Tag Archives: genitive

Harris, possessive, declined

So which is it: Harris’ or Harris’s? Neither: it’s τῆς Χάρεως. Or maybe Harro. Or, hmm…

There has been some confusion and consternation lately about the possessive form of the surname of the vice president of the USA, who is also the Democratic candidate for the presidency. Many people, remembering what they were taught in school,* insist it must be Harris’. For the record, if you are adhering to the Associated Press style, that is correct in the singular; if you are adhering to any other major guide (as most people do), the singular possessive is Harris’s. The plural possessive, according to every authority, is Harrises’. But I want to talk about what this paradigm manifests in particular about modern English. And I want to have some fun.

The thing about modern English is that we view proper nouns (names that get capital letters) as internally unassailable. The only alterations they can have are additions of apostrophes and s or es for possessives and plurals and plural possessives. We make jokes, sure, for instance calling the Winklevoss twins “the Winklevii,” but that just manifests the other thing we do: treat plurals as the one signifier for non-English-origin common nouns. We know that the “proper” plural of radius, for instance, is radii. If a word has been borrowed into English, a certain kind of person will make a point of using a plural from the original language: “Oh, no, you don’t mean inukshuks. You mean inukshuit.” (This also leads to silly mistakes like octopi.) And that’s it. We have no concept of any other possible alteration to a noun.

But speakers of many other languages do. It’s common enough among languages to have changes to nouns, not just common nouns but proper nouns, to indicate not just plural and possessive (called “genitive” by linguists and philologists) but also nominative versus accusative (we do this with pronouns: he versus him, for instance) and even dative (indirect object) and ablative (the reverse of dative: taking away rather than giving) – and, in some languages, a lot more. Linguists generally call these various noun forms “inflections” (the noun equivalent of conjugations, which are what verbs do).

For fun, I worked out what the full inflectional paradigm would be for Harris if it were a Latin noun. When speaking of Latin, one typically calls this “declension”; you say this is how Harris is declined, because of the image of going down a list of forms on paper (not because of students saying “I prefer not to,” though that surely has happened). And as it happens, Harris in form looks like a noun of the third declension in Latin. So here’s how that goes (note that I’m listing the cases in the order linguists list them in, which is different from the order students of Latin learned to recite them in school):

nominative singular Harris
accusative singular Harrem
genitive singular Harris
dative singular Harrī
ablative singular Harre

nominative plural Harrēs
accusative plural Harrēs
genitive plural Harrium
dative plural Harribus
ablative plural Harribus

Meaning that instead of Harris’s you would write Harris; instead of Harrises’ you would write Harrium; and, for that matter, instead of to the Harrises you would write Harribus (Latin doesn’t use definite articles as English does). And if Harris is not the subject but the direct object, it’s Harrem. (The vocative form, which you use when addressing the person, is in this case the same as the nominative. Note also that the macrons on ī and ē indicating long vowels are a modern scholarly device; they wrote long and short identically in ancient Rome.)

I posted this on Bluesky (which is a site you can go to now instead of Twitter) and it got some responses, including how it would be in Finnish – due to length limitations on posts, @uimonen.bsky.social provided just most of the singulars:

nominative Harris
genitive Harriksen
accusative (i.e., partitive) Harrista
inessive Harriksessa
illative Harrikseen
elative Harriksesta
adessive Harriksella
allative Harrikselle
ablative Harrikselta
essive Harriksena
translative Harrikseksi
abessive Harriksetta
comitative Harriksineni

A thing to think about here is that whereas the Latin declension is really for humour, the Finnish inflectional paradigm could actually be used by actual speakers today in Finland (though when I look at the Finnish Wikipedia article on her, for instance, the paradigm is different: the genitive is Harrisista, for instance. Why? Well, it’s not a Finnish name, for one thing, and, as we will see, that tends to matter). There are no modern daily speakers of Latin, and most descendants of Latin – French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese – have declined to keep the declensions. 

But another classical language is spoken today: Greek. Here’s the Classical Greek inflectional paradigm for Χάρις, which is how Harris is rendered in modern Greek and might as well be in the ancient kind as well – I’ve assumed the same third declension as for πόλῐς (polis, ‘city’), and feminine gender (the inflection would be different for a man named Χάρις); note also that it’s normal with Greek to include the definite article, which is used far more even than in English:

nominative singular ἡ Χάρῐς (hē Haris)
accusative singular τὴν Χάρῐν (tḕn Harin)
genitive singular τῆς Χάρεως (tês Hareōs)
dative singular τῇ Χάρει (têi Harei)
vocative singular Χάρῐ (Hari)

nominative dual τὼ Χάρει (tṑ Harei)
accusative dual τὼ Χάρει (tṑ Harei)
genitive dual τοῖν Χάρέοιν (toîn Hareoin)
dative dual τοῖν Χάρέοιν (toîn Hareoin)
vocative dual Χάρει (Harei)

nominative plural αἱ Χάρεις (hai Hareis)
accusative plural τᾱ̀ς Χάρεις (tā̀s Hareis)
genitive plural τῶν Χάρεων (tôn Hareōn)
dative plural ταῖς Χάρεσῐ/ταῖς Χάρεσῐν (taîs Haresi/taîs Haresin)
vocative plural Χάρεις (Hareis)

Yes, that’s right: there’s also the dual – which is nice if you’re referring to the Harrises as a couple (except, of course, Kamala Harris’s husband is Doug Emhoff, so never mind). So the family of Harrises, set in English, would, going by this, be not Harrii or Harroi or whatever but Hareis. And so on.

So does this work in modern Greek? Ah, well, I’m sorry to tell you that, while Modern Greek has declensions (just a little simpler than the classical ones), names from other languages are treated as indeclinable. So when you look at articles about Kamala Harris, it’s always Χάρις. Sorry.

But there are other languages that also decline names. Most, however, decline to do so for foreign names – after all, even if the name looks like a word from their language, they know it’s not. Lithuanian names, for instance, tend to end in -is in the nominative masculine, and replace that for different noun cases; Vytautas Landsbergis, for instance, when he is the indirect object (dative case) rather than the subject of a verb, is Vytautui Landsbergiui. And for “Landsbergis’s” it’s Landsbergo. But Harris isn’t a Lithuanian name, and what’s more, Kamala Harris is not a man and so wouldn’t be inflected according to the masculine paradigm.

On the other hand, Lithuania’s neighbours in Latvia have an answer to that. Latvian makes the nominative of her name Harisa, because Latvian feminine names and in -a as a rule, and because rr isn’t a thing in Latvian (you will also see Herisa, but there’s a stronger case for Harisa). And so if she’s the direct object, she’s Harisu; the indirect object, Harisai; and the possessive for her name is Harisas.

This is all lots of fun, of course, but Harris is, in truth, an English name. But we don’t have to leave England to find a full inflecting paradigm for it. We can just go back in time – Old English had a full system of inflections. The Old English inflections for her name would be:

nom sg Harris
acc sg Harris
gen sg Harrises
dat sg Harrise

nom pl Harrisas
acc pl Harrisas
gen pl Harrisa
dat pl Harrisum

So if you give a book to the Harrises, “þu giefst þa boc þam Harrisum” (for those who don’t know, þ is how we used to write the sound we now write as th). 

That’s not nearly as entertaining as treating the -is as a suffix, alas. But it also has two problems: first, the name Harris only appeared in Middle English, so inflecting it Old English style is as contrived as declining it Latin style; second, in Middle English, the name actually does contain a suffix: Harris is the genitive form of Harry. Names formed from genitives are quite common in English, since the genitive used to be used more broadly: if you lived near the field, you were called Fields; by the brook, Brooks; if you were of the family of Stephen, you were Stephens; and if of the family of Harry, you were Harris. And yes, Harry is a nickname for Henry, but so it goes. Toms and Jacks are also family names.

But you can see the problem here: How can you have the genitive of a name that is already in the genitive? Along with which is the fact that it’s Middle English, not Old English. In Middle English, the inflections of Harry would be (with spelling variations):

nom sg Harry
acc sg Harry
gen sg Harris
dat sg Harre

nom pl Harres
acc pl Harres
gen pl Harre/Harrene
dat pl Harre/Harres

But that just means that if there’s a Harry and another Harry and they jointly have something, then it’s Harre thing or Harrene thing. If it’s the thing of the family of Harry, you can’t really do a double genitive unless you treat the first one as just part of the name: Harrisis in the singular and Harrise or Harrisene in the plural. 

It does remind us of one key fact, though: the genitive (possessive) in English didn’t have an apostrophe until just a few centuries ago, when the apostrophe was added on the basis of the mistaken supposition that the possessive was a contraction (imagining “Harry’s book” as short for “Harry his book”). That’s right: this detail that confuses so many people, and that provokes the ire of a certain set, is founded on nothing other than a historically baseless reinterpretation.

Mind you, a Latin inflectional paradigm that gives us Harrium librī for “the Harrises’ books” is also a historically baseless reinterpretation. But at least we know that. And it’s fun, and no one is getting upset.

* First: High-school teachers are not subject matter experts. Not even high-school English teachers. Not even the ones who “beat it into you.” Second, many people do not accurately remember what their teachers tried to teach them.

 Which is truly over the top, because even if it were Winklevus it would just be Winklevi – the -ii ending is only for plurals of -ius nouns – and it’s not, it’s not even Winklevos, which would pluralize to Winklevoi. But, yes, the point is it’s a joke, so it goes to the lengths of caricature.

Don’t be so possessive

My latest article for The Week looks at the rationale people give for wanting to leave the apostrophe out of Father(’)s Day, Mother(’)s Day, etc.: the fathers, mothers, and others don’t possess the days, so we shouldn’t use the possessive. And so here we see one of the most badly misnamed features in English grammar:

Stop calling possessives ‘possessive’

 

genitive

There are many ungenerous souls who are convinced that the English language is degenerating, that it bears less and less of the marks of its original genius, and they indignantly point out all the aberrations and illogicalities and assorted other illiteracies they discern, and generally behave like obnoxious [genitals]. About them all one thing is dead certain: they have not studied the history of the English language. They have no real idea how the words they use now got to be the way they are.

Exhibit A in this case is one of the most bedeviling things in the historical development of English: the genitive. Old English, like modern German and a number of other languages, had four cases, which are typically called (after their Latin general equivalents) nominative, accusative, dative, and genitive. All nouns changed form according to these (and according to number – singular or plural). In modern English, pronouns change according to nominative (subject) and accusative (object), but other nouns do not, and dative (indirect object) is indicated by position or with the preposition to. But the genitive has survived… in a spuriously altered way, and with the dreadfully misleading name possessive.

The Old English genitive singular inflection, for most but not all nouns, ended in s or es: for instance, hund “dog” had hundes and cild “child” had cildes. Some nouns had other endings – oxa “ox” had oxan, and lufu “love” had lufes. For the genitive plural, it was an a version pretty much across the board: hunda, cildra, oxena, lufa.

Now tell me what you don’t see in those words.

An apostrophe.

Over time, the full set of inflections in English got simplified considerably, thanks in large part to contact with other languages and their speakers. The genitive came to be s everywhere, ultimately even on plurals. And somewhere in the Renaissance, some guys got the idea that the s on genitives was short for his: they figured that Johns feet was really John his feet contracted. (That kind of his-genitive was an occasional usage in Old English but was not the source of the suffix.)

Never mind that that doesn’t make sense for anything other than his; since then, all genitives in English (except the pronouns) have that apostrophe, which serves two purposes: a) to distinguish genitives from non-genitive plurals on paper (but not in speech, as it’s inaudible); b) to get a certain set of people riled up because another set of people can’t always manage to get the placement of those apostrophes straight – because they’re inaudible and a frankly inorganic imposition.

And this idea that it comes from a mark of possession also played into the habit of calling all genitives (and not just those indicating actual possession) possessives. Now, that’s a nice English word, so why not use it in place of that fussy Latin genitive, eh? (Aside from the fact that possessive comes from Latin too, of course.) I mean, what does genitive mean anyway? It does sound uncomfortably close to genitals. But there’s a reason for that.

The reason is that they have the same root, of course, as do generation and a number of other words (including genius, and even cognate has a common source – co-gn-ate – and is unrelated to cognition). The genitive case was named for the tendency of words in it to be the source or possessor of those they modify. But this is a tendency, and the name was applied post facto.

Cases are like prepositions: they can indicate quite a wide variety of things. The genitive case in English, even now, indicates not only possession but also, according to instance, agency (your editing of the book), source (dog’s breath), intended recipient (women’s shoes), honouree (Veterans’ Day), duration (a day’s work), thing or person affected (wolf’s bane), personal relationship (my enemy), and assorted similar others.

These are not possession: you do not possess your editing work once you have done it and sent it to a client, the dog does not possess its breath once it has breathed it, women’s shoes are women’s shoes even if they sit unsold in a store owned by a man, veterans do not possess the day that honours them, nor does a day possess the work done in it, wolves do not possess the herb that is purportedly their bane, and I do not have any title of ownership or other personal retention of my enemy.

Most of these forms can be rephrased with of phrases, and many of phrases can be rephrased with genitives. That tends to add to the confusion, especially when the of phrase goes the other way: two weeks’ notice (a notice quantified by two weeks) is also said as two weeks of notice. And the ending has become, in Modern English, not a suffix, really, but an enclitic – a particle that attaches to a word or even a whole phrase. Consider the Queen of England’s preference for tea and that guy you met at the café’s phone number. (The ambiguity this creates naturally increases the fun potential of English, the depth of the furrows in the brows of picklepusses, and the incomes of editors.)

Where it really gets interesting is cases where the genitive form has survived in old words. The genitive used to be used in even more ways than it is now; for one thing, back when it was apostrophe-free, it could be used without a following noun to indicate “of” or “by” or “at” the thing in the genitive. It could be used as a family name to indicate where a person lived – those who lived by the river might be called Rivers, and those who lived by the field might be called Fields. It could be used adverbially, too. If you worked at nighttime, you worked – and still work – nights. (Yes, that’s not a plural s, it’s a genitive s.) If you do something one time, you do it once (also an old genitive form, like twice and thrice). Some genitive forms even survive that don’t have the s on: in ten-foot pole, the foot is originally a genitive specifying ten (which, like numbers generally in English, is a kind of noun, not – as many mistakenly think – an adjective).

And if you’re adding something beside something else, you said – and say – besides, and if you did something by a side way, it was – and is – sideways, and something done of or by any way was – and is – anyways.

And there’s your proof that so many of those grammar gripers haven’t studied the history of the English language. How many people have you heard complain that anyways is an idiocy, an illogicality, an illiteratism, et cetera, because obviously it’s any way like it’s any thing? Well, it’s not. Obviously. And if someone starts in on you on something like that, you can sock it to them in the genitive.

How possessive should you be?

A colleague has asked about whether it’s better to use, for example,

a close friend of Jack’s and Diane’s

or

a close friend of Jack and Diane

She notes that the first one looks a bit funny, but that you’d use possessive (genitive) with the pronoun:

a close friend of theirs

In fact, both are actually correct. With pronouns, we use the genitive (but see below); this is a holdover from when English had a more thoroughgoing use of case (and indeed in German, which kept the inflections, you would use just the genitive and no preposition: ein enger Freund Jacks und Dianas). We used to match case variably to prepositions; this is why we can see from whence in old texts as normal.  But we have moved away from heavily inflecting nouns in general, and we no longer generally vary case according to preposition, which is why those who “stop and think about it” sometimes declare that from whence is redundant — we think of case as a paraphrase of preposition plus noun, or vice versa, which it isn’t really. To return to the issue at hand, in Modern English, as a standard rule (to which the genitive pronoun structure shown above is an exception), the complement of a preposition is structurally in the accusative case (though non-pronouns don’t manifest a difference morphologically between nominative and accusative), and so the non-’s version works.

There is a distinction that can be made in some contexts: compare

that criticism of his

with

that criticism of him

We use the possessive (genitive) in cases where there is a sense of belonging or attachment; we use the accusative where the of is functioning not as a genitive but as another kind of relation. In theory we can make the same distinction with regular nouns, and it works in some cases:

that criticism of John’s

that criticism of John

But in the case of a word such as friend there is no important distinction to be made. And in fact we can get away with the accusative even on the pronoun:

a close friend of them

It’s not quite as nice as

a close friend of theirs

but it is acceptable. When you go over to the actual nouns, however, it tends to be more natural the other way. Adding the ’s on the names might give a greater sense of belonging or attachment (and without it of a greater unidirectionality), or it might not; your results will vary.

Two weeks’ notice?

This one leaves many people uncertain and even provokes debate, as there have come to be competing standards: should it be, for instance, two weeks’ notice or two weeks notice? Continue reading

whilom

“Anyways,” said Jess, “he—”

“Oh, please,” Margot interrupted, wincing and setting down her cup. “Please don’t say anyways. Any goes with the singular. Any way.”

I looked at Margot as though she had just denied the law of gravity. “It’s not a plural,” I informed her. “It’s a genitive. The genitive as an active inflection survives now almost exclusively as the possessive, which has in recent centuries had an unetymological apostrophe inserted, but you see it surviving in forms such as names like Johns and Williams and in words such as anyways – meaning ‘of, or by, any way.’ The loss of the s is due to the same reanalysis you’re making, which is not new but is not historical.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Margot declared. Other people in the coffee shop peered over their papers to see if there was some conflict that might prove entertaining. “We don’t form new words that way, so to heck with the old ones that use that.”

“So you’ll be chucking out woe is me too?” I said, arching eyebrow and relaxing back.

“That doesn’t have any genitive on it!” Margot protested.

“No,” said I, “it’s a retention of the whilom dative. ‘Woe is to me.'”

Whilom!” Jess said. “I love that word. And I love that you said ‘whilom dative.'” She leaned forward and clapped her hands together. “Guess why.”

I paused for just a moment, then smiled. “Because whilom is dative.”

“Yes!” she said gleefully.

“You mean you date yourself by using it,” Margot said drily, then moistened with some coffee. Everyone else in the joint, sniffing the general topic, had gone back into hiding.

“That would be solipsistic,” Jess replied, and turned back to me. “Dative plural.”

“Right, of course, the most consistent case ending in Old English: -um.” Just to prove I was capable of even greater pretentiousness, I started in on Beowulf: “Hwæt! We Gardena in geardagum…”

“Not hwæt,” Jess riposted, “hwile. Um.”

“It sounds more ho-hum to me,” Margot interjected.

“Now, don’t talk whilom speaking,” Jess said, smirking. Score one for the Jess. “A while is a time, and whilom – from hwilum – is ‘at times.'”

“But now it really means ‘at past times’ or ‘at a past time,'” I added.

“But why not just use erstwhile?” Margot protested. “It sounds more snappy.”

“You could,” I said, “erst being ‘first,’ just as it is in modern German. But whilom has more the air of sometime, I think, while, of course, bespeaking greater erudition.”

“Or pretentiousness,” Jess added. Hey, how come she gets to be the one who, while knowledgeable, comes across as down-to-earth? I didn’t want to play “good logophile–bad logophile” here.

But I ploughed on in usual fashion. “The tastes are different, too, even aside from the register. Erstwhile has the t stop in the middle, and that ers almost sounds like hitting the brakes before it. It also calls forth first by rhyme as well as the German connection. Sometime starts with a hiss, and calls forth a common word with its own implications – sometimes being used variously for ‘never’ and ‘almost always.’ Whilom is softer and rounder, a glide, a liquid, a nasal; a word to put a baby to sleep. For a while. To while away time. Why not?”

“There can be a voiceless glide in it, too,” Jess pointed out. “If you really say it as a wh word.”

“Which we whilom did,” I added.

“And you do from time to time,” Margot pointed out. “But, say, none of these words can be used just to mean ‘from time to time’ or ‘temporary, at whatever time.'”

“Naw,” I said, “I think we’re stuck with temporary for that. And momentary. And various phrases.” But I looked over at Jess and she had a heck of a glint in her eye. Her hands dived into her purse; there was a sound like a raccoon trying to escape a junkheap avalanche, followed by the prestidigitation of a small notebook, which Jess opened and thrust forth as though it held a pearl picked up off the sidewalk. Which was not too far from the truth.

“It’s obsolete, of course,” she said, her voice taking on a slight hush. “But revive it next time you want to say ‘temporary’ – or should I say ‘time-turning.'” We leaned forward to the lambent bond paper and pronounced the pencilled treasure that described its own transit in the English language: “Whilwendlic.”


Words I have tasted have from time to time been suggested by readers, and I have been remiss in acknowledging those who suggest them. I shall try to make a practice of acknowledging my muses. Today’s word was recommended by Wilson Fowlie.