Is Latin a Dead Language?

As someone who has studied Latin for eight years (and Ancient Greek for four years), I have often heard people ask about Latin, “Isn’t that a dead language?” I have decided, on a whim, to devote some time to answering this question.

There are three ways to respond to this question:

  1. No, Latin isn’t really dead.
  2. Latin is dead in some sense, but that’s beside the point.
  3. I agree that Latin is dead, but that’s actually the point.

RESPONSE ONE: LATIN IS NOT REALLY DEAD.

Latin is typically treated as simply the language of the ancient Romans; but that’s only about one one-hundredth of the whole story.

Latin was a literary and scholarly language in Western Europe for many centuries, through till the 20th century. Learning Classical Latin gives you the ability to read, in the original language, the stories, poems and speeches of the ancient Romans; the writings of medieval authors from Abelard to Einhard to Aquinas; and after medieval times, the scientific inquiries of the likes of Sir Isaac Newton. The abandonment of Latin as the language of literature and scholarship in the West is but a tiny glitch in an otherwise perennial tradition. It is not entirely unreasonable to expect that Latin may make its return to Western culture in a few centuries.

Latin was also the language of unity in Western Europe, from the days of the Roman Empire through till the beginning of the so-called ‘Enlightenment’ in the 18th and 19th centuries. Much official political business was conducted in Latin. Any document whose author sought and/or anticipated an international and multilingual European audience was often written in Latin. I could go on…

Lastly, Latin is the language of the Roman Catholic Church. Mass celebrated in the Roman Rite was by definition celebrated mostly if not entirely in Latin until the early 1970’s. Latin is still used in many official documents and proceedings by the Catholic Church, and is the official language of Vatican City. Although it is not commonly spoken in day-to-day conversation, the Latin tongue still gets used today; and so, Latin is alive in some sense.

RESPONSE TWO: LATIN IS DEAD IN SOME SENSE, BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT.

Latin is, indeed, no longer a living, spoken language; it does not have a coherent community of living native speakers (emphasis on ‘community’ and ‘native’) with an unbroken common lineage (genetic, cultural, or otherwise) traceable to the beginning of the language itself. (In other words: if I get married, have a baby girl, and raise her bilingual in Latin and English, then that one native speaker would not be enough to make Latin a living language.)

But, as stated above, studying Latin connects you to a set of cultural and literary traditions whose history spans well over two millennia. Latin is one of the few languages in the entire world wherein studying the grammar of one dialect (Classical Latin) for about two or three years can enable you to read all the literature ever written in that language over the course of a rich 2,500-year history.

Studying Latin gives all the benefits of studying a ‘living’ language, but amplified ten-fold. For instance, a living language may give you knowledge and appreciation of one foreign culture (like Welsh) or a handful of cultures (like Spanish); on the other hand, studying Latin not only teaches you about the culture of the ancient Romans, but also enables you to grasp the roots of the entirety of Western culture, including your own cultural background.

The student of the Classics, by studying a supposedly dead language or two, becomes more cultured, more literary, and more sophisticated. This transformation and growth happens almost unconsciously. In the course of my Latin studies, I have learned more than words can express about Western culture in general, our poetry, prose, literary traditions, grammar, metaphors, vocabulary, idioms, history, politics, sculpture, geometry, agriculture, philosophy, religion, and theology.

Examples from just one of these fields should do the trick.

To put it frankly, there are many things in literature and the arts which a non-classicist is too uneducated to understand. Only someone with a classical education can fully appreciate the references to classical mythology made in Shakespeare’s plays; the semi-classical background of Dante; the countless English verse translations of Classical Latin poetry, done by almost every famous English-born lyric-poet on the planet prior to the late 1800’s; several of the songs by the band Mumford & Sons; the classical allusions found in contemporary teen novels like the Hunger Games series; the realism of various linguistic and cultural details in J. R. R. Tolkien’s Middle-Earth; the etymological roots of countless everyday words, such as “music” and “nice;” and ten thousand other things that I do not have time to articulate.

It is hard to express how drastically my study of Latin has improved my ability to write and speak in English, my native tongue. English grammar textbooks used to always be called “Latin Grammar,” and for good reason: proper English grammar is a highly watered-down variation of Classical Latin grammar.

RESPONSE THREE: I AGREE THAT LATIN IS DEAD, BUT THAT’S ACTUALLY THE POINT.

In addition to Latin being linguistically dead, it is also dead in terms of scholarship and literature. People are not writing in Latin like they used to, and they sure as heck aren’t speaking Latin like they used to. Our Holy Mother the Church barely uses her own language anymore, outside of exorcisms and the occasional “Ave Maria.”

So yes, Latin is dead, and we have killed it. We have killed it with our obsessive laziness, our insistence that the liturgy be done in our vernacular tongue, so we can ‘follow along’ without really appreciating what’s happening on that altar, the breath-taking mystery and miracle that is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

We have killed Latin with our stupid socialist-like fixation with watering down all public and private education to the dumbest common denominator. It used to be that you had to pass a Latin Prose Composition test to even be considered for an Ivy League school; these days, you barely need to be able to compose a few paragraphs in English. Trade schools are demonized these days, but I think they’re handy: not everyone is called to be a scholar, so not everyone should go to college. I hate that I feel like I’m being controversial just for saying that the American ‘one-size-fits-all’ model of schooling is a load of simple-minded pseudo-egalitarian bull-crap.

Where Latin has gone, so too has any real culture, real civilization; truly meaningful literature and art are practically things of the past. The study of Classical Latin always has been and always will be a lesson in discipline and humility: it certainly was for me when I first started studying it in high school. But contemporary man does not have a need for Latin, nor for anything other than bestial utility. When self-restraint gets tossed out the window like that, so does any sense of virtue, of culture, of civilization. Western culture is dead because we killed Latin.

So those of us who are able to study Latin need to study Latin; our culture needs us. If you have never studied Latin before, I strongly recommend giving it a shot; but I must warn you that, if you are taking it in high school or college, it is very difficult for the first three or four semesters. If studying the Latin language proves too overwhelming or too time-consuming, try reading Latin literature in translation. I recommend starting with Vergil’s Aeneid. If you want something shorter, then I would recommend one of Cicero’s political speeches–as long as you promise to invest some extra time learning about the history and politics of the Late Republic (viz., 1st century BC).

Those of us who are devout Roman Catholic need to wake up to how strange it is to believe the One True Faith while rejecting the traditional practices that go hand-in-hand with it. Many of us, myself included, were raised to love Christ and His Church, but were also trained to treat traditional expressions of the Faith with a strange and secular-minded contempt. Orthodoxy, personal holiness, and adherence to traditions; these are the three things that Holy Mother Church desperately needs from us right now.

What I advocate is not a shallow and vague aesthetic admiration for the more traditional-looking options in the New Rite, but a return to the Old Rite, the Mass of countless Saints, the Mass which defines the Church. Tradition is being ‘optionalized’ out of existence in the liturgy and in the Church, and even in society at large. Treating tradition as an option is a form of compliance to the abandonment of tradition. Tradition is not one of many options; it is the ONLY option. Radical adherence to all of the traditions handed down to us by our forefathers–even those traditions abandoned by the foolish generations shortly before us–is the only way to reclaim our sanity in these vile and insane times.

Why I Love G. K. Chesterton

What I find most useful about Chesterton’s writings is that they teach me how to think with a sound and Catholic mind.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton, known as G. K. Chesterton, was an English writer who lived from 1874 to 1936. His primary occupation was journalism, but he also wrote poetry; novels; biographies; and essays. Chesterton is perhaps best known today for writing the Father Brown series of detective novels, since this series has been adapted for television by PBS.

(FYI the book linked above is not a truly “complete” collection, but you still get your money’s worth.)

Chesterton also wrote a poem, entitled “Lepanto,” which celebrated the victory of the Holy League against the invading Turks in a large maritime clash known as the Battle of Lepanto. The battle took place on October 7th, 1571. The admiral of the Holy League’s forces was Don John of Austria, the illegitimate half-brother of King Phillip II of Spain. Chesterton’s poem praises Don John as a liberator of the oppressed Christians–and a fearless and frightening adversary to their Muslim oppressors. (And no, his poem is not politically correct; but it is still better than any poem written since the invention of political correctness by the narrow-minded leftist elite at the universities.)

I am almost finished having “Lepanto” committed perfectly to memory; and it is a fairly lengthy poem, enough so that I will venture to call it an epyllion (that is, ἐπύλλιον or “mini-epic”). I am eager to have it memorized well enough that I can recite it from memory without any blunders and with due emotional weight.

Chesterton had a personality which in many ways is quite similar to my own. And I am not just saying that because we’re both fat, or because we both smoke cigars.

G. K. Chesterton was a rather forgetful person, having that distinct quality that is often called “absent-minded.” I am very similar to him in that regard. If I remember correctly, some speculate that Chesterton in his childhood had Attention Deficit Disorder and/or Developmental Coordination Disorder–both conditions with which I myself have been diagnosed. I still have prescription medications for ADD, which I’ve been taking ever since I was diagnosed in high school; but various forms of physical therapy throughout my early childhood removed most of the effects of the DCD. (I had a very mild case of DCD, to be honest.)

Well, they removed them for the most part at least. I am, to this day, left-footed but right-handed, and tend to be a tad clumsy. But at least now I can actually pronounce ‘r’ and ‘ch’ and ‘j’ properly; and at least now I am actually physically capable of coloring inside the lines.

But all of that is beside the point. What I find most useful about Chesterton’s writings–especially his works of nonfiction prose like Orthodoxy and Everlasting Man–is that they teach me how to think with a sound and Catholic mind. In an age when the secular world is so morally repugnant, and so many in the Church have made it their goal to lead the little ones astray by the millions, it is of the utmost importance to unlearn all the nonsensical and heretical rubbish that has come into our minds through bad catechesis; exposure to secular filth; frequent scandal and confusion in the Church; the caving-in of Church leaders to heresy and sin; and–most importantly–the self-infliction of intellectual blindness through one’s own iniquities.

G. K. Chesterton responded calmly and wittily to many of the ideas and catch-phrases hurled against the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church by the secular society of his own day and age. To put it bluntly: since much of the bull-crap in the world today is descended from the bull-crap of Chesterton’s day, Chesterton’s responses to the bull-crap of his own day age are equally useful in combatting much of today’s bull-crap.

Liturgical Reflection #1: The Asperges

The Asperges affects in the souls of the faithful a remission of venial sin before entering the Holy of Holies. It is a ritual of purification.

The Asperges is an ancient liturgical action, dating back to at least the 9th century AD. The ritual was in the Roman Rite of the Catholic Church as late as the 1962 Missal, which is used in Latin Mass parishes today (both schismatic and non-schismatic). The Asperges was essentially suppressed amidst the liturgical changes that happened during the papacy of Blessed Pope Paul VI. In the Mass of Paul VI, there is mention of the option of using this ritual either before Mass or in lieu of the “Penitential Act:” however, it is extremely rare to actually see this ritual performed in the Novus Ordo–except perchance once or twice a year on Sundays during the Easter Season.

The Asperges is a blessing with Holy Water that precedes High Mass on Sundays. It is done with a metal rod known as an “aspergillum” (my new favorite word) which the Priest repeatedly dips into a small of container of Holy Water. (The aspergillum can also be called an “aspergilium” or an “aspergil.”) The Priest quickly swings the aspergillum over his head in order to sprinkle the Holy Water.

Before Sunday High Mass, the Priest intones an antiphon to lead in the schola (choir). The antiphon “Asperges Me” is usually chanted. During the Season of Easter, the “Vidi Aquam” is used instead. Then, as the choirs chants through the Asperges Me or the Vidi Aquam, the Priest blesses himself with Holy Water, as well as the high altar, the sanctuary space, the altar servers, and lastly the people in the pews.

This ritual sprinkling of Holy Water immediately prior to Sunday High Mass is typically referred to as the “Asperges,” named after the Antiphon which accompanies it for most of the liturgical year.

The Asperges affects in the souls of the faithful a remission of venial sin before entering the Holy of Holies. It is a ritual of purification. Aspergillum in BasinIt uses the sacramental of Holy Water, and is efficacious to those who participate devoutly.  There is also a certain power which flows from the fact that it is a blessing administered by a priest. A priest’s intercession has merit in the eyes of God, and his celebration of the Sacraments is valid, regardless of any holiness or lack of holiness on his part. (To deny the validity of Sacraments celebrated by sinful priests is essentially the heresy of Donatism.)

The glory, grandeur, grace and majesty of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass–which is one and the same with Christ’s Sacrifice on the Cross, such that the two are really just the one, self-same Sacrifice–demands that we prepare ourselves internally prior to witnessing so great a mystery, so supreme an act of love.

No young man or woman would go on a date without first attending to his or her bodily hygiene: how much more important is it that we attend to the cleanliness of our souls before we come face-to-face with our Blessed Lord?

Such analogies, though imperfect as all analogies are, can be very beneficial when used properly.

The Asperges is a humble petition to God for mercy. Being mindful of our own sins, even those already forgiven in Confession–especially if they are mortally sinful habits which we have yet to break–is a necessary step to growing in holiness. To paraphrase an old saying associated with Alcoholics Anonymous: the first step to healing is knowing that you have a problem. In like manner: the first step to growing in holiness consists of recognizing how unholy you are; asking God to forgive you; and making a firm resolution to change your ways.

For those baptized who are living in a state of mortal sin, this needs to be done through the Sacrament of Penance. For those who are currently living in a state of grace–even if they have a habitual attachment to grave sin–the Asperges is an excellent way to do so. (Even those in a state of grave sin may still profit from the Asperges: but apart from Perfect Contrition,–an extremely rare form of contrition motivated exclusively by love of God–only the Sacrament of Confession can remit the guilt incurred by mortal sin; and even in the case of Perfect Contrition, Perfect Contrition leads you to want to go to Confession anyways, so it’s not like it’s a substitute for Penance or anything like that.)

There are few things which please God more than a soul that is humble and penitential. So, let us all strive both to practice humility and to be sorry for our sins.

Book Review #2: Saint Thomas Aquinas

  1. McInerny, Ralph, ed. 1998. Thomas Aquinas: Selected Writings. New York: Penguin Classics.
  2. Pegis, Anton C., ed. 1948. Introduction to St. Thomas Aquinas. New York: Random House.

This is my second book review, and both of my book reviews so far have been about more than one book. If this trend continues, perhaps I should start calling each one a “Books Review,” hahahahae.

No, that last thing was not a typo; it was how the ancient Romans indicated laughter; seriously! Anyways…

These two books are both collections of writings by Saint Thomas Aquinas.

McInerny 1998 is one of my favorite books that I own. It has so much content in it, covering so many topics. The texts and excerpts featured in this book span much of the life of the Angelic Doctor (as Aquinas is often called), from his early days as a university student to the final years of his life.

The prefatory remarks included by the editor before each excerpt are very much needed, and at times very informative. However, there are many places where more should have been said. Furthermore, at times I wish the editor would have introduced some explanatory footnotes.

I don’t know. I guess the danger of reading St. Thomas for leisurely reading is that you sometimes find yourself spending up to five hours during your little brother’s back-to-back baseball games trying to figure out St. Thomas’ (Aristotelian) metaphysics. I have since then taken a course on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, and I remember that about once a week during that class something would click inside my head and I would suddenly understand some phrase or comment or idea of Saint Thomas.

Altogether, it has been a very enjoyable read so far, and I plan to continue reading it piecemeal for years to come.

The same is true for the other book listed above: Pegis’ Introduction to St. Thomas Aquinas. It was required last year for a course in Medieval Christian Philosophy. This book only features content from the Summa Theologiae and the Summa Contra Gentiles, and seems to focus on Saint Thomas’ contributions to philosophy, while only touching upon the most basic elements of his theology.

The translation at times uses unnecessarily bizarre phrases, such as saying ‘this must needs be said’ rather than a more sensible choice like ‘this needs to be said’ or ‘this by necessity must be said.’ The first time, I though it was a typo. But then I kept noticing this peculiar phrasing like once every couple of pages. Maybe these were day-to-day English expressions that have since fallen into disuse??? I have no idea, but the point is that it can be a little confusing at times for the reader.

However, this book is still very useful if you want to study Saint Thomas Aquinas’ contributions to Medieval Christian Philosophy. Since taking the course, I have used it for a couple of research-papers in other classes.And like I alluded to earlier, this book is also one that I can see myself reading in little bits and pieces over the course of several years.

I would give McInerny 1998 a score of 8.5/10; and Pegis 1948, a score of 6.5/10.