¹ [translator's note]

Paleontologists have struggled to reassemble the skeleton of the elusive Boustrophedon.

[b0ustr0phed0n]

Why do German books have numbers on the spine?

I was gazing absentmindedly at my bookshelf, as I often do, thinking probably about whether I should put the books in any particular order, when it occurred to me to wonder why nearly all of my German books have numbers on the spine, while none of the English ones do. Who are these numbers for? What do they signify? For comparison, I pulled out the books above.

Das Nürnberg’sche ABC (or: Das große Nürnberger ABC für Kinder). A facsimile print of an antique book from the collection of Walter Benjamin, published by Insel Verlag in 1970.

Heinrich Heine: Buch der Lieder. A book of Heine’s poetry published by Verlag Philipp Reclam jun. in the German Democratic Republic (East Germany) in 1986.

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. The Chancellor Classics edition published by Bounty Books in 2005.

There but for the by Ali Smith. Published by Penguin Books in 2012.

Die Känguru-Chroniken by Marc-Uwe Kling. Published in 2009 by Ullstein, reprint from 2017.

As you can see, the three German books, despite being published by different companies in different decades, each display a number. Warum? Is this a Pokemon collect-them-all situation? Is this how I’m supposed to organize my bookshelves? Is Germany using some arcane book identification system? Actually, yes. Kind of.

Let’s start with the oldest one. The Nuremberg alphabet book was originally published sometime around 1800 by Schneider and Weigel, before anyone even thought to include useful information like publishing dates in books. In 1970, the publisher Insel Verlag made careful copies of the copperplate illustrations and republished the book as part of their Insel-Bücherei (Insel Library) collection, a curated series of short works by contemporary authors that was begun in 1912. This book is number 945 in the series.

Side note: This is a batshit book that peddles a batshit alphabet. All of the letters in the middle of the next image? THEY’RE ALL X. The r with a claw? x. The backwards y? x. The little thing that looks like a smushed gnat? x.

W stands for What the Fuck.

Anyway. Moving on. The book of Heinrich Heine’s poetry was published by Reclam in 1986. If you’ve ever wandered into a German library or bookshop and been confronted by a wall of blindingly yellow paperbacks, you’re familiar with Reclam’s Universal-Bibliothek (Universal Library) series.

Reclam has been publishing their classics series since 1867, and their little yellow books are extremely well known in Germany. However. The company was split between Stuttgart and Leipzig and ended up in two different countries when Germany was divided into East and West after WWII. Both continued to publish under the Universal-Bibliothek logo, and the numbering must have gotten a bit muddled, because my copy from 1986 is only number 52, despite there being thousands of Reclam books by that point. Perhaps the East German side started over from 1?

So those two books are from different long-running series. But what about all the novels, workbooks, dictionaries, and so forth with four- and five-digit numbers across the top? They can’t all be part of massive curated collections, can they? No. But I guess German publishers got used to numbering their books and wanted to keep doing it.

On most German books you see nowadays, the number on the spine is part of the ISBN: the International Standard Book Number. Modern ISBNs are 13 digits long and composed of five parts:

A prefix (978 or 979. Why? *shrug emoji*)

A group number (indicating a country, territory, or language.)

A registrant number (indicating the publisher)

A publication number (unique for each title)

A check digit (fun math!) *see tangent below

It is this title number that you will see printed across the spine of the German books on your shelf.

Test: Which of the books in the picture does this ISBN belong to? 9783423002950

I will say, it does make it easier to search for specific editions!

*Tangent about check digits: The check digit (German. Prüfziffer) is there to ensure that no one made a mistake when typing in this long number. What you do is you add up all the other digits, multiplying every second digit by 3. The check digit represents how much you need to add to the result to make it a round divisible-by-ten number. So the one above would be 9 + (7*3) + 8 + (3*3) + 5 + (4*3) + 8 + (3*3) + 7 * (2*3) + 5 + (7*3) = 120. Since 120 is divisible by 10, the check digit is 0. If the sum were 153, the check digit would be 7. So if you had this same ISBN, but the check digit was 6, you’d know there was an error somewhere.

In the older, 10-digit ISBN system, the formula was to multiply the digits by 1 through 9 in order, then divide by 11. The check digit is the remainder. So ISBN 3-8120-2003-3 would be (3*1) + (8*2) + (1*3) + (2*4) + (0*5) + (2*6) + (0*7) + (0*8) + 3*9) = 69, divided by 11 is 6 with a remainder of 3.

Since my edition of Oliver Twist was published around the time of the changeover from ISBN 10 to ISBN 13, it has both! 0 7537 0984 8 and 978-07537-0984-9. You’ll notice that the identifying parts remain the same, but the addition of the 978 prefix has altered the check digit.

[stuckinapril]

[softwaring]

[b0ustr0phed0n]

Haven't posted in a while, so here. This made me laugh.

[shrubdrawsalot]

spend my lunch break talking to my favourite coworker and she told me that she has friends who are translators and who are all out of work because of AI, and I told her about my personal favourite translator of all time Erica Fuchs, a german lady who went to uni in the 1930s and then spend most of her time alive translating Donald Duck comic book characters into German (most of them are some sort of pun and you gotta translate those to make sense in German) (AND SHE DID) (VERY SUCCESSFULLY)

Example: Beagle Boys = Panzerknacker (Safe Crackers) or Gyro Gearloose = Daniel Düsentrieb (Jet Drive)

Anyway now we're sad about dying arts

[letterful]

[havingapoemwithyou]

first of december by Natalie Shapero

[rohie-deactivated20191102]

“Years ago a friend of mine had a dream about a strange invention; a staircase you could descend deep underground, in which you heard recordings of all the things anyone had ever said about you, both good and bad. The catch was, you had to pass through all the worst things people had said before you could get to the highest compliments at the very bottom. There is no way I would ever make it more than two and a half steps down such a staircase, but I understand its terrible logic: if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.”

— I Know What You Think of Me, Tim Kreider for the New York Times

[owlmylove]

after YEARS of seeing this quote online and finding it to be the most deeply and resoundingly profound writing i finally found the source article and absolutely nothing could prepare me for this opening paragraph

[bi-icon]

Okay but the whole article is really interesting and also contains this quote which I’ve never heard before but really like:

“Anyone worth knowing is inevitably also going to be exasperating”

[b0ustr0phed0n]

Posting to remind myself to find and read this later.

[sinensis26]

"Omg thats incredible! I wish I was as creative as you!"

The first thing I ever sewed was a pouch at age 7. It was a rectangle of fabric folded in half and somehow it still turned out terrible. You dont want my creativity, you want the 41 years of failure after failure that got me to this exact moment.

[b0ustr0phed0n]

False, I want the skills without the practice required to attain them

[prokopetz]

"Automatic ATM machine" is pretty good, but I think if we really try we can find a way to phrase it that renders the T redundant as well.

[b0ustr0phed0n]

Since I hadn't gone to the automatic ATM machine on the corner, I had to pay with card, and I accidentally gave out my private personal PIN number while trying to pay for my chai tea latte. I'm going to have to get one of the IT tech guys to help me reset it.

Plus, I was only buying chai because they were out of the boxes of powdered matcha tea that I wanted. What a disaster.

[jackofspades949]

What the English alphabet should REALLY look like (IMO):

I call it "New English".

[b0ustr0phed0n]

I have heard people from certain places pronounce the W in wax and what differently, but I'm interested to know who says the G in ghost differently from the one in gap.

I also don't see the need for separate letters for the initial and final S.

However, I agree that English needs at least one more vowel letter. Personally, I'd use it for the sound in put, hood, and good, but I know the Scots would disagree with me.

Also þ and ð are great and I would be happy to have them back.

[skaldish]

I think about this a lot.

[computationalcalculator]

may I add also “butt dial” vs “booty call” vs “bottom text”

[clitorius-maximus]

Hand job vs manual labor

[b0ustr0phed0n]

Don't confuse topless with headless

Or a headshot with a mugshot

Or a drug ring with a medical bracelet

[dailyclassicart]

Bruno Liljefors - "Cat goes Birdhunting" (1883)

[koobiie]

i feel strongly about this

[ailurinae]

[onthedriftinthetardis]

The EU (still) wants to scan your private messages and photos

🚨 You WILL Be Impacted 🚨

Every photo, every message, every file you send will be automatically scanned—without your consent or suspicion.

If you live in the EU*, contact your MEPs NOW and tell them to vote NO! Go here to learn more & FIGHT BACK!

https://fightchatcontrol.eu/

*especially if you live in Germany - they have not yet decided, and their opposition is crucial!

Please reblog! If the EU passes this, it weakens online privacy worldwide.

[just-me-st1ll0]

The road. An original poem. Episode 57.

i was walking.

summer pretending to be winter —

cold that crawled under my hoodie,

numbed my fingers until they forgot they were mine.

i lit the blunt with a cheap lighter,

hand passed between me and the thing beside me—

its fingers warm, too steady, like it had practiced being kind.

we shared the smoke like an apology.

“stimulants,” i said into the night,

the word tasting like something i’d only heard the best about,

bright and dangerous in a book.

“i’ve never tried them.

but i ache for a different me.

one that doesn’t flinch so easy.

one that sleeps without counting the cracks in the ceiling.”

it blew a ring that hung in the air and did not judge.

“you think a quick spark will change your wiring?” it asked, amusement thin.

“maybe. maybe it will.

or maybe you’ll just trade one hunger for another.”

i shrugged

school in the morning, boxes by the door,

another town on the horizon, another “we tried” folded into the divorce papers.

everything is an inbox full of tasks: enroll, pack, sign, say nothing.

my stomach keeps wondering if it’s allowed to hurt that much without permission—

so it throws itself into the toilet sometimes; other times it just knots.

“i need new friends,” i muttered,

not as a sentence but as a plea.

i am weird, i am odd, i am too loud, too soft, too much and also nothing

i draw scars on my thighs

and watch the blood bead up.

Other times, I stare at the white meat, hoping I didn’t cut too deep.

sometimes i think about stopping everything like it’s a way to be tidy.

it took another drag and passed the blunt back, slow.

“you don’t need to reinvent pain to be noticed,” it said.

“you’re loud enough without the extras.

but if you want different, practice small rebellions.

say one true thing.

leave one box unpacked for you.”

i laughed, a sound like a broken coin.

“i’m tired,” i said. “i’m so tired.”

“then rest differently,” it murmured, soft as ash.

“not by erasing yourself.

but by learning what keeps you breathing.”

we kept walking.

the road was a thin ribbon unspooling ahead —

school, moving trucks, divorce court, new numbers to forget and remember.

i felt lonely in the way the ocean feels lonely—vast, indifferent, impossible to hug.

i felt gross and small and like i’d been photocopied wrong.

the blunt burned low.

we watched the ember like we watched the future—faint, stubborn, glowing anyway.

i didn’t know what i needed.

i only knew i needed something true.

“then ask for it,” it said finally. It had read my mind.

“ask for help. ask for a hand. ask for tomorrow.”

and for a moment, the cold didn’t feel like an accusation.

just weather.

and we walked on.

[b0ustr0phed0n]

I like this a lot. Wanted to see what it looked like in a sort of flash fiction style—hope you don't mind, @just-me-st1ll0! I like to encourage people to write poetic prose, and I think this works great in paragraphs. It makes the color structure more visible as well, since you can see more of the text at once.

The Road (Episode 57)

by just-me-st1ll0

I was walking. Summer pretending to be winter—cold that crawled under my hoodie, numbed my fingers until they forgot they were mine.

I lit the blunt with a cheap lighter, hand passed between me and the thing beside me—its fingers warm, too steady, like it had practiced being kind.

We shared the smoke like an apology.

“Stimulants,” I said into the night, the word tasting like something I’d only heard the best about, bright and dangerous in a book.

“I’ve never tried them. but I ache for a different me. One that doesn’t flinch so easy. One that sleeps without counting the cracks in the ceiling.”

It blew a ring that hung in the air and did not judge.

“You think a quick spark will change your wiring?” it asked, amusement thin. “Maybe. Maybe it will. Or maybe you’ll just trade one hunger for another.”

I shrugged. School in the morning, boxes by the door, another town on the horizon, another “we tried” folded into the divorce papers. Everything is an inbox full of tasks: enroll, pack, sign, say nothing. My stomach keeps wondering if it’s allowed to hurt that much without permission—so it throws itself into the toilet sometimes; other times it just knots.

“I need new friends,” I muttered, not as a sentence but as a plea. I am weird, i am odd, i am too loud, too soft, too much and also nothing. I draw scars on my thighs and watch the blood bead up.

Other times, I stare at the white meat, hoping I didn’t cut too deep. sometimes I think about stopping everything like it’s a way to be tidy.

It took another drag and passed the blunt back, slow. “You don’t need to reinvent pain to be noticed,” it said. “You’re loud enough without the extras. but if you want different, practice small rebellions. Say one true thing. Leave one box unpacked for you.”

I laughed, a sound like a broken coin. “I’m tired,” I said. “I’m so tired.”

“Then rest differently,” it murmured, soft as ash. “Not by erasing yourself. But by learning what keeps you breathing.”

We kept walking.

The road was a thin ribbon unspooling ahead—school, moving trucks, divorce court, new numbers to forget and remember. I felt lonely in the way the ocean feels lonely—vast, indifferent, impossible to hug. I felt gross and small and like i’d been photocopied wrong.

The blunt burned low. We watched the ember like we watched the future—faint, stubborn, glowing anyway. I didn’t know what i needed. I only knew i needed something true.

“Then ask for it,” it said finally. It had read my mind. “Ask for help. Ask for a hand. Ask for tomorrow.”

And for a moment, the cold didn’t feel like an accusation. Just weather.

And we walked on.

[kushblazer666]

nothing pisses me off more than a proud “no msg!” label on something. shut up you dumb bitch put the msg back in there so it tastes good. idiot

[eingedeutscht]

kraeuterraketenreinzieherin666

Nichts kotzt mich mehr an als ein stolzer "ohne Geschmacksverstärker Mononatriumglutamat!"-Sticker auf einem Produkt. Halt die Fresse du Opfer und hau das Glutamat sofort wieder rein, damit's wieder gut schmeckt. Arschgeige

[mundart-ch]

s'get nüüt wo mee d'wand uuf jagt als e schtolze "oni aromat!" chläber of de packig. faar ab demet du hueresiech ond dos aromat weder deet ine das es gschmack het. hoschi

[b0ustr0phed0n]

True story--I once had to subtitle a video in Swiss German that I fully did not understand. The agency I was working with at the time sent me a "script" that had big gaps in it where the transcriber also had no idea what the fuck was going on. I told the agency I was not qualified, and they said I was the only German speaker they had at the moment, so please, and I quote, "just guess."

Hope all the viewers felt really enlightened by the dialogue I made up.

[boyhood]

Did a school visit today and asked a group of 8th graders if they could define the term "contemporary art" for me [for context, I work at a contemporary art museum], and one of them said "Is it art that's made with contempt?"

And unfortunately that's the funniest thing a student has ever said to me in 10 years of teaching

[b0ustr0phed0n]

brb gotta go work on some contemptuous art

then maybe some aggressionism and some missing-the-pointilism

[drlinguo]

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