In the Land of Invented Languages: Esperanto Rock Stars, Klingon Poets, Loglan Lovers, and the Mad Dreamers Who Tried to Build A Perfect Language

by Arika Okrent

  Hebrew and Esperanto are very different languages with very different origins. But their successes—that of revival for Hebrew and that of being brought to life in the first place for Esperanto—overlapped in their timing and in their reasons for occurring. Esperanto also benefited from circumstances. If Zamenhof hadn't come on the scene just as the Volapilkists were jumping ship, would anyone have paid attention? If the situation in Europe hadn't highlighted the violent perils of nationalism, would so many have been attracted to his message of unity? If both the Hebrew revival and the Esperanto movements hadn't begun during the golden age of socialism, when the prospects for grand social-engineering experiments looked so bright, would the Jewish immigrants have so willingly believed that it was possible to overhaul the language habits of an entire society? Would enough people have believed in the utopian dream of a universal language to try to make it happen?

  Only it didn't happen. Esperanto did not become a universal language. It became instead a particular language of a particular community.

  Crank Pride

  After World War II, there was a push to rid the Esperanto movement of its eccentricities, spearheaded by Ivo Lapenna, a Yugoslavian Esperantist and academic lawyer. He held important positions: professor of international law at Zagreb University, counsel-advocate at the International Court of Justice at The Hague, and professor of Soviet and East European law at the London School of Economics. Peter Forster, in his book The Esperanto Movement, described Lapenna as having “the sophistication of the cultured cosmopolitan.” He was “fluent in several languages” and had “distinguished himself as a sportsman and a musician.” You can imagine why such a genteel character might not be happy with the public image of Esperanto. After attending the 1947 universal congress in Bern, he published an angry plea for respectability, lashing out against the “naivetés and frivolities which only compromise the cause of the International Language.” He complained that “the dissemination of Esperanto among serious people” was threatened by the “cranks” he had observed:

  One woman with green stockings explained to me that every lady Esperantist should wear only green stockings for propaganda purposes. One came to the ball in a dress, like a nightdress, with masses of green stars, large, medium and small. I saw a loud yellow tie with an even louder green star woven into it. In general, one could see stars everywhere; on the chest, in the hair, on belts, rings, etc.

  People will say again that everyone has the right to dress as he wishes. Certainly; but could we not kindly request such cranks not to hinder the spread of Esperanto by their standpoint and external appearance? If that does not work, have we not at least the right to make a mockery of them, since they make a mockery of Esperanto?

  War's end had ushered in a new era of international communication and organization, and Lapenna did not want Esperanto to sabotage once again its chance to enter the world stage in an official capacity. Proposals for Esperanto endorsement after World War I had received serious consideration at the League of Nations. There was enough opposition (the most vocal from the French delegation, which claimed that French was already the universal language) to prevent the League from taking up the cause of Esperanto, though it did accept a resolution to recommend that it be considered a regular language, rather than a code, in the determination of fees for telegraph messages.

  The dislocations of World War II convinced Lapenna, among others, that there was a fresh chance for Esperanto, and after a petition bearing the signatures of more than 500,000 people and 450 organizations was submitted to the United Nations, UNESCO began to look into the matter. With great hopes for success, La-penna presented an eloquent case for Esperanto. Ultimately, the UNESCO delegates adopted a resolution expressing affinity between the goals of Esperanto and the goals of UNESCO. The Esperanto community celebrated this as a victory, but no concrete measures had really been endorsed. UNESCO essentially only agreed that, yes, Esperanto is a nice idea.

  Lapenna's attempts to put a respectable face on Esperanto were not appreciated by everyone, and the cranks had an ardent voice in John Leslie, a.k.a. Verdiro (truth teller), the secretary of the British Esperanto Association. Leslie is described in Forster's book as “an ‘anarchist, freethinking, patriotic Scot’ … He objected to supporting UNESCO, regarding it as a bulwark of financial capitalism … He also opposed formality in dress and defended deviations … He praised the informal equality among Esperantists of all walks of life and criticized the importance attached to attracting those famous in other spheres.” In direct opposition to Lapenna, Leslie promoted an attitude of crank pride among the green-stocking crowd.

  The 1947 congress that Lapenna found so disturbing was also important in the life of a young Hungarian named George Soros. His father, Tivadar, was an active Esperantist and had changed the family name from Schwartz to Soros, an Esperanto verb meaning “will soar.” Tivadar had escaped from a Siberian prison during World War I and managed to keep his family away from the Nazis during World War II. When the communists took over in 1947, Tivadar and George escaped to Switzerland, where they attended the Esperanto universal congress in Bern. Afterward, the father returned to Hungary and the son went on to Ipswich, England, for the annual world youth congress. Young George decided he wanted to stay in England, but he had only a tourist visa. He appealed to his fellow Esperantists for help, and it was Verdiro (Leslie), through a relative in the British parliament, who arranged George Soros's more permanent visa.

  On his way to becoming one of the world's richest men, Soros was for a time actively committed to the Esperanto movement. According to the minutes of the Ipswich conference, he wanted to organize a bicycle trip through Europe, spreading the word. He also extolled the virtues of Esperanto at Speakers’ Corner in London's Hyde Park, where anyone with an opinion and the bravery to mount a soapbox can compete for an audience. But he has long since stopped having anything to do with it. A Belgian woman I spoke to at the Havana congress told me bitterly, “He could do so much to help now, but he is a traitor. He hates Esperanto.”

  I asked Humphrey Tonkin, who did the English translation of Tivadar Soros's memoir of survival during World War II, for which George wrote the foreword, why Soros had changed his mind. “He doesn't hate Esperanto,” Tonkin said. “He hasn't given up on its ideals, but his position is that it had its chance and it blew it. Which is a perfectly respectable view.”

  Born in Britain and educated at Cambridge and Harvard, Tonkin is an Esperantist but definitely not a kook. He's a professor of English specializing in Spenser and Shakespeare, a former Guggenheim fellow, and president emeritus at the University of Hartford. “Staying sane while dealing with something that is so low in the popular esteem is problematic,” he told me. “It's a distressingly marginal community. Sometimes when I'm at Esperanto meetings, I say to myself—and this sounds terrible—I say, ‘Am I really like that?’ But then I sit in a faculty meeting, and I think to myself, ‘This is not terribly different from an Esperanto congress,’ because it's true. The fact is that overall, people are wackier than one imagines. So perhaps Esperanto is not that far-out.”

  Tonkin knew about the fringe quality of Esperantoland from the moment of his first contact with it. On a trip to Paris when he was barely a teenager, he went to a meeting of the Paris Esperanto Society. When the meeting was over, Tonkin said, he was followed out by “your sort of typical 1950s Paris Marxist, and he bent my ear at enormous length about Marxism. The awful thing about it was that I discovered that Esperanto really works. I understood every word he said.”

  He was in it for better or worse. When he was not yet sixteen years old, Tonkin traveled, by himself, from England to an Esperanto congress in Denmark and fell into a world full of interesting things. “Not that I found Esperanto was a comfort exactly, but it provided me with opportunities that I couldn't find in the rest of my life,” he said. “Everything I know about Latvian culture, for example, I know about as a result of Esperanto.”

  In 1959 he went to Poland
. “Nobody went to Poland in ′59 except crazy Esperanto people,” he said, “and I traveled all over the place. I was in Iran right before the revolution with Esperantists, and what I heard the Esperantists saying about Iran was nowhere to be found in the newspapers. Here I was in direct contact with a collection of people who were not beholden to the United States or Britain or whatever, and were not going to tell me what they thought I wanted to hear. So I was able in a sense to get a particular notion of the truth that other people didn't have.”

  I mentioned a man I had met at the Havana congress, an Icelandic fisherman who couldn't be more gaunt, or more silent, or farther from home. He first learned about Esperanto from a radio broadcast, studied it from a book, and had been to every universal congress since—Berlin, Tel Aviv, Zagreb, Fortaleza, Gothenburg. That July, he was headed for Beijing. “You know,” Tonkin said, “there are a lot of Esperantists out there who just haven't yet found their way to Esperanto.”

  Back where it all started for me, at that MIT conference, I never did gain an understanding of the role of rock music in Esperanto culture. But I did get to hear Kimo play. On a stage set up on the lawn in front of the student center on the main quad, he brought out his accordion while his friend Jean-Marc LeClerq, formerly of the group La Rozmariaj Beboj (the Rosemary's Babies), tuned his guitar. They began with the mellow strains of “Besame mucho”: “Kisu min / Kisu min multe.”

  Two gray-haired women in matching green dresses twirled to the music, their feet bare in the grass. A large-bellied man with a big green star on both his cap and his belt buckle stood with his hands in his pockets, swaying awkwardly. Others joined the ladies, or perched on benches and sang along. Outsiders wandered by. The curious ones stopped to listen or to take a leaflet from a friendly college student in an Esperanto T-shirt. Others sniggered or rolled their eyes as they refused the leaflet and continued on. I sat at a careful distance from the stage, hoping it wasn't too obvious that I was part of this group but feeling guilty for thinking so. While Esperantoland has its share of people you don't want to meet—insufferable bores, sanctimonious radicals, proselytizers for Christ, communism, or a new kind of vegetarian healing—for the most part, the Esperantists I encountered were genuine, friendly, interested in the world, and respectful of others. Though I may not have fully crossed over myself, I did develop a protective defensiveness about them.

  Is it crazy to believe that Esperanto has a chance in the age of English? It's insane. Ask any businessman in Asia, any hotel operator in Europe. Is it ridiculous to believe that a universal common language will bring peace to the world? Of course it is. We have all the brutal evidence we need: the fact that Serbians and Croatians speak the same language did not prevent the bloodshed in Yugoslavia; the shared language of the Hutus and Tutsis did nothing to stop the massacres in Rwanda. Do Esperantists really believe either of these propositions? Whether they do or they don't, as far as they are concerned, they're doing their part. It can't hurt.

  The world may not need Esperanto, but it does need people who, like Zamenhof, are moved to act against the “enmity of nations.” Knowing Zamenhof's fate makes it difficult to dismiss his life's work with a chuckle. During the bloody peak of World War I, Zamenhof's brother Aleksander killed himself upon being ordered into the Russian army because he couldn't bear to face once again the horrors he had witnessed while serving as an army doctor during the Russo-Japanese War. Not long after that, in the midst of death and destruction on a scale he never could have imagined, Zamenhof's heart gave out. He was lucky. He would not have to know that his lineage would end in yet another world war with the murder of his children at Treblinka.

  Kimo and Jean-Marc began another song whose tune was unfamiliar to me. An original Esperanto song. Normando, a slight man with a hint of gray in his beard, came and sat on the grass across from me, his legs folded under him, facing me with his back to the stage. He proved to be a sweet-natured Esperanto ambassador who had been kindly introducing me to people and explaining special phrases and vocabulary to me in a modest, non-pedantic way. He leaned forward and in French-Canadian-accented Esperanto explained that the song we were hearing was called “Sola.” People closer to the stage began to sing along, and he said it is often played at youth congresses, where it is a sort of anthem. The lyrics tell the story of a young person who feels completely alone, but then goes to an Esperanto congress and feels such friendship and connection to the world that his loneliness leaves him … until he is back in his own nation in his own little room. “This song,” he almost whispered, “is so meaningful for Esperantists. Sometimes, when it's played at the congresses, you see people crying.”

  Word

  Magic

  Though Esperanto has survived into the present day, the era of the international language has not. In the years between 1880 and the beginning of World War II, over two hundred languages were published, most of them variations on the same theme: European roots, a set of grammatical endings, no irregularities. The number of projects, and the enthusiasm for them, began falling off in the 1930s, and by the end of the war the era of the international language was over.

  There were a few reasons for this. One was the rise of a new lingua franca, on a scale more global than any had been before—English. The era of the international language coincided with the greatest period of growth and consolidation in the British Empire. English was spread to every continent. And Britain's position at the center of the Industrial Revolution ensured that wealth, status, and power became associated with English. The rising power of the United States during this time added fuel to the English fire, and it soon took over as the primary engine of spread.

  In some ways, the noticeable expansion of English was good for the international language movement. The language inventors, looking at the growth of English, saw a threat to their own national languages (most of them were not native English speakers) and worked that much harder to convince the world that a universal neutral language was needed. They found a sympathetic ear. The most active international language supporters were in France and Germany—countries whose languages had the most to lose from the encroachment of English (French was losing its position as the primary language of diplomacy, and German as the primary language of science).

  However, in most ways, the advance of English was very bad for the international language movement. The more common reaction was to stick up not for an invented neutral language but for your own home language, as France did in meetings of the League of Nations. Another alternative was to just accept English as the new lingua franca, as Sweden and Norway did in those same meetings. (Denmark wanted Ido.)

  By the beginning of the 1920s, English had accumulated a heap of advantages—economic power, political power, large numbers of speakers—but it was not the only potential world language in town. French, Portuguese, Russian, and other colonial languages also enjoyed such advantages (though none on as grand a scale). However, by the end of the 1920s, English had added to its arsenal even more compelling advantages: jazz, radio, Hollywood. It became the language of a new, media-driven popular culture. It was the lingua franca not just of elite pursuits—diplomacy, business, science, belles lettres—but of good ol' entertainment. It swaggered around with a gum-cracking friendly confidence, shaking hands and winning people over.

  It also seemed to already possess many of the qualities that the language inventors were after. When Count Coudenhove-Kalergi, son of an Austro-Hungarian father and a Japanese mother, founded the Paneuropean Union in 1923, he proposed that English be the language of its administration, claiming that the “ease with which the English language may be learned, and its intermediate position between the Germanic and the Romance language groups, predestine it to the position of a natural Esperanto.”

  The 1920s was the last decade of vigor in the second era of language invention. Though a few international language projects continued to crop up every year (as they still do today), even the language inventors were turning toward English. Th
ese inventors accepted English as an international language, but thought it could be made into a better international language by getting rid of some of its messy inconsistencies.

  Some focused exclusively on spelling reform, as the Swede Robert Zachrisson did in his Anglic (1930):

  Forskor and sevn yeerz agoe our faadherz braut forth on this kontinent a nue naeshon, konseevd in liberty, and dedicated to the propozishon that aul men ar kreaeted eequal.

  Others sought to regularize the grammatical irregularities, as Ruby Olive Foulk did in her Amxrikai Spek (1937):

  Pronouns and verbs:

  Plurals:

  man, mans

  Comparatives:

  good, gooder, goodest

  Other regularizations:

  Frenchman, Americaman, Italiman, Mexicoman

  historiman, scienceman, artman, musicman

  The best-known project of this kind was C. K. Ogden's Basic English, first published in 1930. Ogden was a Cambridge-educated editor, writer, translator, and mischief maker. As a student, he opposed compulsory attendance at chapel and, with a few of his like-minded friends, founded a group called the Heretics Society, where he honed his skills in questioning authority and challenging dogma. He supported progressive social causes like women's rights and birth control, and generally enjoyed being on the wrong side of stuffy propriety. At his own request, his entry in Who's Who says that he spent 1946–48 “bedeviled by officials.”

  Basic English was his proposal for an international language based on a reduction of English to 850 words. Though he believed in spelling reform, he was practical enough to see how unlikely it was to be accepted (he called it “a problem waiting for a Dictator”), and instead tried as much as possible to build his Basic vocabulary around words that presented “no special difficulty.” He claimed that of the 850 words he had chosen, “less than a hundred involve wanton violations of orthographical decency.” He also objected to irregular plurals and past-tense forms, blaming their persistent existence on a dastardly cabal of “printers, lexicographers, and schoolmasters.” However, realizing that an English that looked like English was more likely to succeed, he left the grammar alone.