m 24 years old.
Oeri solalew zìsìt apxevol.

Shorter, more colloquial versions:

• Oeri solalew pxevol.
• Oeri solew pxevol.
• Solew pxevol.
• Pxevol.

22. Where are you from?
Nga z(ol)a’u ftu peseng / ftu tsengpe / pesengeftu / tsengpeftu ?

The choice between za’u and zola’u depends on the context. Zola’u is correct in all cases. However, if the question is a general one—“Where’s your hometown?”—then za’u is sufficient. But if the intention is “Where have you come from (to attend this gathering)?” then zola’u is required.

23. I was born in a town near the ocean, but I now live in Hometree.
Oe ’olongokx mì sray a txampayìri sim, slä set kelku si mì Helutral.

The intransitive verb ’ongokx [’•ong•okx] means ‘be born.’ It’s a compound of ’ong ‘unfold, blossom’ and nokx ‘give birth to,’ where the internal ngn cluster has reduced to ng:
*’ongnokx > ’ongokx. (Note also that proper nouns are subject to lenition just like common nouns: mì Helutral.)

An example of nokx used by itself:

24. Mom gave birth to my new sister yesterday.
Sa’nokìl oeyä tsmuket amip nolokx trram.

To ask about someone’s occupation or central activity:

25. What is your primary role (in society)?
Ngaru lu pefnetxintìn nìtrrtrr?

Nìtrrtrr obviously means ‘on a daily basis, regularly.’ (Compare letrrtrr.) Pefnetxintìn, though, requires some explanation. Its first two morphemes (minimal elements of meaning) are clearly pe ‘what’ and fne ‘kind (of).’ But what about txintìn ? It’s a compound noun derived from the adjective txin ‘main, primary’ and the noun tìn, ‘activity that keeps one busy.’ So txintìn could be glossed ‘occupation’ or ‘primary role in society.’

Some possible ways to answer the question:

26. I am a student / hunter / warrior / teacher / cook.
Oe lu numeyu / taronyu / tsamsiyu / karyu / ’emyu.

27. My central societal occupation is to catch fish.
Oeyä txintìn lu fwa stä’nì fayoangit.

28. I look after the infants.
Oel vewng frrnenit.

The transitive verb vewng means ‘look after, take care of, be responsible for.’

29. I tend to the refuse.
Oel vewng aysngelit.

30. I see to it that the children learn about the forest plants.
Oel vewng futa ayeveng nivume teri ayewll na’rìngä.
(Note that this person does not necessarily teach the children regarding the flora, but makes sure that the teaching is taken care of whether he/she instructs directly or not.)

Edit 30 Sept.: Two minor typos corrected.

Kaltxì nìmun, ma oeyä eylan.

Here’s the third and final part of the conversational material. Ideally I’d space all of this out a bit more, but I wanted to make sure the people would have it who are participating in the Na’vi workshop up in northern California this weekend.

Thanks to everyone for the supportive comments and great questions! Sorry I haven’t yet been able to answer them all.

By the way, if anyone lives in or close to Tulsa, Oklahoma and is free the evening of Thursday, October 7, I’m speaking at the Oklahoma Conference in the Humanities, and it’s open to the public free of charge. Za’u kaltxì si ko!

(If you’re wondering about that structure: Two verbs back-to-back without a conjunction indicates that they’re performed in sequence: come and (then) say hello.)

MORE ON BASIC INFORMATION

To ask someone’s identity (in person, on the phone, etc.):

31. Hi. Who are you? OR Who is this (that I’m speaking to)?
Kaltxì. Ngenga lu tupe / pesu?

This is one place where the honoric form of the pronoun is standard. Nga lu tupe? could be heard as aggressive and challenging; to make it clear the questioner is being friendly, the honorific is used. The response, however, reverts back to the ordinary pronouns: Oe lu Txewì.

As in many earth languages (although not English), to ask someone’s name you don’t normally say the literal equivalent of “What is your name?” In Na’vi that would be Ngari tstxo lu pelì’u? It’s not wrong, but there’s a more idiomatic way to ask the question:

32. What’s your name:
Fyape fko syaw ngar?

Literally, this is, of course, “How does one call you?” or “How do they call you?” The answer is:

33. My name is Txewì.
Oeru syaw (fko) Txewì.

Getting back to age, if someone has asked you how old you are and you’re having trouble calculating it in octal, you can buy a little time with an expression that’s useful in lots of situations:

34. Just a tiny moment. I’m thinking.
’Awa swawtsyìp. Oe fperìl.

It would be a good idea, though, to have that number pre-calculated, since you don’t want people to think you’re not sure of your age. 😉 (Grammar: If you’re wondering why there’s no case marking on swawtsyìp, it’s because the phrase is short for ’Awa swawtsyìp livu oer rather than ’Awa swawtsyìpit tìng oer.)

LEISURE TIME

I’m indebted to Prrton for the material in this section, which I think is particularly rich.

35. Who do you typically hang out with / spend time with?
Nga pesuhu käteng nìtrrtrr?

• käteng [k••äteng] vi. ‘spend time with, hang out with.’ No implication of dating or romance—simply passing time with friends.

The next example introduces the important intransitive verb ’ìn, which is not only used by itself but also has many derivatives. (We already met one of them, kan’ìn, in Part 1.) ’Ìn means ‘be busy, be occupied’ and is neutral with respect to emotional impact. See below for derivatives of ’ìn that are slanted positively or negatively.

36. What’s been keeping you busy lately?
’Ìn nga fyape nìfkrr?

Literally, “In what way are you busy lately?”

Some derivatives of ’ìn:

• su lìn [s•ul•ìn] vi. ‘be busy (positive sense): be engrossed in something one finds especially pleasant and energizing’

37. He is overly engrossed in his music (and I’m displeased about it).
Pamtseori po sulängìn nìhawng.

• vrr ìn [v•rr•ìn] vi. ‘be busy (negative sense): be tired out and overwhelmed by an activity that’s keeping one busy’

38. I was completely swamped (overwhelmed) at work.
Tìkangkemìri varmrrìn oe nìwotx.

39. His work is still completely overwhelming him (and I’m glad).
Peyä tìkangkemìl mi veykrreiyìn pot nìwotx.

• tìk’ìn n. ‘free time, the absence of ’ìn’

40. What do you do in your free time?
Tìk’ìnìri kempe si nga?

• säsulìn n. ‘hobby, pleasure-yielding activity’

41. I practice my hobby, which is archery.
Oe tskxekeng si säsulìnur alu tsko swizaw.

To express the idea of fun, we use the adjective ’o’ ‘bringing fun, exciting’ and its derivatives.

42. Sports are great fun.
Ayuvan letokx ’o’ lu nìtxan.

Some derivatives of ’o’:

• tì’o’ n. ‘fun, excitement’

43. What is your favorite way to have fun?
Tì’o’ìri peu sunu ngar frato?

• nì’o’ , adv. ‘ ‘funly,’ in a manner that is very enjoyable’’

44. Studying Na’vi is a ton of fun for me.
Ftia oel lì’fyati leNa’vi nì’o’ nìwotx!

Finally, to say you’re good or bad at something, use the respective transitive verbs fnan ‘be good at’ and wätx ‘be bad at’:

45. Are you good at Na’vi?
Srake fnan ngal lì’fyati leNa’vi?

46. No, I totally suck at it, but I still love it to death.
Kehe. Slä hufwa oel (tsat) wätx nì’aw, tsalsungay yawne lu oer nìwotx!

Sìlpey oe, zaya’u trro a tsun awnga nìwotx pivlltxe san fnan oel nìngay lì’fyat leNa’vi sìk! 🙂

Kìyevame, ma eylan.

Just a couple more conversational expressions.

The usual response when you’re introduced to someone new is, of course, Oel ngati kameie, ma ____. But in addition you can say:

47. Nice to know you.
Smon nìprrte’.

To ask how to say something in Na’vi:

48. How do you say X in Na’vi?
X nìNa’vi (slu) pelì’u?

Note that slu ‘become’ is used here rather than lu. But it’s frequently omitted in conversation.

Finally, to let someone know there’s no rush, that it’s OK to go slowly and take time (not just in speech but in any activity):

49. Take your time; don’t rush. Slow is fine.
Ke zene win säpivi. ’Ivong nìk’ong.

In conversation, säpivi is usually pronounced spivi . (The main stress in the sentence, however, is on win.) The second sentence is proverbial—literally, “Let it unfold slowly.”

A word on initial glottal stops:

The comments were perceptive. It’s when something precedes the initial tìftang that you hear it clearly.

Take ’eylan ‘friend’ vs. the short plural eylan. If you say the words in isolation, I doubt there’s much of a distinction, if any. But put them in phrases like (1) oeyä ’eylan and (2) oeyä eylan and you hear the difference. In (1) there’s a sharp break between the words; in (2) the words flow together smoothly with no break.

Sivop nìzawnong, ma aysopyu.

Kaltxì, ma oeyä eylan!

Contrary to rumors that I have fallen off the face of the earth, I’m happy to say I’m alive and well, if a bit damp, here in Los Angeles. My three months of heavy travel—September through November—are now history. The revisions for the fifth edition of the linguistics workbook I’ve co-authored, Looking at Languages, which is due out next year, are almost complete. (This edition will include two Na’vi exercises.) And I’m looking forward to returning to my blog and being in closer touch with you all.

I thought you might be interested in a few highlights of my travels.

SEPTEMBER: Europe
I spoke in Stockholm at the Bonnier GRID 2010 conference, a two-day event for employees of the multi-national Bonnier Corporation. The theme of the conference, “It’s all about passion,” fit in well with the development and growth of Na’vi. After a wonderful week in Stockholm during which I met members of the Swedish Na’vi community, John and I headed to Copenhagen for five days and then flew to Paris for another ten.

OCTOBER: U.S.A.
The month kicked off with the now-legendary Ultxa a mì Na’rìng—the Meeting in the Forest, hosted at the beautiful sylvan home of Prrton and Yotsua in northern California. Ever since, I’ve proudly ended my talks about Na’vi with pictures and stories from that event, including an analysis of Po täpeykìyeverkeiup nìnäk* that some of the attendees had come up with. Audiences are always impressed with the creativity and exuberance of the community.

My next event was in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I spoke at the annual Oklahoma Conference in the Humanities and met some great members of the community as well. Then it was off to Rochester, New York for the 45^th reunion of my undergraduate class at the University of Rochester. I was one of the guest speakers, and the audience was extremely enthusiastic, which was gratifying. (My undergraduate college career was hardly distinguished, yet I was given the royal treatment on my return to campus 45 years later. It’s remarkable what an association with Avatar can do!)

After visiting my piano teacher from college days in central New York, I flew back to Los Angeles to take part in a Fox media event promoting the Collector’s Edition of the Avatar Blu-Ray and DVD. They had invited about 60 members of the press, both domestic and international. We creative types were divided into teams, each one staying at its station while the journalists rotated around in groups of six to eight to hear the presentations. I was paired with Dr. Jodie Holt, the botanist from the University of California, Riverside, who had named and described the plants in the Pandoran forest. We did our joint talk no less than ten times; the last time around, Jodie half-seriously suggested that we exchange roles, with her talking about the language and me about the plants—that’s how familiar we had become with each other’s presentations!

It was good to see James Cameron again, whom I hadn’t talked to since the end of 2009. He looked great—fit and trim (I believe he had dropped 30 pounds) and relaxed. At the time, I learned what I’m sure you all know by now: there will indeed be Avatar 2 and 3, which are slated for release in 2014 and 2015 respectively. A reporter asked whether we could expect Dr. Grace Augustine to make a miraculous reappearance; Jim smiled and answered cryptically, “Well, no one in science fiction ever dies.” Beyond that, I don’t know any more than you do about the new scripts. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed that there will be some Na’vi in them and that I’ll be re-invited to participate.

My final talks of October were back on the east coast, at Wellesley College in Massachusetts. Wellesley is an all-female university . . . and what an impressive place it is. In the morning I had the great pleasure of talking to a linguistics class devoted to created languages, I believe the only such class in the country! The students were extraordinarily engaged and engaging; the professor, Dr. Angela Carpenter, had put together a rich course that they clearly loved. As a semester project, each student had to make progress in developing her own conlang, and at the start of the class, I was greeted in 16 different artificial languages, along with kaltxì, which they had all practiced. In the evening, I spoke to a more general audience of about 250 people. Unfortunately the technology failed and my PowerPoint couldn’t be projected onto the screen, so I had to wing it, which was a challenge. But all in all I think things went well.

NOVEMBER: Australia and New Zealand
We spent three and half weeks Down Under, a great trip. I spoke twice—first at Monash University in Melbourne and then on the west coast, in Fremantle (close to Perth), at the biennial conference of AUSIT, the Australian Institute of Interpreters and Translators, where I was the keynote speaker. I usually begin my talks by plunging into a Na’vi greeting (typically: Kaltxì, ma oeyä eylan. Oel ayngati kameie nìwotx. Furia fìtsengit terok fte tsivun ayngahu teri lì’fya leNa’vi pivängkxo, oeru prrte’ lu nìngay) and then explaining what I just said. This time, though, before I got up to speak, an elder of the Noongar group of indigenous people opened the conference with a beautiful—and long!—bilingual blessing, half of which was in fluent Noongar. When it was my turn, I had to acknowledge that what they were about to hear might not sound very impressive after that.

The rest of our time in Oceania was pure vacation. In addition to Melbourne and Fremantle, we toured the west coast wine-growing of Margaret River; then Sydney; then a hop over to New Zealand for five wonderful days on Waiheke Island, a little piece of heaven 35 minutes by ferry from Auckland; and then back to Melbourne before heading home to L.A. In most of those places we connected with friends we hadn’t seen in years, all of whom were extremely generous with their time and hospitality.

While in Melbourne I did several interviews for Radio Australia. If you have 15 minutes, you might like to listen to this one with Maria Zijlstra of the Lingua Franca program. In my second interview with Maria, we talked not so much about Na’vi but rather about the kinds of things I generally find the most fascinating about language.

Let me conclude by congratulating Sebastian and everyone else involved with the amazing LearnNavi.org on the site’s first anniversary. (More about that in the next post.) And to the many people who have written me e-mails and haven’t yet received a response—thank you all for your patience, and I hope to catch up on my correspondence soon.

Hayalovay, ma frapo.

ta Pawl

*The canonical translation is, “I’m so jazzed that he may be about to drink himself to death.”

Edit: error correction–nìnäk. Also, please note that in the Lingua Franca interview I mentioned, I mangled the name of the book I was referring to: It’s Through the Language Glass, not Through the Looking Glass. (Deutscher points out some strange things about language, but he’s not Lewis Carroll.)

As everyone knows, December 21^st is a significant date–it’s the winter/summer solstice. But much more importantly, it’s also the birthday of learnnavi.org!

To celebrate LN’s first anniversary, several members of the community proposed and implemented a Na’vi Writing Contest.

The judges were Wm. Annis, Prrton, and Lance R. Casey—and their decisions are now in!

It gives me great pleasure to announce the Second Place Winners:

Beginners Verse: Reyona te Tsateka Ray’i’itan

Advanced Prose: Futurulus

Their winning entries are reproduced below.

Seykxel s ì nitram, ma meylan! Mengey ä t ìkangkxem txantsan lu nìngay .

Congratulations!

I’ll announce the first place winners in the next post.

P.

_____________

Beginners Verse, Second Place (Reyona te Tsateka Ray’i’itan)

(The author wishes to acknowledge help from Tirea Aean.)

Hahaw ma oeyä ‘eveng
Trr’ong zìya’u
Zamerunge trr amip

Hahaw ma oeyä ‘eveng
Txon ‘ayi’a
Txonä tìvawm kalmä

Hahaw ma oeyä ‘eveng
Tsawl slu win sì tstew
Na nangtang na’rìngä

Hahaw ma oeyä ‘eveng
Tsawl slu txur sì txantslusam
Nga layu taronyu

Hahaw ma oeyä ‘eveng
Ulte ‘awa trr
Nga layu ‘itan Omatikayaä

_____________

Advanced Prose, Second Place (Futurulus)

San Kxamlä menari tsun fko vitrati tsive’a sìk. Fìfya plltxe fkol ‘awa lì’fyavit leÌnglìsì.

Slä kxamlä menari tsun fko tsive’a peut nìngay? Ngay lu fwa ke lu kea mesute a mefor lu aynari ateng. Slä ke latem nari. Aynaril wìntxu ‘ut ateng frakrr. Nìnari ke latem vitra kawkrr srak? Tengkrr ‘eveng tsawl slu, tsawl slu peyä ronsem, nìtengfya tsawl slu peyä vitra.

Fra’ul a fko nolume tsat, fkot sloleyku tute aketeng nì’it. Leratem vitra nìlkeftang. Slä ke latem nari. Ha srake kxamlä menari tsun fko vitrati alusatem tsive’a nìngay? Txokefyaw, kxamlä peu?

Lì’fya. Kxamlä lì’fya tsun fko vitrati stivawm. Lì’fyal wìntxu ronsemit nìwotx. Lì’ut fkol solar a krr, tsalì’ul wolìntxu hapxìti vitrayä. Mipa lì’ut fkol nolume a krr, tsalì’u slolu hapxì vitrayä.

Ulte mipa lì’fyati fkol nolume a krr, tsalì’fya slolu vitra amip nìwotx.

‘Ivong ayvitra amip. ‘Ivong Na’vi!

And now it’s my great pleasure to announce the First Place Winners of the Na’vi Writing Contest:

(Fanfare, please . . . )

Beginners Verse: Tìrey Tsmukan

Advanced Verse: KalaKuival

Advanced Prose: Ataeghane

As before, the winning entries are below. And what beautiful work this is. (We even have rhymed verse! Tewti!)

Irayo, ma pxesmuk, ulte seykxel s ì nitram. Pxengey ä tsulf ä l ì’fyay ä leNa’vi oeru teya si .

P.

__________

Beginners Verse First Place (Tìrey Tsmukan)

Oe lu numeyu leNa’vi, oe zola’u alìm. Oe ke zola’u kea tìtslamhu, oe ‘ì’awn fte nivume frakrr.

Oe lu numeyu leNa’vi, lì’fya ‘erong, tsawl sleru na syulang na’rìngkip lì’fyayä. Hì’i ulte kea ralhu.

Mi fì’u lu tìngäzìk ke, talun ayoengal tsa’ut tse’eia. Ayoeng plltxe sì pamrel si, uteri atsawl hì’isì.

Ayoengal kame lì’fyati, ulte tsawmì slu tsawl, kxawm fpi tìyawr, kxawm ke. Slä ayoeng frakrr tsun livatem.

Ro fìtseng ayoeng ultxarun, ta seng atxan zola’u. Ayoengit zamolunge tì’awsitengìl, ne ‘uo anawm.

Ayoengal kame futa aylapo a perlltxe, teri ayoeng na sute ‘äpolia. Slä ayoengal tìng nariti Smukanur set, ulte Smuke za’u, Ulte ayoeng käpame fra’umì na Ävätar, zìlya’u fte kame krr Eywasì; set ayoeng tslam.

Ayoeng tok fìtseng fte nivume, ayoeng zola’u alìm. Ayoeng ke zola’u kea tìtslamhu, ulte ‘ì’awn fte nivume frakrr.

__________

Advanced Verse First Place (KalaKuival)

Fìlì’fya suneiu oeru nìtxan.

Fko tsa’uri syaw leNa’via pum.

Nivume tsa’ut lu oeyä tìkan.

Ke nìtam tsa’uti oel ke omum.

Peseng tsun oe nivume? sìk pawm fko.

Tsun oe mivok san leiu ‘awa tseng

alu nume lì’fyat leNa’vi, txo

tsulfätu nga new livu sìk oe peng.

Fìlì’fya lu lor, tì’efumì oey:

Frapam lam ‘ango oeyä mikyunur.

Oel fpìl futa tsa’u nìngay lu swey.

Irayo sayi oe frakrr ngopyur!

Hufwa fìlì’fya ngäzìk tsun livu,

tsunslu fì’u a livu tsulfätu.

__________

Advanced Prose First Place (Ataeghane)

‘Okvur lì’fyayä leNa’vi

Nìawnomum, lora lì’fya leNa’vi ke tsivun livu luke txantsana rel arusikx TseymsìKameronä. Fìrel eltur tìtxen sarmi ulte var, ngian aysuteori lì’fya sarmi nì’ul. Pxaya stawnarsìma tute lenomum sngolä’i nìwin pivängkxo teri lì’fya sìreysì Na’viyä. Fwarmew nìno fo ulte frafya’oti sìpängkxoä eana fayswiräyä atsawl ftivia fmarmi.

Ye’rìn tsamaw, ngaya aynongyu kifkeyä alu Eywa’eveng tsarmun pivlltxe fìlì’fyafa sì tslivam fìlì’fyati taluna ke narmìn fol aysìngäzìkit a za’u hola lì’uta sì hìma tìtslamta ayrenuä lì’fyayä. Nìk’ong stawnarsìma ayupxare ta Karyu Pawl nìlaw srung soli ayoengaru. Fayul lì’fyat txarmula tafral set tsaw awngaru smon.

Awngakip lu sute a vivewng veiar pongut aynumeyuä. Hufwa pxaya tute sngalmä’i tìsopit ne kifkey ayhorenä sì aylì’uä ulte maw trr ahol ftolang, lu mi aysute a pamrel si fte srung sivi aysngä’iyur sì ayeylanä eltur tìtxen seykivi lì’fyat leNa’vi.

Fpìl oel futa txo ayoeng fmayi, tsayun veykivirä fìlì’fyat alor. Set suneiu nìtxan ayrenu awngar ulte lu aylì’u nìtam fte pivängkxo txeleteri letrrtrr. Ayoeng tsun slivu nawma lì’fyaolo’ – nivume zene nì’aw. ‘Ivong Na’vi, ma aysmuk!

Mehapxìtul lì’fyao’loä pxestxelit alor tolìng awngaru.

Two members of the German Na’vi community, Plumps (Stefan Müller) and Maksìl (Maximilian Reinhart), have translated three Christmas carols into Na’vi and recorded them. The wonderful singer is Maksìl. Please listen:

Maria Kxamlä Na’rìng Kä - Maria Kxamlä Na’rìng Kä (Maria durch den Dornwald Ging)

Tewti Ma Utral - Tewti Ma Utral (Oh Christmas Tree)

Txon Amawey - Txon Amawey (Silent Night)

I think you’ll agree that these carols are astonishingly beautiful and gorgeously sung.

Irayo, ma meylan. Lora fìtìkangkem mengeyä meuia luyu awngaru nìwotx.

ta Pawl

Kaltxì, ma eylan oeyä—

As some of you may know, we now have a structure in place whereby members of the community are submitting not only requests for new vocabulary but actual suggestions for new Na’vi words. (You’ll find information about the process at learnnavi.org.) I received the first such submission several days ago and was very impressed. A lot of thought and creativity went into the document, not to mention the time and effort it took to put it all together, with illustrative examples, etymologies, grammatical discussions, alternatives . . . Tìkangkem atxantsan, ma frapo! Thanks to everyone involved, and especially to the project’s very able coordinator, Lawren. Irayo nìtxan, ma tsmuke!

In looking at the committee’s suggestions, I found myself responding in several ways. For example:

1. Perfect! I love it!
2. Great idea—I’ll just make a few changes.
3. Interesting and potentially very useful, but I need to think through the ramifications
and/or get some clarification before I commit to it.
4. I see the need, but I’d rather do it differently.

Below you’ll find the items in categories 1 and 2. In some cases I’ve pretty much just cut and pasted from the doc that Lawren sent, since I didn’t think I could improve on it. In other cases I’ve made a few changes. If I haven’t included something, it doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve rejected it. Some things will require more time and thought than I’ve been able to put in in the last few days. So please consider this Part 1, with Part 2 to follow.

And even though 1/12 of 2011 is history, since I haven’t yet said it: Mipa Zìsìt Lefpom, ma frapo!

ta Pawl

1. taKRRa / aKRRta (conj.) ‘since’ (temporal)

Aylì’fya yawne leru oer takrra ’eveng lamu.

OR:

’Eveng lamu akrrta aylì’fya yawne leru oer.

‘I’ve loved languages since I was a child.’

Using the imperfective (leru) conveys the sense that the activity is ongoing; if it has ended, use the perfective:

Sawtute zola’u akrrta po ke ’olefu nitram.

‘Since the Skypeople came, she had not been happy [and this has now changed].’

When other time words are used in the sentence, the adposition ta- is sufficient to convey the concept of “since.”

Trr’ongta Txon’ongvay po tolìran.

‘He walked from dawn until dusk.’

2. few (ADP-) ‘across, aiming for the opposite side of’

NOTE: This new adposition is distinct from the existing adposition ka-, which means “across” in the sense of “covering thoroughly” (e.g., “Mother spread frosting across the entire top and sides of the cake.” OR “He wanted nothing more than peace across the entire world.”)

Po spä few payfya fte smarit sivutx.

‘He jumped across the stream to track his prey.’

Utral a lu few payfya a eo kelku oeyä tsawl lu nìtxan.

‘The tree on the other side of the stream in front of my house is very tall.’

~Derived form: FEWtusok (adj.), “opposite, on the opposite side”

Note: In casual speech, the word is often pronounced fewtsok. In writing, however, the full form is used.

Oe kawkrr ne fewtusoka pa’o kilvanä ke kamä.

‘I never went to the opposite side of the river.’

3. SLA’tsu (vtr., infixes 12) ‘describe’

Pol sla’tsu ayioangit a tse’a fkol mì Eywa’eveng*.

‘She describes animals seen on Pandora.’

*Note: In informal contexts, Eywa’eveng can be shortened to Eyweveng .

~Derived form: tìsla’tsu (n.), “description”

4. ’en (n.) guess (informed guess; hunch; intuition)

Note: This word only covers informed guessing, not a “shot in the dark” sort of guess.

-Pelun fìtsengne nga zola’u fte tivaron?

-Lolu ’en.

‘-Why did you come here to hunt?’

‘-It was a guess (hunch).’

Fìuvanìri lu ngaru pxen nì’aw.

‘You only get three guesses in this game.’

~Derived form: ’en si ‘make an informed guess’

Ke sterawm oel ke’ut mì na’rìng. ’En si oe, Sawtuteol tìlmok fìtsengit.

‘I don’t hear anything in the forest. I guess some Skypeople were just here.’

~Derived form: le’en (adj.), “speculative, intuitive” (of an action, not a person)

Eltu si. Hem le’en tsun lehrrap livu.

‘Watch out. Speculative moves can be dangerous.’

~Derived form: nì’en (adv.), “making an informed guess, acting on intuition”

Pol pole’un futa pehem si nì’en.

‘He decided what to do on a hunch.’

5. SÄ’o (n.) ‘tool, utensil’

Na’viri txina sä’o tìtusaronä lu tsko swizaw.

‘For the Na’vi the bow and arrow is the main hunting tool.’

6. pamtseo si (vin.) ‘play music’

To convey that one plays a musical instrument, use the adposition fa-.

Po pamtseo si fa au nìltsan nìtxan.

‘She plays the drums very well.’

Note that one can also use reykol, but this idiom is considered more “poetic,” and perhaps may not apply to all instruments.

Tewti, nga lu tsulfätu i’enä. Ngal tsat reykìmol!

‘Wow, you are a master on the i’en. You just made it sing!’

7. väng (adj.) ‘thirsty’

Menga ’efu väng srak?

‘Are you two thirsty?’

~Derived form: tìväng (n.), “thirst”

Apxa tìvängìl poti steykoli.

‘(His) great thirst made him angry.’

8. sngum (n.) ‘worry’

For verb (worry, be worried, be anxious), uses “lu DAT” construction:

Lu oeru sngum a saronyu ke tìyevätxaw.

‘I’m worried that the hunters will not return (soon, as expected).’

~Derived form: nìsngum (adv.), “worryingly, fretfully”

Swey lu fwa nga fìkem ke sivi nìsngum.

‘It’s best that you not do this fretfully.’

(It’s best that you don’t freak out about doing this.)

9. yaYAYR (n.) ‘confusion’

For verb (be confused, be puzzled), uses “lu DAT” construction (same as sngum)

Sawtuteyä hemìri lu awngaru yayayr.

‘The Skypeople’s actions confuse us.’

[I love this word! For some reason it just sounds like confusion.]

10. wäTE (vtr., infixes 22) ‘argue, dispute’

Sawtute lu ayvrrtep nìwotx a säfpìlit oel wäte.

‘I dispute the idea that the Skypeople are all demons.’

~Derived forms:

tìwäte (n.) (dispute, argument)

säwäte (n.) (point of contention, source of argument, thing disputed)

lewäte (n.) (disagreeable, argumentative [of an agent])

nìwäte (disagreeably, begrudgingly)

Edit, Feb 21: “fko” corrected to “fkol” in example sentence for #3.

Here’s Part 2 of the new vocabulary post from last time. Some of these words, I think, will turn out to be quite useful.

1. li (adv.) ‘already’

Tìkangkem li hasey lu.
‘The work is already finished.’

Li pol terok fìtsengit srak?
‘Is she already here?’

Ayfohu li oe ultxa soli.
‘I’ve already met with them.’

What does li add to a sentence? To paraphrase the lucid analysis of one of the vocabulary committee members, li does two jobs: (1) it indicates completion, and (2) it’s a way for speakers (or writers) to react to their reasonable assumptions about what listeners (or readers) are thinking.

For example:

A: Srake new nga oehu yivom wutsot?
‘Do you want to have dinner with me?’
B: Oer txoa livu. Li yolom.
‘Sorry. I’ve already eaten.’

Here, B sees from A’s question that A is assuming she (B) hasn’t yet eaten. B’s response says, in effect, “You evidently think I haven’t had dinner, but in fact I have.”

For the negative, Na’vi doesn’t use a separate lexical item like English (already ~ not yet) or French (déjà ~ pas encore) but simply negates li:

A: Fo li polähem srak?
‘Have they already arrived?’
B: Ke li.
‘Not yet.’

Li has some idiomatic uses as well:

A. In imperatives to convey strong urgency:

Ngal mi fìtsengit terok srak? Li kä!
‘You’re still here? Get going!’.

(Note: It’s the verb that gets the sentence stress, not the li: li KÄ!)

Also note the set phrase:

Li ko.
‘Well, get to it, then.’ OR ‘Let’s get on it.’
(Here li gets the stress: LI ko.)

B. As a somewhat hesitant or weak ‘yes,’ as in colloquial English “Well, yeah, kind of.”

A: Nga mllte srak?
‘Do you agree?’
B: Li, slä …
‘Well, yes, I guess so, but . . .’

The negative of this usage is simply ke li, which could be translated in colloquial English as ‘not really.’ This overlaps the ‘not yet’ usage above, but in most cases the context will disambiguate.

C. Combined with sre (ADP+) to indicate ‘by’ in the time sense—that is, ‘before or up to, but not after.’ For example:

Kem si li trraysre.
‘Do it by tomorrow.’

If sre comes before the time expression, it fuses with li into lisre (LI.sre), an adposition that is still ADP+ . . . i.e., that will cause lenition:

Kem si lisre srray.
‘Do it by tomorrow.’

Regarding ‘already,’ I want to say a big irayo to the vocabulary committee for an extremely rich discussion from which I learned a lot. I got great examples of how the corresponding words for ‘already’ are used in Japanese, Thai, Spanish, Irish, German, Swedish, Latin, Ancient Greek, and Nahuatl. Tewti, ma eylan! Lì’fyari lu aynga sulfätu nìwotx.

2. ronsrelngop ‘imagine, envision’ (vtr., infixes 33) (RON.srel.ngop)

Tsat ke tsun oe ronsrelngivop.
‘I can’t imagine that.’

Oel ronsrelngop futa Eywevengit tok.
‘I imagine that I’m on Pandora.’

The etymology of this word is probably clear: ronsem + rel + ngop, ‘mind-picture-create.’ Note, however, that in colloquial as opposed to careful or formal speech, ronsrelngop is usually pronounced ronsrewngop. (The sound change vowel + l –> vowel + w has occurred in Earth languages as well, for example in the history of French. Compare “salsa” and “sauce”!) This has led to a popular misunderstanding, or “folk etymology,” where the word is connected to srew, ‘dance,’ as if imagination were a dance in the mind. It’s a nice idea, but that’s not where the word actually comes from.

Derivation: ronsrel (n.) ‘something imagined’ (RON.srel)

Ayronsrel peyä hängek nìtxan.
‘His imaginings are (unpleasantly) weird.’

Derivation: tìronsrel (n.) ‘imagination’ (tì.RON.srel)

Lu poru tìronsrel atxanatan.
‘She has a vivid imagination.’

Note: txanatan (adj.) ‘bright, vivid’ (TXA.na.tan, from txan + atan)

Derivation: leronsrel (adj.) ‘imaginary’

Oe new sivop ne tsakifkey leronsrel.
‘I want to journey to that imaginary world.’

Derivation: nìronsrel (adv.) ‘in/by imagination’

Oe pxìm pängkxo ngahu nìronsrel.
‘I often talk with you in my imagination.’
OR
‘I often imagine I’m talking with you.’

3. srefey ‘expect’ (vtr., vitr., infixes 22) (sre.FEY, from sre and pey)

This verb can be transitive or intransitive, so there are alternate structures to express the same idea:

Set srefey oel futa tsampongu tätxaw maw txon’ong.
OR:
Set srefey oe tsnì tsampongu tätxaw maw txon’ong.
‘I’m currently expecting the war party back after nightfall.’

Note the useful idiom srefereiey nìprrte’, ‘looking forward’:

Tsaria ngahu ye’rìn ultxa si nìmun, oe srefereiey nìprrte’.
‘I’m looking forward to getting together with you again soon.’

You can use this phrase by itself as a positive response to someone’s offer:

A. Oeng rewonay ’awsiteng tivaron ko.
‘Let’s you and I go hunting together tomorrow morning.’
B. Srefereiey nìprrte’.
‘I’ll look forward to that.’ OR ‘I’d love to.’

FRACTION PARADIGM

mawl (n.) ‘half’

Tsu’teyìl tolìng oer mawlit smarä.
Tsu’tey gave me a half of the prey.

As you see, to say ‘half of something’ you simply use the genitive of the noun.

pan (n.) ‘third, one third’

Tsu’teyìl tolìng oer panit smarä.

Tsu’tey gave me a third of the prey.

Two thirds is simply mefan (me.FAN), with the dual me effecting lenition in the usual way.

For fractions with denominators higher than 3 we use the prefix form of the number plus the suffix pxì, derived from hapxì ‘part.’ Hapxì is stressed on the second syllable (ha.PXÌ), and this has influenced the fraction words, which retain the stress on pxì.

tsìpxì ‘one-fourth’ (tsì.PXÌ)

mrrpxì ‘one-fifth’ (mrr.PXÌ)

pupxì ‘one-sixth’ (pu.PXÌ)

kipxì ‘one-seventh’ (ki.PXÌ)

vopxì ‘one-eighth’ (vo.PXÌ)

To make higher fractions from these, use simple numbers:

munea mrrpxì – ‘two-fifths’

kipxì atsìng – ‘four-sevenths’

Tam. Hayalovay, ma oeyä eylan.

Edits, 21 Feb.: Example with hek corrected. “A’s response” corrected to “B’s response” in li discussion.

The Vocabulary Committee has been working overtime! The February submission was particularly rich, inventive . . . and massive. It’s going to take me a while to work through all the suggestions, discussions, and examples, and getting out the results will require more than a few blog posts. But I wanted to get in one more post before February turns into March, at least here in California. So for the time being, here are a couple of innovations I liked, which are now officially part of Na’vi. Much more to follow. Livu faylì’fyavi lesar ayngaru!

1. wan ‘hide’ (vtr.)

Pol sä’oti wolan äo ayrìk.
‘He hid his tool under the leaves.’

As reflexive (with the –äp- infix), ‘to hide oneself’:

Wäpan! Sawtute za’u!
‘Hide! The Sky people are coming!’

Nga pelun wäperan?
‘Why are you hiding?’

Idioms and derivations:

Pol säfpìlit verar wivan.
‘He’s keeping his idea a secret.’

nìwan (adv.) secretly; in hiding, by hiding

Samsiyu perey nìwan.
‘The hunters lie in wait, prepared to ambush.’

tìwan (n.) ‘obfuscation, cover-up’

letwan (adj.) ‘dodgy, sneaky (of a person)’

2. slele ‘swim’ (vin.) (SLE.le; infixes 1,2)

Lehrrap lu fwa evitsyìp slele mì hilvan luke fwa fyeyntu terìng nari.
‘It’s dangerous for tiny ones to swim in the river without an adult watching.’

Derivations:

nìslele ‘by swimming’

Tsun fko tsatsengene kivä nìslele fu fa fwa ikranit makto nì’aw.
‘You can only get there by swimming or riding an ikran.’

Edits Mar. 1: Changed n. to adj. for letwan. Corrected Samsiyul to Samsiyu in example sentence for nìwan.

Kaltxì, ma oeyä eylan—

I wanted to fill you in on my Na’vi talks for the first few months of this year, both those in the recent past and those coming up.

It’s been gratifying to see that interest in Na’vi continues. The invitations to speak about the language are still coming in—not at the hectic pace of a year or so ago, of course, but still quite steadily. I haven’t solicited any of these appearances; rather, people have looked me up and contacted me about speaking at their events. When it’s been feasible, I’ve been pleased to do so.

In the recent past:

§ Iowa State University (Ames, Iowa)—Feb. 3.
My talk at ISU was at the intersection of two different programs: the Quentin Johnson Lecture Series in Linguistics and the National Affairs Lecture Series, which this year has the theme of innovation. It was my best-attended talk ever: almost 400 people in the audience—students, faculty, and interested people from outside the university! Prior to the evening presentation I talked informally with members of the linguistics faculty and graduate students in applied linguistics. It was bitter cold outside, but my reception at ISU was very warm.

§ University of Southern California (Los Angeles)—Feb. 18
This was a lecture for the undergraduate Engineering Honors Colloquium at the Viterbi School of Engineering at my graduate alma mater, USC. There were about 120 students in the auditorium and everything went quite smoothly. (For once I didn’t run over the allotted time!) Afterwards a number of interested students came up to continue the conversation, including a conlanger working on his own language, one with a very interesting pronominal system.

Coming up:

§ Boise State University (Boise, Idaho)—Mar. 3
Ngaytxoa—I should have mentioned this earlier, although I think a number of you already know about it. I’m leaving tomorrow for Boise, Idaho, where I’ll be sharing the spotlight with none other than Marc Okrand, creator of Klingon! It won’t be a lecture but rather a panel discussion titled “Linguists in Hollywood,” presented by the Boise State Linguistics Association and the English Majors Association. I’m looking forward to getting to know Marc a bit and sharing experiences and war stories, both on mike and off. I’ll let you know how things go.

§ University of Rochester Alumni Event (Los Angeles)—Mar. 12
This fundraising event for the University of Rochester, my undergraduate alma mater, will be held at Sony Studios in Culver City, a separate city that’s an “island” inside Los Angeles (like Beverly Hills). It’ll be pretty much the same presentation I gave on the UR campus back in October, when I attended my 45^th college reunion. I mentioned to the organizers that anyone who heard me back in October and is also planning to attend this event will have a strong sense of déjà vu, but they didn’t seem to think that would be a problem.

§ University of California (Los Angeles)—Apr. 9
I’ll be the keynote speaker at the second annual Southern California Undergraduate Linguistics Conference at UCLA. As you may know, UCLA is a linguistics powerhouse, so I’m expecting a lot of challenging questions.

§ California State University (Fullerton, California)—Apr. 18
I’ll be the keynote speaker at the 20th CSUF linguistics symposium. (I couldn’t find an announcement on the Internet—maybe I googled the wrong search terms.) This will be a return to the university where I taught linguistics way back in 1978-79, when I was working on my Ph.D. dissertation. I haven’t been back since, and I suspect things have changed a bit in the interim.

If anyone is in the neighborhood and would like to stop by any of these events to say hi, by all means do. To my knowledge they’re all open to the public, and, with the exception of the Rochester fundraiser, free of charge.

A couple of posts ago, in a response to a comment, I mentioned that the following example sentence was correct:

Pol säfpìlit verar wivan.
‘He’s keeping his idea a secret.’

Here the verb var ‘persist in a state, continue to perform an action’ is used as a helping verb or modal, with the meaning ‘keep on doing something.’ A more literal translation of the sentence would be, ‘He’s continuing to hide the idea.’

The question was whether the first word should be po or pol. Several people suggested that pol was incorrect, based on the evidence to date. For example, ‘He sees you’ is Pol tse’a ngati, since tse’a is transitive, but ‘He CAN see you’ is Po tsun tsive’a ngati, since here, po is the subject not of tse’a but of tsun, and helping verbs like tsun (also new and var) are intransitive.

So I thought it would be useful to clarify some things about case marking—and also word order—with modals.

First, word order.

I have a slide in my PowerPoint presentation about Na’vi that shows how the words in a simple sentence like the one for ‘Eytukan sees Neytiri’ can be permuted in all possible ways, with all the versions grammatical and without altering the semantics of who is doing what to whom. In this case there are 3! = 6 possible permutations:

a. Eytukanìl tse’a Neytirit.
b. Eytukanìl Neytirit tse’a.
c. Neytirit tse’a Eytukanìl.
d. Neytirit Eytukanìl tse’a.
e. Tse’a Eytukanìl Neytirit.
f. Tse’a Neytirit Eytukanìl.

This is not to say that all six sentences are completely interchangeable in discourse. As in the vast majority of natural human languages, the word orders where the subject precedes the object (a, b, and e) are the most common; the others are grammatical but are generally used for special emphasis. For example, suppose someone thought Mo’at saw Neytiri, but you know that it was actually Eytukan who saw her. The conversation could go like this:

–Spaw oel futa Mo’atìl tsole’a Neytirit.
‘I believe Mo’at saw Neytiri.’

–Kehe. Tsole’a Neytirit Eytukanìl.
‘No, the one who saw Neytiri was Eytukan.’

Here the speaker has chosen a word order that puts Eytukanìl at the end of the sentence to highlight the important, contrastive information—just as the English translation does, but less concisely than the Na’vi.

With a modal verb in the mix, however, the situation becomes more complicated.

Let’s take as our example sentence ‘I want to eat teylu.’ One way of saying that is Oe new yivom teylut. How many possible word orders are there? Well, in this case we have four words, so there are 4! = 24 logically possible orders. Bear with me as I list them all. (For brevity, I’ll just use the initial letters of the four words.)

Are all 24 orders grammatical? Actually, no. The rule is that except in poetry or special ceremonial language, the modal has to precede the dependent verb. This means that in these examples, N = new must come before Y = yivom. So that knocks out half of the 24 logical possibilities. We’re left with these 12 word orders:

Now what about the case marking? Well, it’s clear that T is teylut throughout. As for O, oe is correct in all cases. But here’s where it gets interesting: one of these sentences, number 9, has an alternate form where O is oel. That is, 9 can be either of the following:

9a. Oe teylut new yivom.
9b. Oel teylut new yivom.

In fact, 9b is more common than 9a. Why is that? Well, the combination of Agentive/Ergative (the “l-case”) followed by Patientive/Objective (the “t-case”) is so frequent in Na’vi (e.g., Oel ngati kameie) that sentences like 9a are uncomfortable for many speakers. So a reanalysis takes place, where new yivom is thought of as a single, transitive verb, making 9b possible.

And that explains why the ‘keeping secret’ sentence we started out with is OK with either po or pol.

Sìlpey oe, fìtìoeyktìng law lilvu!

Ta Pawl

P.S.—The event with Marc Okrand in Boise was a blast! I really enjoyed meeting him, and I think our joint appearance went well. It was also great to meet ’Eylan Ayfalulukanä, an active member of the Community, who drove a long way to be there. Oh, and I got to see and talk with my first Klingon!

Addendum—March 22, 2011

Thanks to everyone who contributed astute questions and comments both here and elsewhere. Let me try to clarify some of the points I made above, although I can’t promise to offer definitive yes-or-no rules in all cases: constructions like this are inherently fuzzy.

There are four word orders in contention for reanalysis (which I’ll expand on in a bit); I’ll repeat them here for convenience:

5. N Y O T
6. N Y T O
9. O T N Y
15. T O N Y

What defines these four is that in all of them, (a) NY (new yivom) is an uninterrupted sequence, and (b) O (oe or oel) and T (teylut) are contiguous.

The question is, Does O = oe or oel? As I indicated above, in all cases O = oe is grammatically correct . So it boils down to whether or not O = oel is also acceptable to native speakers of Na’vi in any of these sentences.

I’ll address that question in a moment, but first some general thoughts on linguistic variation, a large topic about which books have been written.

As language learners, we feel most comfortable with definite rules: “It’s A, not B.” But real language doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes A and B are equally correct, with no difference in meaning or usage, although some speakers might be more likely to use one than the other. (In English, how do you pronounce the first syllables of either and economics? How do you contract He is not here—He isn’t here or He’s not here?) As you know, Na’vi is particularly rich in such “free variation” (mì fay vs. paymì; awnga vs. ayoeng; lora syulang vs. syulang alor; to say “Who are you?” even if “you” is simply nga, you have 12 choices!). Another kind of variation is not within a given speaker but among speakers: For some, A is right, B is wrong, and that’s that. For others, A and B are both fine. For still others, A sounds better than B but B is still acceptable to some degree. That is to say, grammaticality judgments can vary among native speakers. (I just took a look at a textbook of mine from my graduate school days. In one of his seminal articles, Chomsky had “starred” an example sentence, *It is easy for there to be snow in June, indicating that it was ungrammatical. I wrote in the margin that I thought the sentence was perfectly fine.) There’s no reason to think the situation is any different on Eywa’eveng. Unfortunately communication with Pandora has been difficult lately, and I haven’t been able to ask any native speakers of Na’vi how they feel about these sentences. (Oh for a Na’vi Maltz!) So I’ve had to use my intuition. That being said, here are my best guesses:

The one most likely to be judged grammatical with oel is 9:

9b. Oel teylut new yivom.

That’s judged acceptable by almost all Na’vi in all but the most formal situations.

The next most likely is 15:

15b. ?Teylut oel new yivom.

I’d put that at 50-50—that is, half the Na’vi will accept it, half won’t.

The next is 6, which I’d put at 30% acceptable, 70% unacceptable:

6b. ??New yivom teylut oel.

Finally, 5 is generally judged unacceptable with oel:

5b. *New yivom oel teylut.

I spent some time trying to justify these intuitions, but after reading what I wrote, I didn’t find the results coherent. And as they say, your mileage may vary. So I’m just going to leave it there, at least for the time being. Bottom line: If you don’t want to take any chances, use the intransitive-subject case in all such sentences. But in sentences like 9, feel free to choose either case.

Just one more thing:

As I mentioned, for 9b to be judged acceptable, new yivom has to be reanalyzed in the speaker’s mind as a single complex verb (or “super-verb,” if you like). That kind of thing is not unknown in English. For example, take the passive construction, which (at least under some theories of syntax) changes a sentence like The mouse ate the cookies into The cookies were eaten by the mouse: the original object of the verb has become the new subject, along with other changes. But what about:

a. The researchers didn’t think of that outcome. –> That outcome wasn’t thought of by
the researchers.

b. Her friends spoke badly about her. –> She was spoken badly about by her friends.

c. His boss took advantage of him. –> He was taken advantage of by his boss.

If passive works on objects of verbs, then how are these passive sentences possible? After all, the new subjects are not the old objects of the verbs—that is, if you think of the verbs as, respectively, think, speak, and take. But instead, speakers appear to be reanalyzing the word sequences. Rather than considering “think of” as verb + preposition, they’re taking it to be the super-verb “think-of.” Likewise with “speak-badly-about” and “take-advantage-of.” If you do that, then these super-verbs do have objects, which allows the passive transformation to apply.

The big question is, Under exactly what conditions do such reanalyses take place? If you come up with a complete answer to that question, please let me know! 😊

“Receptive Ability”

What’s the Na’vi equivalent of English -able/-ible? That is, how do say that something is capable of “receiving” the action of a verb? For example, given yom ‘eat,’ how would you say, “This animal is edible”—i.e., can be eaten?

One obvious way is:

1. Tsun fko yivom fìioangit.
‘One can eat this animal.’

But there’s another way:

2. Fìioang lu tsukyom.
‘This animal is edible / can be eaten.’

Here the prefix tsuk- (a development of tsun + fko; no connection with tsuksìm) is attached to the ROOT of the verb to form an adjective. So, for example, you can say things like:

3. Tsukyoma ioang lu lesar.
‘An edible animal is useful.’

Note that the stress is on the root, not the prefix: tsuk-YOM.

For the negative, ke- attaches before tsuk-: ketsuktswa’ ‘unforgettable.’

Tsuk- is widely productive, considerably more so than English -able/-ible. For one thing, you can attach it to virtually any transitive verb: tsukrun ‘findable,’ tsuktxula ‘constructible,’ tsukfrrfen ‘able to be visited (visitable?)’, tsuktaron ‘able to be hunted, (huntable?),’ etc.

Additionally, you can often attach tsuk– to intransitive verbs as well:

4. Fìtseng lu tsuktsurokx.
‘One can rest here. / It’s possible to rest here. / This place is “restable.”’

5. Lu na’rìng tsukhahaw.
‘One can sleep in the forest. / It’s possible to sleep in the forest. / The forest is “sleepable.”’

Hesitation

To my knowledge, all spoken languages mì ’Rrta have words or sounds that indicate the speaker is hesitating, pausing, thinking, buying time, etc. In English, we have “um,” “uh,” “er,” and for some people “like” and “y’know.” Na’vi is no exception.

The Na’vi “hesitation marker” in speech is ìì. Unusually, it’s written with a doubled vowel. (Since it’s not a word any more than “er” is in English, it can flout the phonotactic constraints of the language, just as conversational expressions like oìsss and saa do.) It’s pronounced like a prolonged ì.

6. Lu oeru . . . ìì . . . tìngäzìk ahì’i.
‘I have . . . um . . . a slight problem.’

[Note: If you’re a glutton for punishment, I added some further explanation about case marking with modals at the end of the previous post.]

Edit 23 Mar.: In examples of transitive verbs with tsuk-, tsukftang deleted, tsukrun added.

Here’s the first of several posts about weather language. Thanks to the Vocabulary Committee for some great ideas!

To begin with, the subject of our discussion:

yafkeyk (n.: YA.fkeyk) ‘weather’

To understand the derivation of this word, note the following:

fkeytok (v. intr.: FKEY.tok, infixes 2, 2) ‘exist’

Ngal fwerew a tute ke fkeytok.
‘The person you’re looking for doesn’t exist.’

(Fkeytok comes from kifkeyti tok, ‘be in the world.’)

Derived form:

tìfkeytok (n.) ‘state, condition, situation’

Tìfkeytok lefkrr lehrrap lu nìtxan.
‘The current situation is very dangerous.’

Kilvanä tìfkeytok lu fyape fìtrr?
‘What’s the condition of the river today?’

Now phrases like kilvanä tìfkeytok were common, and these eventually developed into shortened forms such as kilvanfkeyk ‘condition of the river.’ So while the above sentence is perfectly correct, the more usual way to say it in present-day Na’vi is:

Kilvanfkeyk lu fyape fìtrr?
‘What’s the condition of the river today?’

In this way a new suffix developed, -fkeyk. It’s widely productive. For example:

Sawtuteri ronsemfkeykit ke tsun kawtu tslivam.
‘No one can understand the state of mind of the Sky People.’

Some very common -fkeyk words have been lexicalized with special meanings, most notably yafkeyk, which originally meant ‘the state of the atmosphere’ but is now used to mean ‘weather.’

To ask about the weather, use za’u:

Yafkeyk za’u fyape? / Yafkeyk za’u pefya? Etc.
‘How is the weather?’

(Note: Be sure to place the stress in the right place with fyape and pefya: FYA.pe and pe.FYA.)

In colloquial conversation, za’u may be omitted:

Yafkeyk pefya?
‘How’s the weather?’

To answer this question, Na’vi breaks weather up into several categories. The one we’ll discuss in this post is precipitation.

A. Precipitation

When things fall from the sky, Na’vi uses, naturally enough, the verb zup ‘fall’:

Zerup tompa.
It’s raining.

Here are some other forms of precipitation:

tompameyp (n.: tom.pa.MEYP) ‘drizzle’ [Comes from tompa ameyp ‘weak rain’]

tskxaytsyìp (n.: TSKXAY.tsyìp) ‘hail’ [Comes from tskxepay + tsyìp (diminutive): ‘little ice.’]

Note: tskxepay (n.: TSKXE.pay) ‘ice’ (literally: stone water)

herwì (n.: HER.wì) ‘snow’

tomperwì (n.: TOM.per.wì) ‘sleet’ [Comes from tompa + herwì]

Example:

Herwì zereiup fìtrro nìwotx!
‘It’s been snowing all day!’ (Said by, for example, a skier.)

When precipitation is particularly bad, you can use the verb ’eko ‘attack.’

Fìrewon tompameyp zarmup, slä set ’ìmeko nìtxan nang!
‘It was drizzling this morning, but it’s really started coming down now!’

Related vocabulary:

txanfwerwì (n.: txan.FWER.wì) ‘blizzard’ [Comes from txan + hufwe + herwì ‘much wind (and) snow’]

hermeyp (n.: her.MEYP) ‘snow flurry’

hertxayo (n:. HER.txa.yo) ‘field of snow’

ìlva (n. ÌL.va) ‘flake, drop, chip’ Note: When this word is used in compounds, the l drops. So:

txepìva (n. TXE.pì.va) ‘ash, cinder’ (Don’t confuse with txepvi ‘spark.’)

herwìva (n. HER.wì.va) ‘snowflake’

payìva (n. PAY.ì.va) ‘drop of water’

tompìva (n. TOM.pì.va) ‘raindrop’

And now you know what this means: Oeri aysompìva sìn re’o var zivup. 😊

Next time: “steady state” weather terms, including temperature.

Hayalovay, ma eylan.

P.S.—I need to respond to some comments on the previous post. Zaya’u ye’rìn.

1. Weeks and months

As you know, the days of the ’Rrtan week are:

Trr’awve Sunday
Trrmuve Monday
Trrpxeyve Tuesday
Trrtsìve Wednesday
Trrmrrve Thursday
Trrpuve Friday
Trrkive Saturday

But what about “week” itself and related words? Here’s some useful vocabulary:

kintrr (n., KIN.trr) ‘(7-day) week’

mrrtrr (n., MRR.trr) ‘5-day workweek’

muntrr (n., MUN.trr) ‘weekend’

Don’t confuse muntrr with mesrr , which simply means ‘(any) two days.’

Just like trr itself, these words take fì-, -am, and -ay with the obvious meanings:

fìkintrr ‘this (present) week’
kintrram ‘last week’
kintrray ‘next week’

fìmuntrr ‘this (present) weekend’
muntrram ‘last weekend’
muntrray ‘next weekend’

As for ‘month,’ the word is:

vospxì (n., vo.SPXÌ) ‘month’

It’s derived from the phrase vosìpxì zìsìtä, ‘a twelfth of the year.’ And we also have:

fì vospxì ‘this month’
vospxìam ‘last month’
vospxìay ‘next month’

The names of the months? We’ll save that for another time. But keep in mind that all of these calendar expressions reflect the situation here on earth; they’re used by the Na’vi when they want to or need to talk about how the Sawtute reckon time (and of course by us here ’Rrrtamì). Time-reckoning on Pandora is a matter that awaits further research.

2. Must and should

As you already know, zene ‘must’ and zenke ‘must not’ work as follows:

Nga zene kivä. or Zene nga kivä.
‘You must go.’

Nga zenke kivä. or Zenke nga kivä.
‘You must not go.’

Nga ke zene kivä. or Ke zene nga kivä.
‘It’s not necessary/obligatory that you go.’

(You can also use these words impersonally: Zene kivä. ‘I/you/she/one/etc. must go. or It’s necessary to go.’ Note also the ‘hybrid’ variant: Ngari zene kivä. Literally: ‘As for you, it’s necessary to go.’ There’s usually more than one way to skin a cat in Na’vi! And I wonder if anyone can come up with the Pandoran equivalent of that expression . . .)

‘Should’ works a bit differently. The word is:

sweylu (v., SWEY.lu) ‘should’

This is a development of swey lu ‘it’s best,’ which has fused into a single word that acts somewhat like a modal . . . a quasi-modal, if you prefer, but without the hunchback. (Oeru txoa livu.)

The syntax depends on whether ‘should’ refers to something that hasn’t yet happened (the more common situation) or something that’s already happened. For the former, use txo ‘if’ plus the -iv- (subjunctive) form of the verb:

Sweylu txo nga kivä. or Nga sweylu txo kivä.
‘You should go.’

Sweylu txo nga ke kivä. or Nga sweylu txo ke kivä.
‘You shouldn’t go.’

(Other word orders are possible too, of course. For example, Sweylu txo ke kivä nga. And then there’s the impersonal form: Sweylu txo kivä. ‘I/you/she/one/etc. should go.’)

For something that’s already happened, use fwa (= fì’u a) or tsawa (= tsa’u a) with the past or perfect indicative (that is, non-subjunctive):

Sweylu fwa nga kolä.
‘You should have gone.’

Slä nari si! This is not the most common use of English ‘should have’—i.e., the counterfactual one, as in: “You should have gone, but you didn’t, ma skxawng!” Rather, it’s more like, “You went, and in fact it was the right thing to do.” Example:

Tsenu: Spaw oe, fwa po kolä längu kxeyey.
‘I believe it was a mistake for him to go/have gone.’

Kamun: Kehe, kehe! Sweylu fwa po kolä!
‘No, no! He should have gone!’

(Note: Tsenu’s sentence above is colloquial and conversational. A more formal version would be: Spängaw oel futa fwa po kolä lu kxeyey.)

So how does one say “should have” in the counterfactual sense? Zene maweypivey, ma eylan. 😊 I’m working on a post about counterfactuals in general . . .

One more thing before we leave this topic:

In English and some other languages, words like should and must have developed secondary meanings. In addition to the basic sense having to do with obligation, right and wrong, better and worse, etc. (the “root” sense), there’s also a sense having to do with probability, likelihood, etc. (the “epistemic” sense). An example of the latter is, “He’s on his way. He should be here any minute.” As another example, consider the sentence, “You must be a doctor.” That can have both a root and an epistemic interpretation:

Root: “Son, your greatgrandfather was a doctor, your grandfather was a doctor, and I’m a doctor. It’s our family tradition. Whether you like it or not, I’m afraid you have no choice. You must be a doctor too.”

Epistemic: “I see you’re wearing a white coat and you have a stethoscope around your neck and a prescription pad in your pocket. Hmm . . . You must be a doctor!”

The point of all this is that Na’vi does not allow epistemic interpretations of zene and sweylu. They’re purely root. If you want the epistemic senses, you need to use probability words like skxakep.

And finally, thanks to the vocabulary committee for:

3. ye (adj.) ‘satisfied, content; satiated, “full”’

This is an adjective of feeling, so it’s used with ’efu ‘feel’ in the same way as keftxo, nitram, ohakx, väng, etc.

Tsaria fkol pole’un futa Loak slu taronyu, sempul ’efu ye.
‘Father is content that it’s been decided Loak will be a hunter.’

Ngeyä tìkangkemìri ’efeiu oe ye nìtxan. Seysonìltsan!
‘I’m very satisfied with your work. Well done!’

Note the following vocabulary:

hasey si (v., ha.SEY si) ‘accomplish, bring to a conclusion’

Nì’i’a po tsatìkangkemvir hasey soli.
‘She finally completed the project.’

seysonìltsan (sey.so.nìl.TSAN) ‘well done!’ (a conversational expression derived from hasey soli nìltsan)

Note these two derived forms:

yehakx (adj., YE.hakx) ‘satisfied from hunger by food, “full stomach”’

yeväng (adj, YE.väng) ‘satisfied from thirst by drink, feeling quenched/slaked’

Srekrr ’amefu väng, set yeväng.
‘Before, I was thirsty; now my thirst has been quenched.’

Tsenu:
Srake yehakx? ‘Did you get enough to eat?’
Kamun:
(a) Stum. ‘Almost. (What’s for dessert?)’
(b) Ye. Tsun tivam. ‘Yes. That’ll be enough.’
(c) Nìtxan! ‘Very! I’m quite full.’
(d) Nìhaawwwng. ‘Oooh. I ate too much.’

More weather expressions are coming . . . Hayalovay!

Edit 05 April: Added the necessary fwa to Spängaw oel futa fwa po kolä lu kxeyey. Corrected spelling of zìsìtä.

Kaltxì, ma frapo—

As you may know, I’m giving a talk this Saturday at the Southern California Undergraduate Linguistics Conference at UCLA. Since the audience will largely be linguistics students, I thought I’d take the opportunity to expand my standard presentation to include a bit more about Na’vi grammar. One of the example sentences I’m planning to discuss is this simple one:

Sempulìl ngeyä wutsot yolom.

So my question to you is, why did I choose this sentence, and what is its significance? 😊

Kaltxì nìmun, ma oeyä eylan—

After an unexpectedly busy month, I’m happy to be back to present and discuss more of the excellent suggestions of the vocabulary committee. The members have now given me a lot of food for thought; in the next few weeks I’ll dish out as many choice helpings as I can.

Weather expressions, continued

A. Air and Sky: “steady states”

Na’vi distinguishes between weather states you can feel and those you can see. For the former, we use the frame Ya lu ______ (you feel the air), for the latter Taw lu ______ (you see the sky).

In particular, temperature:

somwew (n.: som.WEW) ‘temperature’

(Compare hìmtxan ‘amount,’ holpxay ‘number,’ tsawlhì’ ‘size,’ ngimpup* ‘length.’ Note, by the way, that the stress is on the second syllable in each case.)

*pup (adj.) ‘short (physical length)’

*ngimpup (n.: ngim.PUP) ‘length’

pesomwew / somwewpe ‘what temperature?’ (The second variant here is the more common one: som.WEW.pe.)

To ask the temperature, you simply say:

Yari somwewpe?
‘What’s the temperature?’

Note that you can ask the temperature of things other than the air:

Payri somwewpe?
‘What’s the temperature of the water?’ (perhaps asked before swimming)

The answer to Yari somwewpe is, as I mentioned, Ya lu ______. Here are some temperature words that can fill the blank, from very cold to very hot. Some of these adjectives are new; some you’re already familiar with.

txawew (TXA.wew) ‘very cold’
wew ‘cold’
wur ‘cool, a bit chilly’
tsyafe ( TSYA.fe) ‘mild, moderate, comfortable’
sang ‘warm’
som ‘hot’
txasom (TXA.som) ‘very hot’

For the appearance of the sky, the question is:

Tawri fyape (or: pefya )?
‘What’s the sky like?’

The answer is, Taw lu ______. Adjectives that can go in this blank include:

leyapay (le.YA.pay) ‘foggy, misty’
lepwopx (lep.WOPX) ‘cloudy’
lepwopx nìhol ‘lightly cloudy, just a few clouds’
lepwopx nìpxay ‘heavily cloud-covered, many clouds’
piak ‘no clouds, completely clear’ (This is also the ordinary word for ‘open.’)
tstu ‘completely overcast, covered with clouds’ (This is also the ordinary word for ‘closed.’)

The word for ‘humid’ deserves some comment:

paynga’ (adj.: PAY.nga’) ‘moist, damp, humid’

In this compound, the second component is the transitive verb nga’ ‘contain’:

Na’rìngìl nga’ pxaya ioangit.
‘The forest contains many animals.’

Here, however, nga’ is acting as a derivational suffix, one that turns a noun into a related adjective with the rough meaning, ‘containing the noun.’ Examples:

paynga’ (PAY.nga’) ‘containing water’ = ‘moist, damp, humid’
meuianga’ (me.U.i.a.nga’) ‘containing honor’ = ‘honorable’
txumnga’ (TXUM.nga’) ‘containing poison’ = ‘poisonous’

Note that as an adjective former, -nga’ is less common than le-. It is not freely productive, which is to say you can’t simply coin your own –nga’ words at will: you need to find them in the dictionary. And on occasion the le- and –nga’ forms exist side by side with slightly different meanings. For example:

’akra (n.: ’AK.ra) ‘soil (in which plants can grow)’

’akra apaynga’ ‘moist soil’

’akra lepay ‘watery, saturated soil’

B. Wind

Na’vi uses tìran ‘walk’ and tul ‘run’ with hufwe ‘wind’ to indicate the degree of windiness:

Tìran hufwe.
‘It’s breezy (but pleasantly so).’

Hufwetsyìp lefpom tarmìran.
‘A pleasant little breeze was blowing.’

Tul hufwe nìwin.
‘It’s very windy.’

There’s still more to be said about the weather, but that will have to wait for another time.

Some miscellaneous vocabulary

Three useful adverbs:

nìlam ‘apparently’

nìli ‘in advance’

nìfrakrr (nì.FRA.krr) ‘as always’

Poan yawne latsu poeru nìlam.
‘Apparently she loves him.’

Ngeyä stxeliri alor oe new ngaru pivlltxe san irayo sìk nìli. Ke lu oer am’a*, tsa’u polähem a krr, sunu oeru nìtxan.
‘I want to thank you in advance for your beautiful gift. I have no doubt that when it arrives, I’m going to enjoy it very much.’

* am’a (n.: am.’A) ‘doubt’

Nìfrakrr fol ’olem a wutso ftxìvä’ lu nìngay.
‘As always, the dinner they cooked tasted really terrible.’

There’s much more to come, but for now I’ll just say hayalovay.

Here’s the next vocabulary installment, making heavy use of the excellent proposals of the Vocabulary Committee. (Most of the examples and much of the discussion below is taken, with only light editing, from their submissions.)

may’ (vtr.) ‘try, sample, evaluate, check out, test-drive’

[I was impressed with the detailed explanation of this verb provided by the Committee, so the following discussion is theirs, virtually verbatim.]

The verb may’ is used to mean ‘try, taste, sniff, glance’—basically, to quickly or briefly sample something, for any of the senses. [The “Senses Paradigm” is coming in a future post.]

In addition, may’ extends beyond the sensory meaning to also include ‘check out, sample, evaluate, try on, test-drive.’ One could may’ a new bow, an article of clothing, an unfamiliar pa’li, a just-learned dance move . . . In general, it can be used for English ‘try’ when it’s not a synonym for ‘attempt.’ The admonition Mivay’ or May’ ko conveys the notion of “Give it a try!” or “Have a go!”

Also, may’ can be used modally, but how it differs from fmi in this usage requires a little explanation. Fmi specifically means ‘attempt,’ so you’re trying to perform the action in question. May’ refers more to trying/sampling the experience of that action. Compare these two sentences in English:

A. I tried to go to the doctor.
B. I tried going to the doctor.

A suggests you attempted to go to the doctor, but something kept you from succeeding—you got lost, there was traffic, etc.

I tried to go to the doctor [but I couldn’t find her office].

B suggests you did go to the doctor, but it didn’t help with whatever you were trying to accomplish.

I tried going to the doctor [but she doesn’t know what’s wrong with me].

So compare these two sentences in Na’vi:

Fmi mivakto pa’lit!
‘Try to ride a direhorse! (I bet you can do it!)’

May’ mivakto pa’lit!
‘Try riding a direhorse! (Maybe you’ll like it more than riding a banshee.)’

Win and lose

yora’ (vtr., yo.RA’ – inf. 1,2) ‘win’

snaytx (vtr.) ‘lose’

Yìmora’ Tsu’teyìl uvanit.
‘Tsu’tey just won the game.’

Ayoe snolaytx fìtrr taluna oel rumit tolungzup.
‘We lost today because I dropped the ball.’

Derivations:

tìyora’ (n.) ‘victory, a win’

tìsnaytx (n.) ‘loss’

Note: Don’t confuse tatep and snaytx. They both mean ‘lose,’ but tatep is lose in the sense of ‘have no longer.’

Tìkan tawnatep!
‘Target lost!’ (Line from one of the video games.)

’otxang (n.: ’o.TXANG) ‘musical instrument (generic term)’

Pam fì’otxangä sunu oer nìngay.
‘I really like the sound of this instrument.’

For the general idea of ‘play an instrument,’ we just use pamtseo si fa ’otxang:

Peotxangfa nga pamtseo si?
‘What instrument do you play?’

Pamtseo si fa i’en.
‘I play the i’en.’

skxir (n.) ‘wound’

Oeri skxir a mì syokx tìsraw sengi.
‘The wound on my hand hurts.’

Zene nga yivur pxìm fìskxirit.
‘You must clean the wound frequently.’

Derivations:

leskxir (adj.) ‘wounded ‘

skxir si (vin.) ‘wound ‘

skxirtsyìp (n.) ‘cut, bruise, minor wound’

Taronyu yerikur skxir soli.
‘The hunter wounded the hexapede.’

sloan (vtr., slo.AN – inf. 1,2) ‘pour’

Rutxe slivoan ngal payit oefpi; ’efu väng nìtxan.
‘Please pour me some water; I’m very thirsty.’

emrey (vin., em.REY – inf. 2,2) ‘survive (a life-threatening episode)’

Tsawla palulukanìl oeti ’ìlmeko a krr, Nawma Sa’nok lrrtok seiyi ulte oe emroley.
‘The Great Mother was looking after me when the big thanator attacked and I’ve survived.’

Derivations:

temrey (n.) ‘survival (in the face of danger)’

lemrey (adj.) ‘surviving (e.g. of entities from a group some of whom have died)’

nemrey (adv.) ‘in a fashion as if one’s life were at stake’

Fwampopä temrey tsatsengmì ngäzìk lu nìwotx.
‘It’s very hard for a tapirus to survive there.’

(If you don’t know what a tapirus is, take a look at this.)

Maw fwa fkol Kelutralit skola’a, lemreya hapxìtul tsasoaiä* txolula mipa kelkuti mì tayo.
‘After Hometree was destroyed, the surviving members of that family built a new home on the plains.’

*The genitive of nouns ending in –ia is just –iä: soaia, Gen. soaiä.

Note that nemrey can be an expression all by itself:

A. Sawtute pìyähängem! Tul ko!
‘The Skypeople are about to arrive! Run!’

B. *yawn* Kempe leren?
‘What’s happening?’

A. *growl* Nemfa na’rìng, ma skxawngtsyìp! Kä li!
‘Into the forest, you moron [whom I still like anyway]! Get going!’

B. Slä . . .
‘But . . .’

A. NEMREEEY!!!
‘LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT!!! (Run for your life!)’

wawe (n., wa.WE) ‘meaning, importance, significance’

Both ral and wawe mean ‘meaning,’ but they’re different. Ral refers to meaning in the logical or literal sense:

Ralit faylì’uä oel ke tslivam.
‘I don’t understand the meaning of these words. (I can’t translate the sentence.)’

Wawe, on the other hand, refers to meaning or significance more related to an emotional state:

Waweti faylì’uä oel ke tslivam.
‘I don’t understand the meaning of these words. (I don’t see why they’re significant.)’

Ngari wawe fìvurä lu ’upe?
‘What is the significance of this story to you?’

Waweti ke tsun fko ralpiveng.
‘One can’t explain (or: put into words) wawe.’

Derivation:

txanwawe (adj., txan.wa.WE) ‘personally meaningful, significant’

Nari si! Tsatsko lu spuwin ulte ke lu mi txur, slä oeri txanwawe leiu. Lu stxeli a sempulta.
‘Careful! That bow is old and no longer strong, but it means a lot to me. It was a gift from my father.’

nìwawe (adv.) ‘meaningfully, significantly’

Tsatxon ayutraläo krr a pol oeti nolìn nìwawe, olomeium oel fa keyrel futa lu yawne oe poru.
‘That night beneath the trees when she looked at me meaningfully, I knew by the expression on her face that she loves me.’

keyrel (n., KEY.rel) ‘facial expression’

Nìfrakrr ma oeyä eylan, txo kxeyeyti ayngal tsive’a, rutxe oeru piveng!

Hayalovay.

Edit 28 Feb. 2014: hapxitu –> hapxitul Irayo, ma Plumps!

Aysäplltxeviri* sì sìpawmìri ayngeyä irayo, ma eylan. Thanks for your comments and questions, friends. I’ll offer some responses as soon as I can. In the meantime, however, I thought you’d be interested in this article which appeared two days ago in the Los Angeles Times. You may have already heard that Avatar 2 and 3 will be shot here in L.A. (which is good news to me). But take a look at the comment in the comment section from John Cody. 😊

*säplltxe (n.: sä.pll.TXE) ‘statement’

*säplltxevi (n.: sä.pll.TXE.vi) ‘comment’

Hello again, everyone. Nì’i’a tok oel nìmun fìtsenget!

The get-together and panel discussion two weeks ago at the EMP/Science Fiction Museum in Seattle, in conjunction with their current Avatar exhibit, were terrific. It was great to meet new people in the lì’fyaolo’ and reunite with old friends. Fpom and tì’o’ abounded, and the post-panel questions in Na’vi, prepared mostly in advance by community members and ably interpreted by Prrton, impressed the heck out of everyone there.

Here’s our happy group Saturday morning, July 9:

And this is the stylish free-standing plaque presented to me at the end of the panel by the community. Ayngaru seiyi irayo, ma smuk!

Thanks to the EMP administrators and staff—Brooks Peck, Kristen Hoskins, and David Wulzen—who welcomed us warmly and made sure things ran smoothly. And special thanks to our own Prrton, Txonä Rolyu, and Zefanaya, who communicated with the museum, arranged for the meals and accommodations, and generally coordinated a very successful meet-up. Finally, a big irayo to Keyl and Chie, who graciously hosted a convivial barbecue for everyone at their home.

For those who couldn’t make it . . . nìsìlpey zìsìtay! In the meantime, you might like to hear the audio of the panel provided by our friends at Avatar Nation.

And now for some new vocabulary:

pllngay (vin., pll.NGAY – inf. 1, 1) ‘admit’

Note that this is an intransitive verb, working similarly to plltxe. So you use direct speech with it:

Po ke tsun pivllngay san oeru tìkxey.
‘He can’t admit he’s wrong.’

To say “He admits it”:

Tsa’uri po pllngay.
‘He admits it.’

kawngsar (vtr., KAWNG.sar – inf. 2, 2) ‘exploit’

Ayngeyä kifkeyti fol kawngsar nìtut, fì’uri kekem ke si aynga.
‘They continuously exploit your world and you do nothing about it.’

[The following useful word plus the excellent explanation and several of the examples come from the vocabulary committee.]

lom (adj.) ‘missing, missed (as an absent person who is longed for)’

To say “I miss you,” use lom in the yawne pattern:

Nga lom lu oer.
‘I miss you.’

Note that lom covers only something you once had but no longer do, where there is a sense of emotional loss. For example:

Aysre’ lom lu tsakoaktanur.
‘The old man misses his teeth.’

That is, the old man feels bad about the fact he no longer has teeth. The sentence does not mean ‘The old man is missing his teeth’ in the sense of a neutral observation by an outside party.

koaktan (n., KO.ak.tan) ‘old man’

koakte (n., KO.ak.te) ‘old woman’

koaktu (n., KO.ak.tu) ‘old person’

Similarly, you can’t use lom for something you lack but never had in the first place, as in “We almost have a quorum, but we’re still missing three people.”

Derived form:

lomtu (n., LOM.tu) ‘missed person’

This word is reserved for special circumstances, e.g. toasts:

Tengkrr ftxozä sereiyi awnga, ke tswiva’ aylomtuti ko!
‘While we are celebrating, let us not forget those who we wish could also be here (but can’t).’ OR ‘A toast: To absent friends.’

fe’ (adj.) ‘bad’

(Yes, I know it’s about time we had this word. 😊 )

Note: Fe’ is generally used for things, ideas, events, etc., but not for people. For ‘a bad person,’ use kawng.

Peyä tsatìpe’un a sweylu txo wivem ayoeng Omatikayawä lu fe’.
‘His decision to fight (= that we should fight) against the Omaticaya was a bad one.’

Note: In English, “fight with” is ambiguous—it can mean either (1) fight against or (2) fight alongside (as in, “During the so-called French and Indian War, Native Americans fought with the French against the British.”) In Na’vi there’s no ambiguity: “fight with” in the sense of (1) is wem wä, in the sense of (2) wem hu.

Derived forms:

nìfe’ (adv., nì.FE’) ‘badly’

Oe pllngay san molakto oe nìfe’, tafral snolaytx; wätu lu oeto txur.
‘I acknowledge that I rode badly, so I lost; my opponent was stronger than I was.’

wätu (n., WÄ.tu) ‘opponent’

fekem (n., FE.kem) ‘accident’

Nari si fte kea fekem ke liven ngar!
‘Be careful you don’t have an accident!’

Note: Fekem derives from fe’ + kem, having taken on the special meaning of ‘accident, unforeseen misfortune’ along the way, not simply something bad that happened. For the latter, use tìlen afe’, literally ‘bad event.’

tìlen (n., tì.LEN) ‘event, happening’

hawtsyìp (n., HAW.tsyìp) ‘nap’

Note the usage:

Oel new futa livu oer set hawtsyìp.
‘I want to take a nap now.’

Fnu, ma ’evi. Sa’nur leru hawtsyìp. Tsivurokx ko.
‘Quiet, young one. Mommy is taking a nap. Let her rest.’

uran (n., U.ran) ‘boat’

Ayfo solop ìlä hilvan fa uran.
‘They traveled along (up, down) the river by boat.’

Edit July 24: tìlem –> tìlen

Edit Jan. 25, 2013: nìrangal zìsìtay –> nìsìlpey zìsìtay

Kaltxì nìmun, ma frapo.

I see there was some consternation about the headline of the last post! Since it’s an important point, I thought I’d explain it here in a separate post rather than as a response to a comment.

Before anything else, though: Ayngeyä aysäplltxeviri seiyi oe irayo nìtxan ayngaru nìwotx! Thank you all for the comments! Whether bouquets, brickbats, queries, or corrections, they’re all very much appreciated. (I still need to reply to most of the last batch, which I will as soon as I can.)

So . . . As you know, the last headline was:

(1) Txantsana Ultxa mì Siätll (Great meeting in Seattle)

And the question is, Shouldn’t that have been:

(2) Txantsana Ultxa a mì Siätll

The answer is: yes . . . and no. 😊 Let me explain.

In standard Na’vi prose, you cannot omit attributive “a” in phrases like “the X in Y,” “an X from Y,” etc. To say “I really enjoyed the great meeting in Seattle,” you have several choices. The “full” form would be:

(3) Txantsana ultxa a mì Siätll lu soluneiu oer nìtxan.

This is equivalent to “ . . . the great meeting that was in Seattle.”

(You could, of course, have a different order for the modifiers:

(3a) Mì Siätll lu a ultxa atxantsan soluneiu oer nìtxan.)

You can also omit the lu, which is in fact the more common form:

(4) Txantsana ultxa a mì Siätll soluneiu oer nìtxan.

But (5) is not grammatical:

(5) *Txantsana ultxa mì Siätll soluneiu oer nìtxan.

(Here I’m using the usual linguistic convention of putting an asterisk or star before something that’s ungrammatical or unacceptable. And perhaps some of you have seen this little bon mot that was popular in certain circles many years ago: “Linguists unite! You have only your *.” What can I say?)

Slä . . .

Languages often have different rules for things like headlines and titles (of books, articles, poems, stories, songs, movies, etc.). In fact, if you think about the English translation I gave, “Great Meeting in Seattle,” you’ll realize that that’s not grammatical in standard English conversation or writing. You’d have to add an article: “I really enjoyed the great meeting . . .” or “I heard there was a great meeting . . .” or even “That was some great meeting . . . !” For a headline, though, “Great Meeting” by itself is OK. We can call this style “Truncated Headline” style.

Na’vi has a truncated style as well. Now the Na’vi don’t have books or newspapers or blog posts, but they do have stories and legends and songs, and truncated style is possible for their titles. One of the indicators of truncated style is the omission of attributive “a” where it would otherwise be necessary. Another is the elision (omission) of certain verbs. So in the case of our headline, the phrase in question might have been, as we’ve seen, txantsana ultxa a mì Siätll, but another possibility is that the headline comes from the full sentence Lolu txantsana ultxa mì Siätll, ‘There was a great meeting in Seattle”—or, with a different verb, ‘A great meeting took place in Seattle.’

To repeat the bottom line, though: in ordinary style, don’t omit attributive “a.”

Sìlpey oe, fìtìoeyktìng lilvu law!

Number in Na’vi—not just the actual numbers in the octal system but, more generally, the whole question of when to use the singular, dual, trial, and plural forms—can be a little tricky. So let me try to clarify some of those issues. (Irayo to the aysulfätu lì’fyayä with whom I had fruitful discussions about this subject. Some of the material that follows is directly or indirectly due to them.)

Let’s start with a simple question: How do you say, “You two are teachers”?

“You two are” is straightforward: Menga lu . . . But what about “teachers”? Should it be meharyu, using the dual form to match the dual of menga? Should you use the plural form, (ay)haryu? Or should it simply be the singular, karyu?

The answer is based on this general principle of Na’vi grammar:

Number Principle (Koren Holpxayä = KH):
In referring to the same entity, express number only once per clause.

You’ve seen the KH in action before. For example, you know that “five stingbats” and “many viperwolves” is mrra riti and pxaya nantang respectively, not *mrra ayriti and *pxaya aynantang. Since number is already expressed by “five” and “many,” you don’t need a plural marker on the nouns, which remain in the “unmarked” or singular form.

Now we can answer the original question:

Menga lu karyu.
‘You two are teachers.’

Here are a few more examples:

Fo lu karyu.
‘They are teachers.’

Menga lu oeyä ’eylan. (NOT eylan)
‘You two are my friends.’

Fo lu pesu/tupe?
Who are they?

Tsapxesamsiyu lu pesu/tupe?
‘Who are those three warriors?’

In these examples, number is already shown by what comes before lu (the subjects of the sentences), so following the KH, what comes after lu (in the predicates) isn’t marked for number. Sentences with slu work the same way.

So far so good, I hope. But there’s a little complication. Note the following contrasting bits of conversation:

A
Tsaysamsiyu lu tupe?
‘Who are those warriors?’

(Fo) lu ’eylan Tsu’teyä.
‘They’re Tsu’tey’s friends.’

(Note here that even if you omit the optional pronoun fo “they” in the response, ’eylan “friends” remains in the singular, since fo is understood. And we do have the number marking on fo, since it’s in a different clause—in fact, a whole different sentence. This illustrates why the KH has the “per clause” restriction.)

But:

B
Tsaysamsiyu lu supe?
‘Who are those warriors?’

(Fo) lu Kamun, Ralu, Ìstaw, sì Ateyo.
‘They’re Kamun, Ralu, Ìstaw, and Ateyo.’

The question in B violates the KH, since the question word in the predicate, supe, is here marked for number. Why is that?

The difference is that when you ask “Who are X?” where X is a group, you can be requesting two different things: (1) identify the defining characteristic of the group, or (2) identify each member of the group. The A conversation above has the interpretation in (1): Q: What characterizes that group of warriors? A: They’re Tsu’tey’s friends. The B conversation has the second interpretation: Identify each of those warriors.

For “defining characteristic” questions, the KH holds; for “identify” questions, it doesn’t. That’s why we have the following question about family members:

Ätxäle si oe pivawm, ngari soaiä ayhapxìtu lu supe?
‘May I ask who the people in your family are?’

Finally, a couple of related items:

Generics

To make general statements about a group, keep the nouns in the singular:

Nantangìl yom yerikit.
‘Viperwolves eat hexapedes.’

Palulukan lu lehrrap.
‘Thanators are dangerous.’

We sometimes do similar things in English. For example, “The unicorn is a mythical beast.”

Forms with pe-

In the examples above we’ve seen several familiar ways of translating “who?” ( = what person?/ what people?) – tupe, pesu, (ay)supe. But since Na’vi has four degrees of number (singular, dual, trial, plural), three ways for addressing gender (common gender, masculine, feminine), and the possibility of pe either as a prefix or suffix, there are quite a few other such forms—in fact, 24 in all (4 x 3 x 2). In other words, for the simple question “Who is here?” you can be very specific in Na’vi, with separate pronoun forms for “What woman?” “What two men?” “What three people?” etc. Example:

Pepsul tok fìtsenget?
What three people are here?

Here’s the complete chart. Don’t get scared and think you have to memorize all of these forms! Only a few of them turn up frequently.

Stressed syllables are underlined.

For example, 13 and 14 mean “What three people?” 15 and 16: “What three men?” 17 and 18: “What three women?”

For those who are interested, the derivations of these words involve lenition, nasal assimilation (the n of tutan has become m under the influence of the following p), and the loss of some unstressed vowels. Final te is dropped as well (as in pesu, not *pesute). Examples:

10. me + tutan + pe > mesutanpe > mesutampe > mestampe

13. pe + pxe + tute > pe + pxesute > pepesute > pepsute > pepsu

There’s more to say about pe-, of course, since it’s very widely used. For example, here’s how it interacts with kem ‘action’:

kem

As you see, the general paradigm is:

As for such questions as how pe- interacts with fne- ‘kind, type’ and how it works with the full variety of nouns, we’ll leave those for another time.

Hayalovay!

Today’s vocabulary centers around clothing—items of apparel, some specific to Pandora and some more general, plus ways of talking about putting on, wearing, and taking off. As usual, thanks go to the vocabulary committee for some of these ideas and examples.

THINGS TO WEAR

Items of apparel are divided into two main groups: pxen ‘functional clothing’ and ioi ‘adornments.’ Although there are some gray areas where the categories overlap or are unclear, the distinction is usually apparent. It’s an important one, because the way you talk about putting on and wearing something depends on which group it belongs to.

pxen (n.) ‘(item of) functional clothing’

This category includes clothing items that serve the purpose of protecting, hiding, or directly assisting in some activity. Examples:

tewng (n.) ‘loincloth’

raspu’ (n., ra.SPU’) ‘leggings (used in war)’

hawnven (n., hawn.VEN) ‘shoe’ [From hawnu ‘protect’ + venu ‘foot’]

hawntsyokx (n., hawn.TSYOKX) ‘glove’

hawre’ (n., haw.RE’) ‘hat’ [Originally *hawnre’o, from hawnu ‘protect’ + re’o ‘head’]

Note: The hawn- words take the expected non-singular forms: mehawnven, pxehawnven, ayhawnven, etc., and that’s how they’re always written. However, in all but very careful or ceremonial conversation, they’re usually pronounced mawnven, pxawnven, ayawnven.

ioi (n., i.O.i) ‘(item of) adornment or ceremonial apparel’

Nìlun ayioi a’eoio ayeyktanä lu lor frato.
‘Of course the ceremonial wardrobes of the leaders are the most beautiful.’

(I love the sound of ayioi a’eoio ayeyktanä! It’s a nice phrase to practice. Note that ayioi is usually pronounced ay.O.i.)

nìlun (adv., nì.LUN) ‘of course, logically, following common sense’

Examples of ioi:

’ali’ä (n., ’a.LI.’ä) ‘collar/choker’

’are (n., ’A.re) ‘poncho, cape, shawl’

fkxile (n., FKXI.le) ‘bib necklace’

masat (n., MA.sat) ‘breastplate (armor)’

nikroi (n., nik.RO.i) ‘hair ornament’ [From nikre ‘hair’ + ioi ‘adornment’]

pxawpxun (n., PXAW.pxun) ‘armband’

Note this tongue-twister for practicing your p-ejectives:

Pori pxunpxaw lu pxawpxun.
‘Around his arm is an armband.’

(Note: Pxunpxaw is pronounced pxumpxaw in casual conversation.)

renten (n., REN.ten) ‘goggles (made from insect wings, carved wood (?) . . .)’

tsamopin (n., TSA.mo.pin) ‘warpaint’ [From tsam ‘war’ + ’opin ‘color’]

tsang (n.) ‘a piercing’

miktsang (n., MIK.tsang) ‘earring’

ontsang (n., ON.tsang) ‘nose ring’

PUTTING ON, WEARING, TAKING OFF

Putting on

To put on pxen, use the transitive verb yemstokx:

yemstokx (vtr., YEM.stokx — inf. 1,1) ‘put on (clothing), don’

This word originated as yem + sìn + tokx, ‘put on the body.’

Examples:

Fìrewon ngal lumpe kea hawre’it ke yolemstokx?
‘Why didn’t you put on a hat this morning?’

Penit yemstokx!
‘Get dressed!’

To put on ioi, use the si-verb ioi säpi ‘adorn oneself’ with fa ‘with, by means of.’ This is the reflexive form of the verb ioi si:

ioi si (vin.) ‘adorn’

Sevina tsa’everu ahì’i mesa’sem ioi soli fa miktsang.
‘The parents adorned that pretty little girl with earrings.’ OR
‘The parents put earrings on that pretty little girl.’

Fori mawkrra fa renten ioi säpoli holum.
‘After they put on their goggles, they left.’

(Note: In casual conversation, säpoli is often pronounced spoli .)

Wearing

There’s no separate verb ‘wear’ in Na’vi. To express that X is wearing Y, you simply say that X has put Y on. In other words, you focus not on the state that X is in but rather on the action that has created that state. Specifically:

Wears –> puts on
Is/are wearing –> has put on
Was wearing –> had put on

Examples:

Mo’at alu Tsahìk lu Omatikayaä le’awa hapxìtu a ioi säpi fa ’are.
‘Mo’at, the Tsahik, is the only member of the Omatikaya who wears a poncho.’

Sunu oer hawre’ a ngal yolemstokx.
‘I like the hat you’re wearing.’

Fkxilet a tsawfa poe ioi säpalmi ngolop Va’rul.
‘Va’ru is the one who created the necklace she was wearing.’

(Note: As with säpoli, in casual conversation säpalmi is often pronounced spalmi .)

Taking off

For both pxen and ioi, use the verb ’aku:

’aku (vtr., ’A.ku — inf. 1,2) ‘remove, take away, take off’

Rutxe mehawnvenit ’ivaku.
‘Please take off your shoes.’

’Aku is used more widely than just for clothing. For example:

Pot ’aku fìtsengta!
‘Get him out of here!’

Ulte oeri fìtsengta ’äpaku nìteng. Hayalovay!

Kaltxì, ma frapo—

Here’s some information about reported speech that I hope you’ll find useful.

Reported speech

As you know, the main speech verb is plltxe, which can be both transitive and intransitive. When you’re reporting what someone said, the most idiomatic way to express that in Na’vi is to use plltxe intransitively, with san and sìk. You also know that Na’vi likes direct speech, where you’re quoting someone’s words exactly, rather than indirect speech. So:

Poltxe po san oe new kivä sìk.
‘He said, “I want to go.”’ OR ‘He said he wanted to go.’

As you see, there are two ways to do it in English but only one in Na’vi. In this structure, it might help to think of plltxe as “speak” and san as “say”: ‘He spoke, saying “I want to go.”’

Now how do you translate simple things like “What did she say?” and “She didn’t say that”?

For these, we use plltxe as a transitive verb. But what do you use for “what” and “that” in those sentences? The obvious candidates are peut and tsat respectively:

Poltxe pol peut?
‘What did she say?’

Ke poltxe pol tsat.
‘She didn’t say that.’

[For the record, I’ve used VSO order here, but of course other word orders are just as possible: Pol poltxe peut? Peut poltxe pol? And so on . . . ]

The two sentences above are acceptable Na’vi, but they’re not the best style. The reason is that they’re using forms of the catch-all word ’u, ‘thing’—you’re talking about saying athing. Na’vi prefers to be more specific: what you say is words. So more idiomatic versions of these sentences are:

Poltxe pol paylì’ut?
‘What did she say?’ [= What words did she say?]

Ke poltxe pol tsaylì’ut.
‘She didn’t say that.’ [=She didn’t say those words.]

(If you’re talking about a single word, it’s tsalì’ut.)

Transitive plltxe can also be used for reported speech:

Poltxe pol faylì’ut a oe new kivä.
‘She said, “I want to go.”’ OR ‘She said she wanted to go.’

Just as fì’ut a usually contracts in colloquial conversation to the single word futa, faylì’ut a contracts to fayluta:

Poltxe pol fayluta oe new kivä.
‘She said, “I want to go.”’ OR ‘She said she wanted to go.’

Note that whether you use the plltxe san . . . sìk or the plltxe fayluta structure, you still use direct speech, reporting the exact words the person said. But keep in mind that plltxe san . . . sìk is the more idiomatic choice in Na’vi and the one you should prefer for reported speech.

For ‘hear’ and ‘tell’ in this context, Na’vi again prefers a more specific object than ’u. What you hear is news or a report—i.e. fmawn. Fmawnit a contracts conversationally to fmawnta:

Stolawm oel fmawnta fo new hivum.
‘I heard they want to leave.’

Ngal poleng oer fmawnta po tolerkup.
‘You told me that he died.’

Reported and indirect questions

How do you say, “He asked where Neytiri was going”?

With pawm as with plltxe, there are both transitive and intransitive structures. The intransitive forms are by far the more common:

Polawm po san Neytiri kä pesengne (sìk).
‘He asked where Neytiri was going.’ (Literally: He asked, saying, “Where is Neytiri going?”)

One wrinkle: With pawm but not with plltxe, the san is optional. So this is also possible, and in fact quite common:

Polawm po, Neytiri kä pesengne?

The transitive use of pawm is possible but infrequent, since there’s another transitive verb that’s much more common in this structure:

vin (vtr.) ‘ask for, request’

This has wider applications than just asking a question—it can be used in place of ätxäle si:

Ätxäle si tsnì livu oheru Uniltaron.
Or:
Vuyin ohel Uniltaronit.
‘I respectfully request the Dreamhunt.’

Pol volin mipa tskalepit.
‘He asked for a new crossbow.’

To use vin with indirect questions, what’s the appropriate object? Well, what you’re asking for is a certain answer—a certain tì’eyng. So:

Volin pol tì’eyngit a Neytiri kä pesengne.
‘He asked where Neytiri was going.’ (Literally: He requested the where-is-Neytiri-going answer.)

Some conversational contractions of tì’eyng are:

tì’eyng + a > teynga

tì’eyngìl + a > teyngla

tì’eyngit + a > teyngta

So:

Volin oel teyngta Neytiri kä pesengne.
‘I asked where Neytiri was going.’

Ke omum oel teyngta fo kä pesengne.
‘I don’t know where they’re going.’

Teynga lumpe fo holum ke lu law.
‘It’s not clear why they left.’

Ulte sìlpey oe, faysìoeyktìng livu law nìwotx!

Edit: Corrected two errors pointed out in the comments: Nga –> Ngal, bow –> crossbow. Irayo!

After this post, you’ll be able to ask and answer that question.

By the way

Na’vi has two adverbs that function like English “by the way” but are used in different situations.

mìftxele (adv., mì.FTXE.le) ‘by the way, in this regard, related to this matter’

The derivation of this adverb—mì + fì- + txele ‘in this matter’—makes the meaning clear: the speaker comes in with a statement or question related to something that has just been discussed. Example:

—Lam oer fwa tsazìma’uyul ke fnan tìtusaronit.
‘It seems to me that that newcomer isn’t any good at hunting.’

—Oeru nìteng. Mìftxele pori lu oer letsrantena fmawn a new piveng ngar.
‘(It seems that way) to me as well. By the way, I have some important news I want to
….tell you about him.’

zìma’uyu (n., zì.MA.’u.yu) ‘newcomer, someone who has just arrived on the scene’

Sometimes, however, we use “by the way” to change the subject and introduce something new into the conversation, something we’ve just remembered that’s just popped into our minds. That’s a different word:

nìvingkap (adv., nì.VING.kap) ‘by the way, incidentally’

Pronunciation: Note that it’s ving, not vìng.

Example:

—Slä tsalsungay, txo tìtslam for, lu txayo na’rìngto sìltsan.
‘But even so, if they’re smart they’ll take open terrain over bush.’

—Mllte oe. Nìvingkap ngeyä tsmukanur alu Ralu lu fpom srak?
…Txankrr ngal ke lawk pot kaw’it.
‘I agree. Oh by the way, how’s your brother Ralu? You haven’t mentioned a thing
….about him in a long time.’

txankrr (adv., txan.KRR) ‘for a long time’

Nìvingkap comes from the transitive verb vingkap:

vingkap (vtr., VING.kap – inf. 1,2) ‘occur to one, strike one, pop into one’s mind’

Vìmingkap oeti fula poe ke li ke poltxe san oe zasya’u.
‘It just occurred to me that she hasn’t yet said she’s coming.’

Reading

As you know, Na’vi was not a written language until the Sky People arrived on Pandora. So there’s no native Na’vi word that exclusively means “read written material.” Instead, the word for “gain knowledge from sensory input” was adopted to fill this need.

inan (vtr.: i.NAN – inf. 1,2) ‘read (e.g. the forest), gain knowledge from sensory input’

Note: Like omum, inan has an irregular stress pattern. When used without affixes, the stress is final: inan . But when prefixes or infixes are added, the stress shifts: erinan , ivinan , olinan , tinan.

Tìomummì oeyä, pol na’rìngit inan nìltsan.
‘As far as I know, he reads the forest well.’

tìomum (n., tì.O.mum) ‘knowledge’

tìomummì oeyä ‘to my knowledge, as far as I know’

Derivatives:

tinan (n., TI.nan) ‘reading’

ninan (adv., NI.nan) ‘by reading’

Examples:

Tsmìmìri wätx fol tinanit nìngay.
‘They’re really bad at reading animal tracks.’

tsmìm (n.) ‘animal track’

Nari si! Äo fìutral lu tsmìm ’angtsìkä!
‘Watch out! There’s a hammerhead track under this tree!’

Tìtusaronìri fte flivä, zene fko sivutx smarit ninan nìno.
‘To succeed at hunting, you have to track your prey by reading (the forest) with attention to detail.’

(Ninan nìno—NInan nìNO—is fun to say! Thanks to the LEP Committee for the example.)

The following bit of dialog shows you how to use inan for the sense of reading written material:

—Kempe si sempul?
‘What is father doing?’

— (Pol) pamrelit erinan.
‘He’s reading,’ [Literally: He’s reading writing.]

—Pefnepamrelit?
‘What is he reading?’ [Literally: What kind of writing?]

—Inan pukot a teri aysam a ’Rrtamì.
‘He’s reading a book about the wars on Earth.’

As you see, when you use inan in this sense, you need to supply an object–something that can be read. If it’s a general statement or question about reading with no particular written material in mind, the object is simply pamrel ‘writing.’

Ulte sìlpey oe, fì’upxaret inan a fì’u silvunu ayngaru nìwotx!

Edits: Spelling of letsrantena corrected; ke added before li; pukito –> pukot. Explanations in the comments.

Kaltxì nìmun, ma frapo—

Here are some new words I hope you’ll find useful. Thanks as always to the Vocabulary Committee for their excellent ideas. Much of the following material is due to their efforts.

• stxenu (n., STXE.nu) ‘offer’

This word originated from stxeli ‘gift’ + lonu ‘release, let go.’ It refers to anything that’s given freely, whether tangible or intangible.

Po poltxe san tìtstewnga’a stxenuri irayo seiyi oe ngaru nìtxan.
‘She said, “I thank you very much for your courageous offer.”’

• tìtstew (n., tì.TSTEW) ‘courage, bravery’
• tìtstewnga’ (adj., tì.TSTEW.nga’) ‘courageous, brave’ (nfp*)

Note: *nfp = not for persons. Contrast ofp = only for persons. In English, the word “brave” can be used for both people and things/actions: a brave person, a brave deed. That’s not the case in Na’vi. Certain adjectives have one form for persons and another for things. An example of this is the contrast between the two adjectives tstew and tìtstewnga’:

Kem atìtstewnga’ si tute atstew.
‘A brave person does brave deeds.’

The related verb is:

• stxenutìng (vtr.: STXE.nu.tìng – inf. 3,3) ‘offer’

Oeri tìreyti oel stxenutolìng fpi olo’ awngeyä.
I offered my life for the sake of our clan.

Related vocabulary:

• mll’an (vtr.: mll.’AN – inf. 1,2) ‘accept’
• tìmll’an (n., tì.mll.’AN) ‘acceptance’
• tsyär (vtr.) ‘reject’
• tìtsyär (n., tì.TSYÄR) ‘rejection’

Ngal lumpe oeyä stxenut tsyolängär?
‘Why did you reject my offer?’

Stxenutolìng oel futa lì’fyat leNa’vi poeru kivar. Mol’an nìprrte’.
‘I offered to teach her Na’vi. She accepted gladly.’

• kam (adp.-) ‘ago’
• kay (adp.-) ‘from now (in the future)’

These adpositions refer to time backward or forward from the time of speaking:

Tskot sngolä’i po sivar ’a’awa trrkam (or: kam trr a’a’aw) .
‘He started to use the bow several days ago.’

Zaya’u Sawtute fte awngati skiva’a kay zìsìt apxey (or: pxeya zìsìtkay) !
The Sky People will come to destroy us three years from now!

Note: If the measure of time is relative to another event rather than to the time of speaking, use the adverbs srekrr ‘beforehand’ and mawkrr ‘afterwards’:

Polähem Sawtute kam zìsìt amrr, hum mezìsìt mawkrr.
‘The Sky People arrived five years ago and left two years later.’

• ’awnìm (vtr.: ’AW.nìm – inf. 1,1) ‘avoid’

This word stems from ’ì’awn ‘remain’ + alìm ‘at a distance.’

Ngal ’erawnìm oeti srak?
‘Are you avoiding me?’

Poltxe po san oe ke tsängun ’ivawnìm futa kutuhu oeyä ultxa si.
‘He said that sadly, he can’t avoid meeting with his enemies.’

• ’ä’ (conv.) ‘whoops!’

(I mentioned this one in a comment in the previous post—I just didn’t want it to get lost.)

’Ä’! Oel tsngalit tìmungzup. Ngaytxoa!
‘Whoops! I just dropped the cup. Sorry about that!’

• steng (adj.) ‘similar

Meuniltìrantokx Toktor Kìreysä sì Tsyeykä ke lu teng ki steng.
‘The avatars of Grace and Jake aren’t the same, but they are similar.’

Ngaru tìyawr. Lolu oer stenga säfpìl.
‘You’re right. I had a similar idea.’

And here’s a very nice proverb the Committee came up with:

Säfpìl asteng, tìkan ateng.
‘Great minds think alike.’

Derivation:

• nìsteng (adv., nì.STENG) ‘similarly’

Tseyk tswamayon fa ikran srekrr; tafral fmoli fìkem sivi fa toruk nìsteng.
‘Jake flew with an ikran before; therefore he tried to do it with a toruk in a similar fashion.’

(Note: The verb tswayon ‘fly’ is intransitive—you fly by means of an ikran.)

• nim (adj.) ‘timid, shy’

Yerik lu swirä anim nìtxan.
‘The hexapede is a very timid creature.’

Nim rä’ä lu! Pohu pivängkxo!
‘Don’t be shy! Talk to her!’

(Note that it’s pohu, not poru. You can’t use the dative with pängkxo.)

• srätx (vtr.) ‘annoy, bother’

Oeti rä’ä srätx.
‘Don’t bother me.’

Derivation:

• säsrätx (n., sä.SRÄTX) ‘annoyance’

• rì’ìr (n., RÌ.’ìr) ‘reflection’

This is a nice example of what linguists call iconicity, where the symbol itself (in this case, a word) mirrors what it represents.

Oeri payìl tìng rì’ìrit keyä.
‘My face is reflected in the water.’

Derivation:

• rì’ìr si (vin.) ‘reflect, imitate’

Rì’ìr rä’ä sivi tsmuktur!
‘Don’t imitate your sibling!’

I think there’s some iconicity in the next couple of words as well:

• tsìsyì (vin.: TSÌ.syi – inf. 1,2) ‘whisper’

Rutxe pivlltxe nìwok nì’it, oel ngati stum ke stängawm krra nga fìfya tserìsyì!
‘Please speak up a bit, I can barely hear you when you’re whispering like this!’

• nìwok (adv., nì.WOK) ‘loudly’

Note: Na’vi doesn’t have a separate word for ‘hardly, barely, scarcely.’ Instead, stum ke ‘almost not’ is used.

Derivations:

• sätsìsyì (n., sä.TSÌ.syì) ‘whisper’

Po pamlltxe a krr, frapo tarmìng mikyun nìpxi, taluna mokri lu sätsìsyìtsyìp.
‘When he spoke, everyone listened intently, because his voice was a tiny whisper.’

That last word makes a good tongue-twister. Fmi pivlltxe alo avol nìwin! 😊

• nìtsìsyì (adv., nì.TSÌ.syì) ‘by whispering, in a whisper’

Since tsìsyì is intransitive, to talk about “whispering something” we use this adverb:

Pol tstxoti oeyä poltxeie nìtsìsyì.
‘He whispered my name, I’m happy to say.’

• fwefwi (vin., FWE.fwi – inf. 1,2) ‘whistle’

Nga fwefwi nìlkeftang a fì’u lu säsrätx atxan oeru.
‘It’s a major annoyance to me that you whistle continuously.’

Derivation:

• nìfwefwi (adv., nì.FWE.fwi) ‘by whistling, in a whistling manner’

Like tsìsyì, fwefwi is intransitive. To express the idea of whistling a tune, we use the following vocabulary and structure:

• lawr (n.) ‘tune, melody’
• tìng lawr (vin.) ‘sing wordlessly, give out a tune or melody’

’Evanìl alo a’awve nì’awtu na’rìngit tarmok, ha tolìng lawr nìfwefwi fteke txopu sivi.
‘The boy was alone in the forest for the first time, so he whistled a tune to calm his fears.’

• säomum (n., sä.O.mum) ‘(piece of) information’

As in many languages (but emphatically not as in English), the word for ‘information’ is countable and can be used in the plural. If it’s a single piece of information—one fact—use the singular; if several pieces of information are being conveyed, use the plural.

Aysäomumìri lesar seiyi oe ngaru irayo nìtxan.
‘Thanks very much for (all) this useful information.’

Ulte nìsyen:

• kosman (adj., ko.SMAN) ‘wonderful, terrific, fantastic’

Fol lì’fyati awngeyä sar a fya’o lu kosman.
‘It’s wonderful the way they use our language.’

Alternatively, we can use the adverbial form of this word:

• nìksman (adv., nìk.SMAN) ‘wonderfully’

Fol lì’fyati awngeyä sar nìksman.
‘They use our language wonderfully.’

Nìvingkap, what did you all think of the news about Avatar + Disney? Lu fmawn a eltur tìtxen si nìtxan, kefyak?

As always, please let me know about any typos and slips you discover.

Hayalovay, ma eylan.

Edits, 24 Sept.: Spellings of nìtsìsyi etc. and ’a’awa corrected.

Ma eylan,

Here are a few new words, mostly suggestions from our hardworking Vocabulary Committee, along with a bit of new grammar.

Na’vi has two different words corresponding to the English word source; it’s important not to confuse them. One is:

letsim (adj., le.TSIM) ‘original, unique, not derived from another source’

This adjective is derived from the noun tsim ‘source, origin.’

Sweylu txo ngal ke txivìng säfpìlit letsim.
‘You shouldn’t abandon your original idea.’

The meaning here is that you came up with a new and unique idea that you shouldn’t abandon.

But we also have:

lesngä’i (adj., le.SNGÄ.’i) ‘original, existing at or from the start, first in a series’

Sweylu txo ngal ke txivìng säfpìlit lesngä’i.
‘You shouldn’t abandon your original idea.’

Here the meaning is that your very first idea is better than the current one.

The related adverbs are:

nìtsim (adv., nì.TSIM) ‘originally, in an original way, with originality’

nìsngä’i (adv., nì.SNGÄ.’i) ‘originally, at first’

Frakrr po fpìl nìtsim nìwotx.
‘Her thinking is always completely original.’

Nìsngä’i fmawnit fo narmew wivan, slä nì’i’a frapor lolonu.
‘They originally wanted to hide the news, but in the end they revealed it everyone.’

ngong (adj.) ‘lethargic, lacking sufficient energy, lazy’

Ftue lu fwa taron ngonga ioangit to fwa taron pumit a lu walak sì win.
‘It’s easier to hunt lethargic animals than to hunt perky, speedy ones.

walak (adj., WA.lak) ‘energetic, active’

Tìtusaronìri txo new fko slivu tsulfätu, zene smarto livu walak.
‘If you want to become a master hunter, you have to be more active than your prey.’

Fìtrr oe ’efu ngong nìwotx.
‘I’m just not motivated to do anything today.’

Derivations:

tìngong (n., tì.NGONG) ‘lethargy, laziness’

nìngong (adv., nì.NGONG) ‘lethargically, lazily’

Note: When applied to people, ngong and its derivatives have a pejorative force: it’s not good to be lazy and lethargic.

Fwa Ìstawhu ’awsiteng tìkangkem si ke sunu oer; tìngongìri ke lu kawtu
na po.
‘I don’t like to work with Ìstaw; he’s famous for his laziness.’

To talk about doing something in a leisurely or unhurried way, without the negative connotation, we use a different set of words:

txi (n.) ‘hurry, hurriedness, frenzy’

letxi (adj., le.TXI) ‘hurried, frenzied’

nìtxi (adv., nì.TXI) ‘hurriedly, in a frenzied way’

letxiluke (adj., le.TXI.lu.ke) ‘unhurried’

nìtxiluke (adv., nì.TXI.lu.ke) ‘unhurriedly, leisurely’

Tsun oe ngahu tsatsengene kivä, slä nulnew futa sivop oeng nìtxiluke.
‘I can go there with you, but I prefer to travel leisurely.’

kulat (vtr., KU.lat — inf. 1,2 ) ‘reveal, bring forth, uncover (literally and metaphorically)’

Maw txantompa, pxaya rìkäo lamu tskalep peyä, ha tsat kulat ayoel.
‘After the rainstorm, his crossbow was under a lot of leaves, so we uncovered it (removed the leaves from it).’

txantompa (n., txan.TOM.pa) ‘rainstorm, heavy rain’

Lolu kavuk, slä Tsenul tìngayit kolulat.
‘There was treachery, but Tsenu revealed the truth.’

meyam (vtr., me.YAM — inf. 1,2) ‘hug, embrace, hold in one’s arms’

Ma sa’nu, oe txopu si. Meyam oeti!
‘Mommy, I’m scared. Hold me!’

Derivation:

sämyam (n., säm.YAM) – hug, embrace

Sämyamìl poru wayìntxu futa ngata lolu li txoa.
‘A hug will show him that you’ve already forgiven him.’
Now here’s the first bit of new grammar. How would you say, “They hugged each other?”

For this “reciprocal structure,” Na’vi uses the reflexive infix ‹ äp › along with the adverbfìtsap:

fìtsap (adv., fì.TSAP) ‘each other’

This word evolved from fìpo+tsapor, literally ‘this person/thing to that person/thing.’

Example:

Mefo fìtsap mäpoleyam tengkrr tsngawvìk.
‘The two of them hugged each other and wept.’

Note two things here. First, it’s mefo, not mefol, since a reflexive verb takes the subjective, not the agentive, case. Second, if you omitted fìtsap, the sentence would mean that the two of them hugged themselves—that is, A hugged A and B hugged B rather than A hugged B and B hugged A.

Note also that the verb pom ‘kiss’ and the derived noun säpom ‘a kiss’ are parallel in all respects to meyam and sämyam.

nuä (adp.+, NU.ä) ‘beyond’

Awnga kelku si nuä ayram alusìng.
‘We live beyond the flying mountains.’

Note the difference between nuä ‘beyond’ and few ‘across, aiming for the opposite side of.’

Fo kelku si few ’ora.
‘They live across the lake.’ (That is, on the opposite side of the lake, on the other shore.)

Fo kelku si nuä ora.
‘They live beyond the lake.’ (That is, a great distance beyond and out of sight of the lake.)

(I’m sure everyone knows why it’s ’ora in one but ora in the other. 😊 )

kanfpìl (vin., KAN.fpìl — inf. 1, 2) ‘concentrate, focus one’s attention’

Furia sneyä tskoti ngop po kanfpìl.
‘He’s concentrating on making his bow.’

Txo new nga tslivam, zene kivanfpìl.
‘If you want to understand, you have to concentrate.’

fmokx (n.) ‘jealousy, envy’

The syntax is: Lu oeru fmokx. ‘I’m jealous.’

Note that fmokx carries a neutral connotation unless otherwise specified with ‹ äng› or ‹ ei›.

Furia fìtxan fnängan Ulreyìl tsko swizawit, lu oeru fmokx.
‘I’m jealous of the fact that Ulrey is such an excellent archer.’

Fko plltxeie san menga muntxa slolu sìk! Seykxel sì nitram! Slä lu oeru
fmokx nì’it.
‘I’m so happy to hear you got married! Congratulations! I am a little envious, though.’

Derivation:

nìfmokx (adv., nì.FMOKX) ‘jealously, enviously’

Txewìl tukrut Loakä narmìn nìfmokx.
‘Txewì was eyeing Loak’s spear enviously.’

kìmar (adj., kì.MAR) ‘in season (of foods, vegetable or animal)’

Teylu kìmar lìyu a fì’u oeru teya si.
It fills me with joy that teylu is about to be in season.

Derivation:

nìkmar (adv., nìk.MAR) ‘in the right season, opportunely’

Nìkmar can be used to describe events and situations that occur at a convenient or appropriate time.

Po tsap’alute soli nìkmar.
‘He apologized at the right time.’

Awngal tok kelkut. Nìkmar zup tompa set.
‘We’re home. Now is a good time for it to be raining.’

When occurring in a negated phrase, the meaning is not merely ‘not in season’ but ‘genuinely out of season, occurring at an inappropriate or inconvenient time.’

Fo ke perängkxo oehu nìkmar.
‘They were chatting with me at a bad time.’

Contrast the previous sentence with:

Kìmar lu fwa fo ke pängkxo oehu.
‘It was opportune that they didn’t chat with me.’ (That is, ‘They chose a good time not to chat with me.’)

Finally, here’s a use of the second-position infix ‹ ats › that I don’t think you’ve seen before. (Thanks to one of our sulfätu lì’fyayä for this suggestion.)

‹ ats › is used in what we might call “conjectural questions.” In a normal question, I don’t know something but I expect you do—that’s why I’m asking. In a conjectural question, however, I don’t know and I don’t think you do either.

Tsa’u latsu peu?
‘What on earth is that?

Pol pesenget tatsok?
‘Where in the world could she be?’

Srake pxefo li polähatsem?
‘I wonder if the three of them have already arrived.’

’O’a Ftxozä Hälowinä, ma frapo!

ta Pawl

P.S.—I owe some of you responses to your comments on the previous post, and I’m sure there will comments on this one as well. I’ll get to them as soon as I can, but it probably won’t be until Wednesday night at the earliest.

Kaltxì nìmun, ma smuk—

This will be a brief post, with only a handful of new words, mostly from the vocabulary committee. More to come soon.

kxukx (vtr.) ‘swallow’

Fìnaer ftxìvä’ lu nìhawng, ha sweylu txo ngal tsat kxivukx nìwin.
‘This drink tastes horrible, so you’d better swallow it quickly.’

txewm (adj.) ‘scary, frightening’

Slä ma sa’nu, ikran txewm lu! Oe txopu si!
‘But Mommy, the banshee is scary! I’m afraid!’

hìmpxì (n., hìm.PXÌ) ‘minority, least, small part’

Hìmpxì Sawtuteyä lu tstunwi, slä feyä txampxì längu kawnglan.
‘A minority of the Sky People are kind, but the majority are malicious.’

kawnglan (adj., KAWNG.lan) ‘malicious, bad-hearted’

nutx (adj.) ‘thick’

Tsun Txilte pamrelit ivinan; tafral pukot anutx munge fratseng.
‘Txilte knows how to read; therefore she brings a thick book wherever she goes.’

flì (adj.) ‘thin’ (Note: Not for people)

Krro krro, flìa vul arusey to nutxa pum akerusey lu txur.
‘A thin living branch is sometimes stronger than a thick dead one.’

flìnutx (n., flì.NUTX) ‘thickness’

Sre fwa sìn tskxepay tìran, zene fko flìnutxit stiveftxaw.
‘It’s necessary to check the thickness of the ice before walking on it.’

Nì’ul ye’rìn . . .

Ma smuk,

As most of you know, to celebrate LN’s second anniversary the Community organized a second Na’vi Writing Contest. The theme this time was “Teri fwa fmal fìlì’fyati ayawne: On keeping this beloved language alive” and the categories were once again poetry and prose. (If you missed the original announcement that included the judging criteria, you can find it here.)

The judges have now sent me the winning entries, and as I did last year, I’m delighted to announce the names of the winners and share their wonderful work with you.

I’m continually impressed with the quality of the Na’vi coming out of the Community. Perhaps you can imagine how gratifying it is for someone like me to see the language he developed used for communication in such elegant, creative, and moving ways. Awngeyä li’fyari ayngeyä tìyawn oeru teya seiyi nìngay.

Txana irayo to the judges who worked so diligently to adjudicate the entries fairly—and to everyone who submitted poems and prose. Even if you didn’t win this time, I hope you found the process valuable and enjoyable. Ulte kxawm zìyeva’u ngane tìyora’ zìsìtay!

And now to the winners. This time the two top entries in each category were so close, the judges didn’t feel there was enough difference to distinguish them. So we have two winners in each category. Seykxel sì nitram to Alyara Arati, Blue Elf, Ikran Ahiyìk, and Lance R. Casey. Your work is reproduced below, in alphabetical order of your names.

Note: The question came up about how to say “poem” in Na’vi.

The answer is simple: It’s way, the word that usually means “song.” Since among the Na’vi, poetry is generally sung or recited in a melodic way, poetry and song are considered the same thing. This is true in a number of earth languages as well.

If to avoid confusion you need to distinguish a spoken poem from a song, the expressions are:

way a plltxe ‘spoken poem’
way a rol ‘song’

If you need to refer specifically to the words of a poem or the lyrics of a song, it’s what you expect: wayä aylì’u.

Poetry by Alyara Arati

A moving expression of what Na’vi has meant to this poet.

keftxo ’armefu,
tsngarmawvängìk nì’awtu
ayfayìvaru,
krr a lì’fyati
oel rolun, alu Na’vi
a tìtxen soli
elturu oeyä
sì’efursì txe’lanä,
a lalmu syä’ä.

ha fmoli oe
fìlì’fyati nivume
hufwa nì’awve
säsulìn nì’aw
lolu talun ke spolaw
oel mi futa tsaw
tsolun zeykivo
ke’uti oeru keng txo
nivew tsat frato.

slä ’uo lolen
a teri oer ke lolu ’en,
ngian tsrolanten
oeru nìtxan nang:
ke tsolun oe ftivang
’ivong na syulang.
tengkrr ftolia
tsawl slolu mì oey vitra
Na’viyä fpìlfya.

fìlì’fyar, tafral,
lu txanwawea ayral
ulte oeti fmal
fì’ul Eywapxel.
set ’efu oe seykxel
nì’ul fa pamrel
a oer stum swok lam
taluna sleyku nitram
oet, sì txantslusam.

za’u ta txe’lan
aylì’u atxanatan;
nìngay lu txantsan.
fìlì’fya frakrr
layu pum tìyawnä oer;
sar fì’ut tengkrr
hu Yawntu aNawm
oe plltxe mì sìvawm
ulte oet Pol stawm.

oel spaw tsat talun
leNa’via srungit tsun
oe mi rivun,
alu fwa mì oey
vitra mipa tìtstew rey,
a fya’o aswey
lu fte pivllngay
oer fwa lu oe nìngay
pxan tì’i’avay.

mi leykeratem
fìlì’fyal oet nìme’em
mìfa oey ronsem;
pxiset fì’ut kin
oel na unil akalin.
new piveng nìtxin
san Na’vi ’ivong
fa fìpamrel natkenong;
oet nìngay zerong.

Prose by Blue Elf:

Why this author likes Na’vi . . . and what will keep it alive.

Lì’fya leNa’vi—peu lu tsaw? Pum a sar sutel a ta Eywa’eveng a mì ayrel arusikx alu Uniltìrantokx. Mawkrra tsole’a oel tsayrelit alo a’awve, fpìl oel futa oel tsivun nivume fìlì’fyati. Rolun oel pängkxotsengit alu LN.org a tok pxaya tutel alahe a foru lu säfpìl asteng. Set oe leiu ’awpo ayfokip.

Pelun sunu oeru fìlì’fya? Tse . . . pam lì’fyayä lu lor, ke steng pamur pumä alahe. Tìsusar fìlì’fyayä lu ’o’, hufwa pxaya tutel fpìl futa sute a tsakem seri lekye’ung lu. Krro krro ngerop oel vurit ulte yem tsat ne pängkxotseng awngeyä fte ayhapxìtu alahe tsivun ivinan tìtxulat oeyä. Nìteng fmoli oe pamrel sivi aylì’ur alor (alu “poems” nì’ìnglìsì). Fìkem ke seri oe keng fa oeyä lì’fya letrrtrr! Ha – srake ayngal spaw futa yawne lu oeru lì’fya leNa’vi?

Ke lu oe nì’awtu. Mipa sute new nivume lì’fyat awngeyä eylanä a ta Eywa’eveng – tse’a oel tsat mì numtseng leNa’vi alu Ngaynume a skxakep sngìyä’eiyi nìmun ye’rìn. Fì’u tsranten, lì’fya rey krr a sute new nivume pumit ulte terkup krr a fkol ke sar tsat.

Slä txopu ke si oe fwa lì’fya leNa’vi tayerkup. Vaykrr fko payängkxo fa pum, vaykrr awngal nìwotx paryey nìprrte’ fralì’uti amip a ngop awngeyä nawma karyu Pawlìl, vay tsakrr frawzo.

’Ivong Na’vi!

Prose by Ikran Ahiyìk:

How this author has been changed by a language and a community.

Txonmì awew, ’amefu wew, ulte oe spxin slu.
Txonmì awew, ’amefu sang, talun ramun ayngat aftxavang.

Pxìm päpeng oe san fwa sutehu pängkxo lu tsranten. Lu tsranten, oer anìm nìpxi, slä kem ke sami nìyawr. Txankrr wolan, oeri kxa tstu soli, parmey furia tuteo kivä pivlltxe oer. Krro krro fpìl futa sweylu txo fìfyat leykivatem, slä ke tsamun oe.

Frakrr oel fpìl futa oer lu syayvi, talun lì’fyat leNa’vi oel rolun. Lu oer skxom asìltsan, ulte tsun oe nivume nìtxan. Natkenong, ayfya’ori a lì’fyat txula, tsun oe nivume fìtseng nì’aw fa fìlì’fyat nivume. Faysänume lesar lu ulte furia ayfya’ot a lì’fyat alahe txula oe nume, faysänume srung si nìtxan. Slä lu ’awa lun a lu tsranten pumto aham: lu kosman fte ’uot amip sivar, ulte lu ’o’ fte tsive’a futa frapo wou . . .

Frakrr oel fpìl futa oer lu syayvi, talun fìolo’it kop oel rolun. Krr a fìlì’fyat oe nerume, lu oer srung ayngeyä. Tsun oe ’ivefu sang, alu vewng tutel alahe. Txo fìtìsangluke, nì’aw ’efu wew alu oet txìng. Fì’ut oel ve’kängì nìtxan, nìteng oet ’eykefu keftxo. Tsatxonmì ayngal aylì’ufa oeti vamewng, oe ayngaru seiyi irayo.

Tam tam, nìawnomum ke’u swey ke slu kawkrr. Nìkeftxo, krro krro kawtu oehu pivängkxo krr a oel lì’fyaviot poltxe . . . Tsole’a futa zìma’uyuo hum fìlunfa. Tì’efumì oeyä, sweylu txo fkol ke txivìng kawtut. Lu oe tìkenong ulte spaw futa lu tuteo asteng. Kawtut ke txivìng kawkrr a fìkem tsun frapoti stivarsìm ulte fpeykìl futa awnga lu ayhapxì olo’ä a’aw.

Poetry by Lance R. Casey:

Why study a language like Na’vi? This poet has an answer.

Pelun

Aynga pawm san Pelun, pelun
fìlì’fya sunu ngar?
Peul ’eykefu ngat nitram
krr a plltxe aylar?

Ayhemlì’uvi porpamsì
ke lu lekye’ung srak?
Fìlì’fya unil lu nì’aw –
ke tok kifkeyit pak!

Ha sweylu txo ayteleri
letsranten fko fpivìl;
ayut lesar nì’aw ngivop
frapey tìronsrelìl!

Lu skxawng frapo a ke tse’a:
fì’u a kan’ìn ngal
fìlì’fyati lu yaymak sìk.
Oe ’eyng fìfya tafral:

Ke tsun aynga kivame txo,
tsakrr lu kop kakrel –
fkol nume lì’fyaot a krr
’erefu fko seykxel.

Hifkeyur lì’fya si piak
nì’eylan nìlkeftang;
ftxey ta’leng ean lu, ftxey neyn,
kaw’it ke tsranten nang!

In his comment in the previous post, Plumps noted that yora’tu ‘winner’ surprised him; he expected yora’yu.

He’s right—it is surprising. As you know, the general rule for forming an agent (the one who does the action) from a verb is to add the suffix –yu:

karyu ‘teacher’; ngopyu ‘creator’; täftxuyu ‘weaver’; taronyu ‘hunter’; etc.

In contrast, -tu is generally added to non-verbs:

fnawe’tu ‘coward’; fyeyntu ‘adult person’; lomtu ‘missed person’; ultxatu ‘meeting participant’; wätu ‘opponent’; etc.

Those are the general rules, and they apply perhaps 95 percent of the time. But –tu can be unpredictable. You’ve already seen examples of that:

In spe’etu ‘captive,’ –tu has been added to the verb spe’e ‘capture’ to indicate the recipient of the action, rather like the –ee suffix in English (honoree, interviewee).

In frrtu ‘guest,’ it’s not clear what –tu has been added to, since there’s no word *frr in modern Na’vi (although it may be an archaic form); the verb for visit is frrfen, so frrtu replaces the expected *frrfenyu.

And there are places where you expect –tu but find –yu instead: ‘warrior’ is tsamsiyu, not *tsamtu. (Compare: tsulfä ‘mastery’; tsulfä si ‘to master’; tsulfätu ‘master of an art, craft, or skill—not *tsulfäsiyu.)

The words for ‘winner’ and ‘loser’ are further additions to the list of oddly behaved –tu words:

yora’tu (n., yo.RA’.tu) ‘winner’

snaytu (n., SNAY.tu) ‘loser’

Note that snaytu is doubly exceptional, since snaytx ‘lose’ ends in a pxorpam. So *snaytxtu > snaytu.

Frauvanìri lu yora’tu, lu snaytu.
‘For every game, there’s a winner and a loser.’

The bottom line is that –tu words are sometimes unpredictable. The –tu suffix is not productive, so don’t try to coin these words yourself—you need to find them in the dictionary.

Here’s the last post for 2011, with a bit of new grammar. I have a large backlog of vocabulary I want to get to you, but that will have to wait until next year.

CONTRASTIVE DEMONSTRATIVES

This sounds intimidating, but it’s actually a simple concept.

Suppose you’re an experienced mycologist gathering mushrooms in the forest with a friend. You see two different mushrooms under a tree—one edible, one deadly. So you say to your friend as you point them out, “This mushroom is delicious; that mushroom will kill you.”

How would you pronounce that last sentence?

If you’re a native speaker of English, you’d put heavy stress on the two demonstratives, this and that:

“THIS mushroom is delicious; THAT mushroom will kill you.”

I mention “native speaker” because although that kind of stress pattern—what we call “contrastive stress”—is so natural to native English speakers they don’t even think about it, it’s not natural in many other languages. When I was teaching ESL, I kept encountering student learners with very good English skills who nevertheless would pronounce the mushroom sentence like this:

“This MUSHroom is delicious; that MUSHroom will kill you.”

Languages that don’t use stress to show contrast have other ways of doing it. (For those of you who speak French, think of ce jardin vs. ce jardin-ci, ce jardin-là.)

Ha . . . Lì’fyari leNa’vi pefya?

As you know, the Na’vi demonstratives fì- and tsa- are prefixed to their nouns and not stressed, so a simple English-like pattern isn’t possible. Instead, Na’vi uses apposition with alu and a redundant pronoun. Here’s the mushroom sentence in Na’vi. (I’ve used fkxen, ‘food of vegetable origin’ as a generic vegetable here.)

Fìfkxen alu FÌ’u lu ftxìlor; tsafkxen (or: pum) alu TSA’u ngati tspang.
‘THIS vegetable is delicious; THAT one will kill you.’

Note that there is (IS!) contrastive stress here, but it’s on the fi-/tsa- of the pronoun, not of the noun. (These prefixes, of course, are not capitalized in normal writing.)

Another example:

Fìkaryu alu fìpo lu tsulfätu; tsakaryu alu tsapo lu skxawng.
‘This teacher is a master; that teacher is a fool.’

MORE ON FÌTSAP

We saw a few posts back that the adverb fìtsap ‘each other’—another useful translation is ‘reciprocally’—is used with the reflexive infix –äp- in transitive verbs to indicate reciprocal action:

Zìsìto avol ke tsäpole’a fo fìtsap.
‘They haven’t seen each other in eight years.’

But what happens if the verb is intransitive? Reflexive –äp- is only used with transitive verbs (and some si– constructions).

If you think about it, it’s odd to use ‘each other’ with intransitives: you can see each other, love each other, and slap each other, but you can’t sleep each other, talk each other, or swim each other. However, a number of important transitive verbs in English have intransitive counterparts in Na’vi: “I love you” = Nga yawne lu oer, “I know you” = Nga smon oer.

So how do you say “We know each other” in Na’vi? Fìfya:

Moe smon moeru fìtsap.
‘We know each other.’

Literally, this says: ‘We are familiar with us (i.e., with ourselves) reciprocally.’ With moe, of course, you’re talking to a third party about yourself and another person.

Note that moeru is optional: Moe smon fìtsap is fine and means the same thing.

Another example:

Ma muntxatu, oeng yawne lu (oengaru) fìtsap, kefyak?
‘We love each other, don’t we, my spouse?’

With the third person, things get a bit more complicated.

First off, how do you say “He sees himself?” Easy: Po tsäpe’a. But what about “He loves himself?” You can’t use –äp- here. If you say, Po yawne lu por, you’re saying that he loves him/her—that is, someone not himself.

Recall that we encountered a similar situation with possessive pronouns, in which case sneyä came to the rescue:

Pol ’olem peyä wutsot.
‘He made his (i.e., someone else’s) dinner.’

Pol ’olem sneyä wutsot.
He made his (own) dinner.

Sneyä has a relative snor(u) ‘to himself, to herself, to itself, to themselves’ which comes to the rescue here:

Po yawne lu snor.
‘He loves himself.’

Returning to the original question, with snor(u) and fìtsap we can translate “know each other” and “love each other”-type sentences in the third person:

Mefo yawne lu (snor) fìtsap.
‘They (=those two) love each other.’

(Like sneyä, snor(u) isn’t changed for number.)

Fo smon (snoru) fìtsap nìwotx.
‘They all know each other.’

There’s more to say about the sno family, but that will have to wait until another time.

MIPA ZÌSÌT LEFPOM, MA EYLAN!

Let’s hope 2012 is a healthy, happy, productive, and fulfilling year for all of us.

Hayalovay!

Ta Pawl

Edit 1/01: *Nga smon lu oer corrected to Nga smon oer. Irayo, ma Plumps!

Kaltxì, ma frapo. Sìlpey oe, ayngari zìsìt amip sngilvä’i nì’o’ nì’aw.

Here’s some new vocabulary for the start of 2012, in no particular order. Thanks as always to the Vocabulary Committee and others for some excellent suggestions.

wo (vtr.) ‘reach for’

Ngal new a tsa’ut rä’ä wivo, ma ’evi. Vivin.
‘Don’t reach for what you want, child. Ask for it.’

yawo (vin., ya.WO—inf. 2, 2) ‘take off, launch’

Fwa yawo ftu kllte to fwa tswayon ftu ’awkx lu ngäzìk.
‘Taking off from the ground is harder than flying off a cliff.’

’Uol ikranit txopu sleykolatsu, taluna po tsìk yawo.
‘Something must have frightened the banshee, because it suddenly took to the air.’

tsìk (adv.) ‘suddenly, without warning’

kllwo (vin., kll.WO—inf. 2, 2) ‘alight, land (process)’

Tompa ’eko nìhawng, ha zene awnga kllwivo.
‘The rain is too strong, so we must land.’

Note: Kllwo expresses the process of landing (“reaching for the ground”) before actual touch-down is achieved. To talk about the completed act, a different verb is used:

kllpä (vin., kll.PÄ—inf. 2, 2) ‘land, reach the ground’

Maw sätswayon ayol ayoe kllpolä mì tayo a lu rofa kilvan.
‘After a short flight we landed in a field beside the river.’

sätswayon (n., sä.TSWA.yon) ‘flight (= an instance of flying)’

rawn (vtr.) ‘replace, substitute’

The syntax for “replace A with B” or “substitute B for A” is: rawn A-ti fa B.

Rolawn oel pa’lit fa ikran, ulte makto set ikranit frakrr.
‘I replaced my direhorse with a banshee, and now I ride a banshee all the time.’

tìrawn (n., tì.RAWN) ‘replacement, act of replacing’

Po ’efu ngeyn ulte kin tìrawnit nìtxan.
‘He is tired and very much needs to be replaced.’

Note: An alternative way to express this thought is: . . . ulte kin nìtxan futa fkol pot rivawn.’

särawn (n., sä.RAWN) ‘replacement, substitute, something that replaces something else’

Fìpamtseoturi ke layu ftue fwa run fkol särawnit a tam.
‘It won’t be easy to find a satisfactory replacement for this musician.’

kxeltek (vtr., KXEL.tek—inf. 1,2) ‘pick up, lift’

Pxiset ngeyä tskalepit kxeltek!
‘Pick up your crossbow right now!’

Ke tsun tute a’aw tsatskxeti aku’up kxiveltek nì’awtu.
‘One person alone can’t lift that heavy rock.’

fngo’ (vtr.) ‘require, demand’

Fol fte ayspe’etut livonu fngo’ ’upet?
‘What are they demanding in order for them to release the captives?’

Fìfnetìfkeytokìl fngo’ futa kem sivi fko pxiye’rìn.
‘This kind of situation requires immediate action.’

Karyul fngolo’ futa aynumeyu pivate ye’krr.
‘The teacher required the students to arrive early.’

Note: To express the idea in the previous sentence, English gives you two choices: ‘required the students to arrive early’ or ‘required that the students arrive early.’ In Na’vi only the equivalent of the latter is possible. (Question: How would you say, “The students were required to arrive early” if you wanted to begin the sentence with “students”?)

säfngo’ (n., sä.FNGO’) ‘requirement, demand’

Ngeyä faysäfngo’ìl nìwotx steykerängi oeti nìhawng.
‘All these demands of yours are making me exceedingly angry.’

ngam (n.) ‘echo’

Fìslärmì tsun fko stivawm ngamit apxay.
‘You can hear a lot of echoes in this cave.’

slär (n.) ‘cave’

ngampam (n., NGAM.pam) ‘rhyme’

ngampam si (vin.) ‘rhyme’

Melì’u alu mungwrr sì nìfkrr ngampam si.
‘The words mungwrr and nìfkrr rhyme.’

Note: Ngampam si can also be used metaphorically, in the sense of fitting together well:

New Rini sì Ralu muntxa slivu, slä tì’efumì oeyä, ngampam ke si.
‘Rini and Ralu want to marry, but I feel they’re not compatible.’

renu ngampamä (n., RE.nu NGAM.pa.mä ) ‘rhyme scheme’

Fìwayri hìnoa renut ngampamä ke tsängun oe tslivam.
‘I’m afraid I can’t understand the intricate rhyme scheme of this poem.’

faoi (adj., FA.o.i) ‘smooth’

ekxtxu (adj., ekx.TXU) ‘rough’

Ta’leng prrnenä lu faoi, pum koaktuä ekxtxu.
‘A baby’s skin is smooth, an old person’s is rough.’

Note: These words refer to physical characteristics and are not generally used metaphorically, as the corresponding words can be in English: “Hope everything goes smoothly” or “That was a rough meeting, wasn’t it.” Also, make sure you pronounce faoi in three distinct syllables that glide together—don’t let it become fawi except in very fast speech.

yo’ (vin.) ‘be perfect, flawless’

Tìhawl lesngä’i lu tìkangkemvi skxawngä, slä pum alu fì’u yo’ nì’aw.
‘The original plan was the work of an idiot, but this one is just perfect.’

A: Ultxa sivi oeng sìn ramtsyìp txon’ongay.
‘Let’s meet on the hill tomorrow at nightfall.’
B: Yeio’! Tsakrrvay ko!
‘Perfect! See you then.’

Riniri nikre yängo’ nìtut.
‘Rini’s hair is always perfect. (I “hate” her. OR: I wish mine were perfect too!)’

Fìstxelit fol txerula fpi olo’eyktan. Zene yivo’ luke kxeyeyo kaw’it.
‘They’re constructing this gift for the chief. It must be perfect without a single flaw.’

nìyo’ (adv., nì.YO’) ‘perfectly, flawlessly’

Txo ke nìyo’ tsakrr nìyol. [Proverb]
‘If you can’t be flawless, at least be brief.’

tìyo’ (n., tì.YO’) ‘perfection’

Fìtseori ke tsun kawtu pivähem tìyo’ne; tsranten tìpähemä tìfmi nì’aw.
‘In this art it’s impossible to arrive at perfection; the only thing that matters is the attempt to arrive there.’

tìfmi (n., tì.FMI) ‘attempt’

Finally: HUMOR

The root word for humor is the adjective ’ipu:

’ipu (adj., ’I.pu) ‘humorous, funny, amusing’

Kawkrr ke lu peyä ayvur ’ipu kaw’it.
‘His stories are never a bit amusing.’

tì’ipu (n., tì.I.pu) ‘humor’

Srake tsun nga rivun fìtìfkeytokmì a tì’iput?
‘Can you find the humor in this situation?’

In general, anything humorous is a sä’ipu:

sä’ipu (n., sä.I.pu) ‘something humorous’

Oeru txoa livu, ma ’eylan. Rä’ä stivi. Lu hì’ia sä’ipu nì’aw.
‘I’m sorry, friend. Don’t be angry. It was just a small bit of humor.’

More specifically, there are different kinds of sä’ipu. One is a joke—that is, a story meant to be evoke laughter (for example, “A man walks into a bar . . .” in American culture)—is a hangvur:

hangvur (n., HANG.vur) ‘joke, funny story’

Poleng Neytiril hangvurit a frapot heykangham.
‘Neytiri told a joke that made everyone laugh.’

Another kind of sä’ipu is lì’uvan, humor based on language or word-play. Puns fall into this category.

lì’uvan (n., LÌ.’u.van) ‘pun, word-play’

Aylì’uvan aswey lu ’ipu, lu sìlronsem.
‘The best puns are both funny and clever.’

That’s it for now. Hayalovay!

Ma smuk,

Before anything else, irayo nìtxan for all your encouraging comments. I truly appreciate them. And needless to say, I’m very pleased the Community is finding these posts helpful. I don’t always reply, but I do read all the comments, which are often really helpful in pointing out things that need clarification ( sì oeyä keyey kop ). Apropos of that, some grammatical issues have come up that I want to address; I’ll get to those as soon as I can. In the meantime, here are some new words that some of you have been waiting for. Thanks as always to the LEP contributors for their excellent suggestions and examples.

kanom (vtr., KA.nom—inf. 1,2) ‘acquire, get’

Oeyä tsmukanìl mipa tskoti kìmaneiom.
‘My brother just got a new bow, I’m happy to say.’

säkanom (n., sä.KA.nom) ‘something acquired, an acquisition, a possession’

Tì’efumì oeyä, ngeyä fìsäkanom lu lehrrap ulte tsun ngati tìsraw seykivi.
‘In my opinion, this acquisition of yours is dangerous and can hurt you.’

käsrìn (vtr., kä.SRÌN—inf. 2, 2) ‘lend’

zasrìn (vtr., za.SRÌN—inf. 2, 2) ‘borrow’

These two verbs are derived from a root verb srìn ‘temporarily transfer from one to another’ that’s rarely used without prefixes. The thing being transferred “goes out” (kä) from the giver or lender and “comes to” (za’u) the receiver or borrower.

Sneyä masatit pol käsrolìn oer.
‘He lent me his breastplate.’

Srake tsun oe zasrivìn ngeyä tsngalit?
‘Can I borrow your cup?’

säsrìn (n., sä.SRÌN) ‘lent or borrowed thing’

Oeta a tsasäsrìnìl tok pesengit?
‘Where’s the thing (you) borrowed from me?’

Note: To express sharing rather than borrowing or lending, use the adverb nì’eng ‘equally’ with the verb that’s appropriate for the situation:

Fol tsnganit pxìmolun’i nì’eng.
‘They shared the meat.’ OR ‘They divided up the meat equally.’

pxìmun’i (vtr., pxì.mun.’I—inf. 2,3) ‘divide, cut into parts’

(Derived from hapxì ‘part’ + mun’i ‘cut.’)

Note: The range of pxìmun’i extends to situations where no actual cutting is involved:

Nìtrrtrr pxìmun’i samsiyul ayswizawit kutuä alawnätxayn snokip nì’eng.
‘Warriors typically share the arrows of their defeated enemies among themselves.’

lätxayn (vtr., lä.TXAYN—inf. 1,2) ‘defeat in battle, conquer’

sälätxayn (n., sä.lä.TXAYN) ‘defeat: an instance of defeat’

Tsasälätxayn Na’viru srung soli nì’aw fte slivu txur nì’ul.
‘That defeat only helped the People become stronger.’

Tsun awnga kelku sivi nì’eng Sawtutehu mì atxkxe awngeyä.
‘We can share our land with the Skypeople.’

If the sharing is with the entire olo’, however, a different adverb is used:

yll (adj.) ‘communal’

nìyll (adv., nì.YLL) ‘communally, in a communal manner’

Fol tsnganit pxìmolun’i nìyll.
‘They shared the meat with the entire clan.’

Fìteyluri ke narmew Va’ru yivom nìyll.
‘Va’ru didn’t want to share this teylu with the Omatikaya.’

hona (adj., HO.na) ‘endearing, adorable, cute’

Ayhemìri ’ewana tsanantangur ahì’i tìng nari. Lu hona, kefyak?
‘Look at what that little young viperwolf is doing. Isn’t that adorable?’

Note: In normal conversation don’t use kalin ‘sweet’ in the sense of cute or adorable; it only refers to the sensation of taste. Use hona instead. A ‘sweet little cat’ is hona palukantsyìp ahì’i. (Palukantsyìp is the normal shortening of palulukantsyìp in conversation.)

nìhona (adv., nì.HO.na) ‘endearingly, sweetly’

Po ätxäle soli nìhona fìtxan, ke tsun oe stivo.
‘She asked so sweetly that I couldn’t refuse.’

tìhona (n., tì.HO.na) ‘cuteness, adorableness’

Peyä ’itanìri lu hona nìtxan a fì’u law lu frapor. Slä tìhona nì’aw ke tam.
‘It’s clear to everyone that his son is very cute. But cuteness alone isn’t enough.’

fäkä (vin., fä.KÄ—inf. 2,2) ‘go up, ascend’

kllkä (vin., kll.KÄ—inf. 2,2) ‘go down, descend’ [already in the lexicon]

fäza’u (vin., fä.ZA.’u—inf. 2,3) ‘come up, ascend’

kllza’u (vin., kll.ZA.’u—inf. 2,3) ‘come down, descend’

The use of these four directional verbs is straightforward. For example:

Fäziva’u ne tsenge a oel tok!
‘Come up to where I am!’

One of the uses of fäza’u and kllkä you may not be aware of, however, is for astronomical bodies rising and setting. For example:

Fäza’u tsawke krrpe?
‘When will the sun come up?’

Another—and very common—way to express rising and setting is to use two intransitive verbs you’re already familiar with, fpxäkìm ‘enter’ and hum ‘exit, leave, depart.’ The full forms of these expressions explicitly mention entering into the sky and exiting from the sky:

Tsawke fpxeräkìm nemfa taw.
‘The sun is rising.’

Tsaysanhì hayum ye’rìn tawftu.
‘Those stars will soon set.’

But most of the time the adpositional phrases (nemfa taw, tawftu) may be omitted:

Tsawke fpxeräkìm.

Tsaysanhì hayum ye’rìn.

sämok (n., sä.MOK) ‘suggestion’

Ngeyä sämokìri akosman seiyi oe irayo.
‘Thanks for that excellent suggestion (of yours).’

mal (adj.) ‘trustworthy, trust-inspiring’

Fìtìkangkemviri letsranten ke new oe hu Ralu tìkangkem sivi. Po ke längu mal.
‘I don’t want to work with Ralu on this important project. He’s not trustworthy, unfortunately.’

To say “I trust you,” you simply say, “You are trustworthy/trust-inspiring to me”—that is, Nga mal lu oer. The usage is parallel to Nga yawne lu oer.

Nga MAL larmu oer!!!
‘I TRUSTED you!!!’

(It’s also possible Neytiri said larmängu, but I suspect she went with the shorter form. Under the circumstances it was obvious enough that she wasn’t happy.)

Lu tsatsamsiyu le’awa hapxìtu tsamponguä a mal lu moer.
‘That warrior is the only member of the war party that we both trust.’

nìmal (adv., nì.MAL) ‘trustingly, without hesitation’

Rini tsapohu holum nìmal nìwotx.
‘Rini left with that guy without thinking twice about it.’

tìmal (n., tì.MAL) ‘trustworthiness’

Lekin lu tìtxur, lu tìtstew. Slä letsranten frato lu tìmal.
‘Strength and courage are necessary. But most important of all is trustworthiness.’

kllyem (vtr., kll.YEM—inf. 2,2) ‘bury’

Trram tolerkängup sa’nok ayawne. Poti kllyolem ayoel äo utralo alor a rofa kilvan.
‘My dear mother died yesterday. We buried her under a beautiful tree beside the river.’

tsyìl (vtr.) ‘climb, scale’

This verb is used for climbing that involves pulling your whole body up, not climbing stairs.

Tsyìl Iknimayat ulte tsaheyl si ikranhu a fì’u lu tìfmetok a zene frataronyu a’ewan emziva’u.
‘Scaling Iknimaya and bonding with a banshee is a test that every young hunter must pass.’

nìtsyìl (adv., nì.TSYÌL) ‘by climbing’

sätsyìl (n., sä.TSYÌL) ‘climbing event, a climb’

Kintrramä sätsyìl lu lehrrap slä ’o’ nìtxan.
‘Last week’s climb was dangerous but very exciting.’

Finally, some concrete nouns that don’t need example sentences:

rìn (n.) ‘wood’

flawkx (n.) ‘leather’

’ana (n., ’A.na) ‘hanging vine’

tsngawpay (n., TSNGAW.pay) ‘tears’

tsngawpayvi (n., TSNGAW.pay.vi) ‘teardrop’

Hayalovay!

Edit 23 Jan.: ayoe –> ayoel in “We buried her” example. Irayo, ma Lance.

Kaltxì nìmun, ma frapo—

Tse, February wasn’t a very productive month for me Na’vi-wise, I’m afraid, but I wanted to get at least one post in before month’s end. So here’s a bit of grammar and a few new vocabulary items for Leap Day (hope it was a good one), just under the wire.

NOUN FORMATION: tì- vs. sä-

You’re already very familiar with both these prefixes, which create nouns, usually out of other parts of speech. Looking at some tì- words, for example:

tìhawnu ‘protection’ comes from hawnu ‘protect’ (V –> N)

tìkanu ‘intelligence’ comes from kanu ‘intelligent’ (ADJ –> N)

tì’eylan ‘friendship’ comes from ’eylan ‘friend’ (N –> N; this is less common)

Sä- creates nouns in much the same way:

sätsìsyì ‘a whisper’ comes from tsìsyì ‘whisper’ (V –> N)

säspxin ‘sickness, disease’ comes from spxin ‘sick’ (ADJ –> N)

So what’s the difference between these two noun formers?

First of all, it’s important to keep in mind that neither one is productive. That is, you’re not free to coin new tì- and sä- words at will; you need to find them in the dictionary and learn their meanings. However, there are some rough guidelines that will help you distinguish tì- and sä- words. I say “rough” because Na’vi is not completely consistent in this area: as in natural Earth languages that have evolved over time, exceptions to the general rules are not uncommon.

The meaning of a tì- noun is generally the abstract idea or concept embodied in the verb, adjective, or noun it’s based on. So tìhawnu is the idea of protecting, that is, protection; tìkanu is the concept of being intelligent, that is, intelligence; tìlor is beauty, from lor ‘beautiful.’

You can immediately think of some common exceptions to this rule: tìrol, from rol ‘sing,’ means song, not the idea of singing. (To talk about singing in general, use tì- along with the first-position infix –us-; this process is productive—i.e., you can do it with virtually any verb. Tìrusol lu oeru mowan. ‘Singing is enjoyable to me.’) Tìpähem means arrival in the sense of a particular arrival, not arrival in the abstract sense. That’s just how it is: these items need to be learned like all other vocabulary.

Although there are exceptions for sä- nouns as well, the usage here is more consistent. There are two basic uses of sä- (with some overlap):

A. To indicate an instrument:

A sä– noun can be the instrument or tool, or the means by which something is achieved.

Examples:

You nume ‘learn’ by means of sänume ‘teaching, instruction.’

You syep ‘trap’ by means of a säsyep ‘a trap.’

You wìntxu ‘show’ by means of a säwìntxu ‘a showing, an exhibition.’

B. To indicate a particular, concrete instance of a general action:

Examples:

A sätsyìl ‘a climb’ is a particular instance of the action of climbing, tsyìl, as in, Tsasästyìl lolu ngäzìk nìngay! ‘That was a really hard climb!’

A sämyam ‘hug, embrace’ is a particular instance of hugging or embracing, meyam. (The unstressed e has been lost here.)

When both tì- and sä- nouns exist for the same root, the difference can be especially clear. For example, we saw in an earlier post that from the adjective ’ipu ‘humorous, funny, amusing’ we derive the two nouns tì’ipu and sä’ipu. Tì’ipu is the abstract concept of being humorous, that is, humor in general; sä’ipu is a particular instance of being humorous—for example, a joke.

Finally, let me correct an error on my part. The verb mok ‘suggest’ yields two nouns, tìmok and sämok, both meaning ‘suggestion.’ The distinction, as you can predict, is that tìmok is the abstract idea of suggesting, while sämok is a concrete instance of suggesting, i.e. a suggestion.

Fìtxeleri tìmok ke tam; zene fko fngivo’.
‘In this matter, suggesting won’t cut it; you need to demand.’

Feyä aysämok lu fe’ nìwotx.
‘All of their suggestions are bad.’

At least once I used tìmok when it should be have been sämok. Thanks to everyone who pointed that out. Ngaytxoa, krro tìkxey si keng karyu.

MORE AND LESS

You’re already familiar with nì’ul, the adverb meaning ‘more.’ It comes from the verb ’ul ‘increase.’ Its opposite is nän, ‘decrease,’ and there’s a parallel adverb as well.

’ul (vin.) ‘increase’

nän (vin.) ‘decrease’

nìnän (adv., nì.NÄN) ‘less’

Examples:

Rutxe wivem nìnän.
‘Please fight less.’

Ayhapxìtu ponguä txopu si nìnän takrra Va’rul pxekutut lätxayn.
‘The members of the group are less afraid since Va’ru defeated three of the enemy.’

We also have the following adverbs:

nì’ul’ul (adv., nì.’UL.’ul) ‘increasingly, more and more’

nìnänän (adv., nì.NÄ.nän.) ‘decreasingly, less and less’

Fralo a taron, oeyä ’itan txopu si nìnänän.
‘Each time he hunts, my son becomes less and less afraid.’

Frazìsìkrr pay kilvanä nän nì’ul’ul.
‘Every season the river dries up more and more.’

And we now have the way to say “the more . . . the more” and “the less . . . the less” (known to grammarians as “correlative comparisons”). It’s just ’ul . . . ’ul and nän . . . nän respectively. (In these cases, ’ul and nän have lost their status as verbs, just as the verb ftxey ‘choose’ is “deverbed” when it’s used to mean ‘whether.’)

Examples:

’Ul tskxekeng si, ’ul fnan.
‘The more you practice, the better you’ll get.’

’Ul tute, ’ul tìngäzìk.
‘The more people, the more problems.’

Nän ftia, nän lu skxom a emza’u.
‘The less you study, the less chance you have of passing.’

Nän yom kxamtrr, ’ul ’efu ohakx kaym.
‘The less you eat at noon, the hungrier you’ll feel in the evening.’

(A note on pronunciation: In a combination like ohakx kaym, it’s very difficult to maintain the pronunciation of the ejective because of the following k. So except in careful, slow speech, the ejective is pronounced as an ordinary k. In fact, the two k’s are not pronounced separately but rather as one “long” k, which you hold longer than a regular one.)

AND A COUPLE MORE VOCABULARY ITEMS

mek (adj.) ‘empty’

Ngeyä tsngal lumpe lu mek? Näk nì’ul ko!
‘Why is your cup empty? Drink up!’

Mek can also be used metaphorically for something “empty” in the sense of having no valuable content, in the same way we say “an empty idea” in English.

meka säfpìl ‘an empty/dumb idea’

meka säplltxevi ‘an insipid/thoughtless comment’

sämok amek ‘a useless suggestion’

leioae (n., le.i.o.A.e) ‘respect’

Luke leioae olo’ä ke tsun kea eyktan flivä.
‘Without the respect of the clan, no leader can succeed.’

leioae si (vin.) ‘to respect’ (with the dative)

Ngaru leioae si oe frato, ma ’eylan.
‘I respect you the most of all, friend.’

Note also:

leioae amek ‘feigned respect’

Hayalovay!

Kaltxì nìmun, ma smuk—

Here are some new words for the new season, along with a bit of grammar. Most of the new items come from the Vocabulary Committee, whom I continue to thank for their hard work and excellent suggestions. Irayo ayngaru nìfrakrr, ma eylan.
srer (vin.) ‘appear, materialize, come into view’

Note: Don’t confuse srer with lam, which means “appear” in the sense of “seem” only. Srer refers to something coming into view.

Txonam tengkrr tarmìran oe kxamlä na’rìng, sroler eo utral atsawl txewma vrrtep.
‘Last night as I was walking through the forest, a frightening demon appeared in front of a big tree.’

’ìp (vin.) ‘disappear, vanish, recede from view’

Kxamtrr lam fwa sanhì a mì saw ’olìp nìwotx slä tsakrr ke tsun fko sat tsive’a nì’aw.
At mid-day it seems that the stars in the sky have all vanished but they just can’t be seen then.

tsong (n.) ‘valley’

Awnga tsongne kivä fte stivarsìm teylut.
‘Let’s go to the valley to gather beetle larvae.’

Derivation:

tsongtsyìp (n., TSONG.tsyìp) ‘dimple’

Prrnen lrrtok si a krr, srer mesongtsyìp ahona.
‘When the baby smiles, two adorable dimples appear.’

ro’a (vin., RO.’a — inf. 1,2) ‘be impressive, inspire awe or respect’

Toruk Makto polähem a fì’u rolo’a nìtxan Omatikayaru.
‘The arrival of Toruk Makto made a great impression on the Omatikaya.’

Derivations:

säro’a (n., sä.RO.’a) ‘feat, accomplishment, great deed’

säro’a si (vin.) ‘do great deeds’

Txantstew säro’a si, fnawe’tu ke si.
‘A hero does great deeds, a coward does not.’

txanro’a (vin., txan.RO.’a — inf. 2,3) ‘be famous’

Vay fwa zola’u TsyeykSuli, Toruk Makto alu pizayu Neytiriyä txanrarmo’a frato kip ayhapxìtu Omatikayaä.
‘Until Jake Sully arrived, Neytiri’s ancestor was the most famous Toruk Makto among the Omatikaya.’ [lit.: ‘the Toruk Makto that was Neytiri’s ancestor was the most famous . . .’]

velek (vin., VE.lek — inf. 1,2) ‘give up, surrender, concede defeat’

Tì’i’ari tsamä zene Sawtute vivelek talun* tìtxur Eywayä.
‘At the end of the war, the Sky People had to give up due to the power of Eywa.’

*Note: Here, talun is functioning as an adposition (ADP-) with the meaning of ‘because of, due to.’

spono (n., SPO.no) ‘island’

Ayoel rolun mipa sponot mì hilvan.
‘We found a new island in the river.’

txew (n.) ‘edge, brink, limit, border, end’

Ikran yawolo ftu txew ’awkxä.
‘The banshee took to the air from the edge of a cliff.’

Srake pol layok txewti na’rìngä?
‘Will he approach the edge of the forest?’

(Note the syntax here: lok ‘approach’ is transitive, so pol is agentive and txewti is patientive.)

Ke tsun awnga pivey nulkrr—txew lok.
‘We can’t wait any longer—time is almost up.’

(Note: Lok is used intransitively here, so it’s txew, not txewìl. You’ll find some further explanation below.)

Derivation:

txewnga’ (adj., TXEW.nga’) ‘having a limit, not without bounds, finite’

Tuteri tìtxur lu txewnga’.
‘There are limits to a person’s strength.’

litx (adj.) ‘sharp (as a blade)’

fwem (adj.) ‘dull, blunt (as a point)’

These words require some explanation. You’ve already seen the words pxi ‘sharp’ and tete ‘dull.’ What’s the difference between the old words and the new ones?

Unlike English, Na’vi distinguishes between “point sharp/point dull” (needles, thorns, stingers, knife points) and “blade sharp/blade dull” (knife edge, leaf edge, etc.) This little chart will make it clear:

___________ Sharp ______ Dull

Point _______ pxi _______ fwem

Blade _______ litx _______ tete

Eltu si! Tsatstal afwem lu litx nìtxan.
‘Pay attention! That blunt knife is very sharp.’

Fìtsgnanit ke tsun oe yivom. Koaktanä aysre’ längu fwem.
‘I can’t eat this meat. An old man’s teeth are dull.’

syura (n., syu.RA) ‘energy’

This word can mean both physical and spiritual energy. It’s the “life force of Eywa,” which pervades all of Pandora and its creatures.

Frasyurati fkol zasrolìn nì’aw ulte trro zene teykivätxaw.
‘All energy is only borrowed, and one day it will have to be given back.’

(That example sentence, like many of the others, is from the Vocabulary Committee; I think it’s wonderful.)

Derivation:

syuratan (n., syu.RA.tan) ‘bioluminescence’

Txonkrr lu syuratan na’rìngä Eywevengä lor nìtxan.
‘At night, the bioluminescence of the Pandoran forest is very beautiful.’

txonkrr (adv., TXON.krr) ‘at night’

yuey (adj., YU.ey) ‘beautiful (inner beauty)’

Both lor and yuey mean ‘beautiful.’ Lor refers to physical beauty that’s apparent to the eye; yuey refers to the “inner” beauty that stems from someone’s character, personality, spirituality, etc. Lor has wide applicability, but yuey is ofp (only for people).

Lu poe lor, lu yuey nìteng.
‘She’s beautiful on the outside and the inside.’

kxem (vin.) ‘be vertical’

txay (vin.) ‘be horizontal, lie flat’

These intransitive verbs can be used by themselves, for example:

Fìrumut lumpe ke kxem?
‘Why isn’t this puffball tree vertical?’

but they’re most important in their derived forms—for example:

nìkxem (adv.) ‘vertically’

nìtxay (adv.) ‘horizontally’

Some words you’re already familiar with come from these roots. For example, kllkxem ‘stand,’ which is fairly obvious. In the same way, we have:

klltxay (vin., kll.TXAY—inf. 2,2) ‘lie on the ground’ (and its transitive form klltxeykay ‘lay (something) on the ground’).

These verbs also combine with the word for ‘surface’:

yo (n.) ‘surface’

So we have the word txayo (from txay + yo) ‘flat surface,’ which as you know is also the word for ‘field’ or ‘plain.’ Also:

kxemyo (n., KXEM.yo) ‘wall, vertical surface’

fyep (vtr.) ‘hold in the hand, grasp, grip’

Ngäzìk lu fwa var tskoti fyivep tengkrr utralit tsyerìl.
‘It’s hard to keep holding a bow while climbing a tree.’

Fyep can be extended to general holding, not just in the hands:

Oel tstalit fyolep fa aysre’.
‘I held the knife in my teeth.’

And note these adverbs that can specify the type of holding being done:

nìk’ärìp (adv., nìk.’Ä.rìp) ‘steadily’ (lit.: ‘without letting it move’)

nìklonu (adv., nìk.lo.NU) ‘firmly, steadfastly, faithfully’ (lit.: ‘without releasing it’)

nìktungzup (adv., nìk.tung.ZUP) ‘carefully, firmly’ (lit.: ‘without letting it fall’)

nìsyep (adv., nì.SYEP) ‘tightly, in an iron grip’ (lit.: ‘like a trap’)

nìmeyp (adv., nì.MEYP) ‘weakly, loosely’

Derivation:

säfyep (n., sä.FYEP) ‘handle’

slan (vtr.) ‘support’

Slan is used for emotional, social, or personal support, but not physical support (as in “these pillars support the roof”).

Tìwäteri ngal oeti pelun ke slan kawkrr?
‘Why don’t you ever support me in an argument?’

Derivation:

tìslan (n., tì.SLAN) ‘support’

Ngeyä tìeyktanìri, tìslanìri sì tsranten frato a tì’eylanìri a ka ayzìsìt nìwotx, seiyi oe irayo nìtxan.
‘Thank you so much for your leadership, your support, and most importantly your friendship throughout the years.’

tìeyktan (n., tì.EYK.tan) ‘leadership’

Note: The above example sentence contains two (tìeyktan and tì’eylan) of the relatively rare cases where tì– has been added to a concrete noun to form the related abstract noun.

And a few more body parts:

’llngo (n., ’LL.ngo) ‘hip’

Note: In words that begin with ’ll or ’rr, there’s no lenition: the glottal stop never drops. So we have me’llngo ‘two hips,’ ay’llngo ‘hips,’ mì ’llngo ‘in the hip.’

zare’ (n., za.RE’) ‘forehead, brow’ (from za pxì + re’ o)

flawm (n.) ‘cheek’

prrku (n., PRR.ku) ‘womb’ (from prr nen + kelku )

ngep (n.) ‘navel’

Finally:

A note on “ambitransitive verbs”

Don’t let the term scare you. You already know more about this than you think.

As we saw with the lok examples above, the same Na’vi verb can be transitive in one context and intransitive in another. The same thing happens in many other languages—for example, English. Take the verb eat. Sometimes it’s transitive, with an overt object: “I’m eating a cupcake.” Sometimes, it’s intransitive, where the object isn’t specified, and the focus is on the act of eating rather than on what’s being eaten: “Don’t bother me now—I’m eating.” Such verbs are sometimes referred to as “ambitransitive.” There are many other such verbs—understand, read, write, win, lose, hunt, etc.

But in English, many transitive verbs cannot be used intransitively. We can say He always rejects such offers but not *He always rejects.

Na’vi, however, is much freer than English in this regard. Most if not all transitive verbs can be used intransitively. So, for example, we have:

Oel yerom set teylut.
‘I’m eating beetle larvae now.’

Oe yerom set.
‘I’m eating now.’

and also:

Ngal pelun faystxenut frakrr tsyär?
‘Why do you always reject these offers?’

Nga pelun frakrr tsyär?
‘Why do you always reject everything (or: such things)?’

So when you see a Na’vi verb marked VTR, you can feel pretty confident that it can be used intransitively as well. Note that this does not work the other way around: intransitive verbs can’t be used transitively unless you add something to make them transitive. For example, tätxaw is the intransitive verb ‘return,’ as in “I’ll return at 3:00.” For the transitive sense of ‘return,’ as “Please return the book you borrowed,” you need to add the causative infix <eyk>: teykätxaw ‘cause to return’—that is, return in the transitive sense!

One little complication: Just because a transitive verb doesn’t have an object in its clause, you can’t always conclude that it’s being used intransitively. For example, to say ‘The teylu I’m eating is delicious,’ which is correct, A or B?

1. Teylu a oe yerom lu ftxìlor.
2. Teylu a oel yerom lu ftxìlor.

The answer is B. If you’re having trouble seeing this, think of it this way: The sentence “started out” as *Teylu a [oel yerom tsat] lu ftxìlor, that is, ‘The teylu that [I’m eating it] is delicious.’ In both Na’vi and English, you must delete the “it” in the bracketed clause (a “relative clause” for the grammarians in the audience). But even though the object has been deleted from that clause, the agentive marking remains.

On a personal note:

It’s been a while since I’ve given a public talk about Na’vi, but I have two such events coming up in April, both in California. The first is at California Polytechnic State University (aka Cal Poly) in San Luis Obispo, about halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, the evening of April 5^th:

https://theforumatpoly.com/upcoming-forums

The second talk is two weeks later at my alma mater USC, here in Los Angeles, on April 19^th. That will be to USIL, the Undergraduate Students in Linguistics club. They haven’t told me the exact time or location yet, other than that it will be in the early evening. I’ll post the details when I have them.

If anyone is in the area and can make it to one of these events, please drop by. I can’t promise you’ll learn very much that you don’t know already (although I may say a few words about Barsoomian), but these talks are always fun, and of course I’d be delighted to say hello to you.

Hayalovay!

Edits 31 March: ka–>kxamlä; nìk.Ä.rìp–>nìk.’Ä.rìp; zapxi–>zapxì

Here’s a bit more progress towards dealing with my backlog of great suggestions from the Vocabulary Committee. (Fpìl oel futa pìylltxe pxaya tute san Nì’i’a! sìk. Tse . . . za’u fra’u ne tute lemweypey, kefyak?)

syeha (n., SYE.ha) ‘breath’

Derivation:

syeha si (vin.) ‘breathe’

Ma Ralu, srung si por! Nìwin! Syeha ke si!
‘Ralu, help her! Quick! She’s not breathing!’

(A note on pronunciation: Since si never carries stress, the stress pattern with negative si-constructions is KE si, not ke SI.)

sko (ADP+) ‘as, in the capacity of, in the role of’

A. Sko Sahìk ke tsun oe mìftxele tsngivawvìk.
‘As Tsahik, I cannot weep over this matter.’

Note: There’s another way to say the same thing, which is in fact more idiomatic than using sko:

B. Oe alu Tsahìk ke tsun mìftxele tsngivawvìk.

But sko has its advantages. Look what happens when you have a coordinate structure:

A´. Sko Sahìk ke tsun oe mìftxele tsngivawvìk; sko sa’nok tsun.
B´. Oe alu Tsahìk ke tsun mìftxele tsngivawvìk; oe alu sa’nok tsun.
‘As Tsahik, I cannot weep over this matter; as a mother, I can.’

As you see, the A-structure allows you to be somewhat more concise.

sna’o (n., SNA.’o) ‘set, group, pile, clump, stand’

Ayskxe a mì sasna’o ku’up lu nìtxan.
‘The rocks in that pile are very heavy.’

Note: Sna’o is nfp—not for people. For a group of people, use pongu.

What’s interesting about sna’o is that it has an abbreviated form, sna-, which functions as a noun prefix to indicate a group or collection. With living things other than people, sna- is productive—you can use it to indicate a group of any plant or animal: snanantang ‘a pack of viperwolves,’ snatalioang ‘a herd of sturmbeest,’ snautral ‘a stand of trees,’ etc. These words are not listed in the dictionary.

However, in all other cases sna– is not productive, and you’re not free to form your own words with this prefix. The meanings of such sna– words can be unpredictable, and so they have to be listed in the dictionary. For example:

snatxärem (n., sna.TXÄ.rem) ‘skeleton’ (lit.: ‘a set of bones’)

snafpìlfya (n., sna.FPÌL.fya) ‘philosophy’ (lit.: ‘a group of mindsets’)

snatanhì (n., sna.tan.HÌ) ‘constellation’ (lit.: ‘a clump of stars’)

One more thing to note about sna– words: they indicate naturally occurring groups or sets. For example, a snasyulang is a patch of flowers growing naturally on the ground or on a tree branch. Contrast that with a sästarsìm syulangä, a collection of flowers selected and put together intentionally by a person—that is, a bouquet.

sästarsìm (n., sä.STAR.sìm) ‘collection (put together intentionally by a person)’

tsu’o (n., TSU.’o) ‘ability’

Tìrusolìri ke lu poru kea tsu’o kaw’it.
‘As for singing, he has no ability whatsoever.’

Like sna’o, the most useful thing about tsu’o is its abbreviated form. In this case it’s –tswo, which is a suffix for verbs that changes the verb to a noun indicating the ability to perform the action of the verb. The great thing about –tswo is that it’s productive: you can add it to practically any verb. For example: tarontswo ‘ability to hunt,’ wemtswo ‘ability to fight,’ roltswo ‘ability to sing,’ etc.

Pori wemtswo fratsamsiyur rolo’a nìtxan.
‘His ability to fight greatly impressed all the warriors.’

It’s tempting to try to equate –tswo with English –able/-ible—after all, they’re both suffixes having to do with ability. But there’s a big difference. For example, inantswo means the ability to read; it is not equivalent to English ‘readable,’ which is the ability to be read. For that, recall that Na’vi prefixes tsuk– to form adjectives: tsukinana pamrel ‘readable writing.’

One little wrinkle: We indicated that –tswo is attached only to verbs. That’s true except in the case of si-constructions. With si-verbs, drop the si and attach –tswo to the non-verbal element: srungtswo ‘ability to help,’ pamreltswo ‘ability to write,’ tstutswo ‘ability to close.’

Kxari tstutswo tsranten krra* ke lu kea säfpìl lesar.
‘When one has no useful thoughts, the ability to close one’s mouth is important.’

*I’ve just become aware that krra is not in our official dictionary. It’s in my own database, but I guess I forgot to publicize it. Krra is the conjunction ‘when’:

krra (conj., KRR.a) ‘when, at the time that’

For example:

Oel tskoti ngaru tasyìng krra oeng ultxa si.
‘I’ll give you the bow when we meet.’

Don’t use tsakrr for this purpose. Tsakrr is an adverb, not a conjunction, meaning ‘then’ or ‘at that time.’ It’s often used with txo: txo . . . tsakrr, ‘if . . . then.’

The spelling convention krr a, as two words, is not incorrect, but krra is preferred. With the reverse clause order, however, a krr is the correct spelling. This mirrors the convention with a fì’u.

A note on stress: In keeping with the general rule, sna– and –tswo do not affect the stress of the word they’re attached to: tanHÌ, snatanHÌ; TAron, TArontswo.

Kìyevame vay vospxìay!

Kaltxì, ma eylan. ’Ok oeyä lu ayngar srak? Furia txankrr fìtsengit ke tarmok, oeru txoa livu.

Since it’s still a couple of days until the Summer Solstice, we’ll can call this Spring Vocabulary, Part 3. Irayo, as always, to the hardworking and extremely patient LEP folks and all the rest of you who have contributed ideas.

ftxulì’u (vin., ftxu.LÌ.’u—inf. 1,1) ‘orate, give a speech’

The etymology of this word goes back to täftxu ‘weave’ + lì’u ‘word,’ the original thought being that to give a speech is to weave words together.

Mawkrra Tsyeyk ftxolulì’u, tslam frapol futa slu po Olo’eyktan amip.
‘After Jake spoke, everyone understood that he had become the new Clan Leader.’

Derivations:

ftxulì’uyu (n., ftxu.LÌ.’u.yu) ‘orator, (public) speaker’

säftxulì’u (n., sä.ftxu.LÌ.’u) ‘speech, oration’

Fnivu! Säftxulì’uri ke tsun oe stivawm.
‘Hush! I can’t hear the speech.’

tìftxulì’u (n., tì.ftxu.LÌ.’u) ‘speech-making, public speaking)

Oeri lu tìftxulì’u ngäzìk nìtxan. Wätx nì’aw.
‘Public speaking is very difficult for me. I’m hopelessly bad at it.’

slantire (n., slan.ti.RE) ‘inspiration’

Etymology: slan ‘support’ + tirea ‘spirit’

Derivation:

slantire si (vin.) ‘inspire’

Säftxulì’u Tsyeykä Na’viru slantire soli nìwotx.
‘Jake’s speech inspired all the People.’

kum (n.) ‘result’

Kem amuiä, kum afe’. (Proverb)
‘Proper action, bad result.’ (Said when something that should have turned out well didn’t. Can include the idea, “Well, my/our/your/his/her/their heart was in the right place.”)

The importance of kum lies in the derived conjunctions kuma/akum, which are used in result clauses:

kuma / akum (conj., KUM.a / a.KUM) ‘that (as a result)’

Lu poe sevin nìftxan (OR: fìtxan) kuma yawne slolu oer.
‘She was so beautiful that I fell in love with her.’

Note a couple of things there. First, nìftxan and fìtxan are used interchangeably as the equivalent of English ‘so’ in these sentences. Second, the difference between kuma and akum is that kuma precedes the result while akum follows it. So another form of the previous example sentence is:

Poe yawne slolu oer akum, nìftxan lu sevin.
‘She was so beautiful that I fell in love with her.’

Such a structure is rather marginal in English, although you sometimes hear it in poetry: “I fell in love with her, so beautiful was she.”

And notice one more thing: the word order in result clauses is somewhat constrained. The rule is that kuma/akum must be contiguous with niftxan/fìtxan.

Tsatsenge lehrrap lu fìtxan kuma tsane ke kä awnga kawkrr.
‘That place is so dangerous we never go there.’

Keep in mind that the short form tsane ‘there’ is used with verbs of motion: it’s the place to which one goes. The full form is tsatsengne.

A final note on kuma/akum: These words may be used independently of fìtxan/nìftxan:

Pxeforu oe srung soli, kuma oeru set pxefo srung seri.
‘I helped the three of them, so they’re now helping me.’

Used in this way, kuma/akum overlap somewhat with ha ‘so’.

fyel (vtr.) ‘seal, cement, make impervious’

This word signifies making something tight and secure, so that it is unlikely (or at least not intended) to be broken, whether it refers to a hole in a boat’s bottom, a food container to be stored, or a wound from a viperwolf tooth.

Txo fkol ke fyivel uranit paywä, zene fko slivele.
If one does not seal a boat against water, one must swim.

Fyel, however, is not used in the sense of bringing something to completion. For that, use hasey si ‘complete’:

Sätswayon a’awve tsaheylur hasey si; ke tsun nga pivey.
‘First flight seals the bond; you cannot wait.’

zey (adj.) ‘special, distinct’

Zey, keteng, and le’aw all indicate that one thing is different from another. Of the three, keteng ‘not the same’ is the most neutral; le’aw ‘only, sole’ is the strongest.

Kelutral lu fneutral azey.
‘ Hometree is a special kind of tree.’

vll (vin., vtr.) ‘indicate, point at’

Vll eykyu nefä fte pongu fäkivä.
‘The leader signals the party to ascend by pointing upwards.’

eykyu (n., EYK.yu) ‘leader (typically of a small group)’

Both eykyu and eyktan mean leader; the difference is one of scope and responsibility. An eykyu is the often temporary leader of a small group, for example the person in charge of a hunting party; an eyktan is a higher and more permanent position, the representative leader of a sub-community within the clan. The Olo’eyktan, of course, leads the entire clan.

Getting back to vll, note that some of the inflected forms have special spellings. The <ol> form is vol (compare poltxe from plltxe), and the “positively oriented” <ei> form is veiyll. That’s because a syllable cannot begin with ll or rr.

Utralti a tsauo Loak wäparman pol vol fa kxetse.
‘She used her tail to point out the tree Loak was hiding behind.’

Vll can also be used metaphorically in the case of one thing, not necessarily animate, pointing to or indicating another:

Txopul peyä vll futa kawkrr ke slayu tsamsiyu.
‘His fear indicates he’ll never become a warrior.’

am’ake (adj., am.’A.ke) ‘sure, confident’

This word is related to am’a ‘doubt’ in roughly the same way that kxuke ‘safe’ is related to kxu ‘harm.’ It’s used with ’efu:

Tsaria pol awngati ke txayìng oe ’efu am’ake nìwotx.
‘I’m entirely confident that he won’t abandon us.’

Derivation:

nam’ake (adv., nam.’A.ke) ‘confidently’

Tukeru poltxe Akwey nam’ake, omum futa ke tsun poe stivo.
‘Akwey spoke to Tuke confidently, knowing that she couldn’t refuse.’

Don’t confuse nam’ake with am’aluke (am.’A.lu.ke), ‘without a doubt’—although both are adverbial expressions, they’re used in different ways. Nam’ake is a manner adverbial—that is, it qualifies how something is done. In the above example, it indicates the manner in which Akwey spoke to Tuke. Am’aluke, on the other hand, is a sentence adverbial—it represents the speaker’s feeling about what he or she is saying:

Am’aluke snayaytx Sawtute, yayora’ Na’vi.
‘Without a doubt the Sky People will lose and the People will win.’

And speaking of sentence adverbials, here’s a word I think you’ll find useful:

kezemplltxe (adv., ke.zem.pll.TXE) ‘of course, needless to say’

As you’ve probably guessed, it’s a contraction of ke zene pivlltxe ‘not necessary to say.’

New Va’ru tskot Eytukanä zasrivìn. Kezemplltxe paylltxe san kehe.
‘Va’ru wants to borrow Eytukan’s bow. Of course he’ll say no.’

tare (vtr., TA.re—inf. 1,2) ‘connect, relate to, have a relationship with’

Säplltxel karyuä ke tolaränge tìpawmit kaw’it.
‘The teacher’s statement in no way pertained to the question. Drat!’

(Question: Which syllable in tolaränge should be stressed? )

Txilte Rinisì täpare fìtsap nìsoaia, slä tsalsungay ke nìolo’ takrra Rini muntxa slolu.
‘Txilte and Rini are related by blood, but nevertheless not by clan since the time Rini got married.’

nìsoaia (adv., nì.so.A.i.a) ‘(together) as members of a family’

nìolo’ (adv., nì.o.LO’) ‘(together) as members of a clan’

Derivation:

sätare (n., sä.TA.re) ‘connection, relationship’

Nìngay leiu oer sì sempulur sätare asìltsan.
‘Father and I really have a good relationship; it’s nice.’

Also note the following useful conversational expression:

Ke tare.
‘It’s irrelevant.’ OR ‘It doesn’t matter.’

sloa (adj., SLO.a) ‘wide’

snep (adj.) ‘narrow’

Tsautralìri tangek lu sloa nìtxan; ’evi ke tsun tsyivìl.
The trunk of that tree is very wide; the kid cannot climb it.

Derivation:

slosnep (n., slo.SNEP) ‘width’

peslosnep (q., pe.slo.SNEP) or slosneppe (slo.SNE.pe) ‘what width? how wide?’

Kilvanìri tsatseng slosneppe?
‘How wide is the river there?’

hoet (adj., HO.et) ‘vast, broad, expansive’

’Rrtamì a tampay lu hoet.
‘The oceans on Earth are vast.’

Derivation:

nìhoet (adv., nì.HO.et) ‘widely, pervasively’

Run fkol teylut nìhoet.
‘You find teylu everywhere.’

so’ha (vtr., SO’.ha—inf. 1,2) ‘be enthusiastic about, show enthusiasm for, be excited about’

Note that in Na’vi, being enthusiastic is transitive.

Oel so’ha futa trray ngahu kä
‘I’m excited about going with you tomorrow.’

Tsenul so’ha teylut nìhawng nì’it, kefyak?
‘ Don’t you think Tsenu is a bit too into teylu?’

Sawno’ha ioit kolaneiom oel uvanfa!
‘ I got (won) the prized piece of jewelry in the game!’