Among the most frequent verbs in the Catalan language is, without a doubt, 'hacer' and ''Give'. Both have full and clear uses, such as 'to do a job' (in which the verb 'to do' means "to carry out") or 'to give a book' (in which the verb 'to give' has the full meaning of "to transfer to another"), but they also participate in many expressions where the main meaning lies in the accompanying noun. When we say, for example, that we want to 'ask someone a question', the core of the action is 'question'. The same occurs in ''to pay a visit,' 'to do work,' or 'to do an analysis.' The verb 'to do' provides the verbal structure of the sentence (it marks the tense, person, and agreement), but the main semantic content (that is, the meaning) is provided by the noun.

How many times have you heard, thought, or even said, "Yes, Catalan is all well and good, but what's it really good for?" How many times has the conversation ended with a count of speakers, a comparison with English, or a list of supposed career paths? The question seems innocent, but it isn't. It implies a very specific way of understanding the world: only what has an immediate, quantifiable, exportable, and tangible return is valuable. Everything that doesn't fit into that logic is viewed with suspicion. Meanwhile, more than 2,600 kilometers from Palma, at Masaryk University in Brno, there is a full degree program in Catalan Language and Literature that is celebrating its tenth anniversary this academic year, 2025-2026. Ten years. It marked the occasion with a commemorative academic ceremony held on Wednesday, March 4th, with established faculty and graduating classes who have already entered the professional world.

Have you ever stopped to think why, before a performance begins, they ask us "Turn off your mobile phones"Do we really need to specify that the phones are ours? Is there any real possibility that, at that moment, someone will understand that they should turn off the phone of a stranger sitting three rows behind them? The formula is neither strange nor ''Incorrect,' of course. Now, does the possessive add any information that isn't already obvious?

How is language organized in the human brain? What makes it possible for a child to acquire a language in just a few years, for this ability to be maintained throughout life, or for the system to find ways to reorganize itself after an injury? These questions, which linguists, psychologists, physicians, and neuroscientists have been trying to answer for many years, are not just for academics: they are relevant to anyone interested in understanding how one of the most basic and, at the same time, most complex abilities of the human species works.

Let me ask you a question: how many times have you started, or resumed, learning a language with the feeling that, this time, you'd finally get it right? Perhaps you've turned to a new app, an intensive course, online videos, or a method that supposedly would allow you to learn it in three months "effortlessly." But after a while, a question you've asked yourself before resurfaces: "Is what I'm doing really working?"

At the beginning of the year, lists proliferate: lists of things we will do, lists of things we will start, or lists of things we will, this time for sure, stick to. However, these lists can also include things we won't do: for example, we won't be late again, we won't repeat certain habits, we won't accept certain routines, or we will simply learn to say no to proposals that aren't right for us.

Catalan grammatical tradition has been quite consistent in describing these verbs. Thus, 'desayunar' (to have breakfast), 'desayuno' (breakfast), 'comida' (lunch), 'merienda' (snack), and 'cena' (dinner) have been classified as intransitive verbs, that is, verbs that do not take a direct object. To give concrete examples: according to this description, in Catalan we don't 'dinam canelons' (we eat cannelloni) or 'sopam pez' (we eat fish); what we do is 'comer canelones para comer' (to eat cannelloni for lunch) or 'comer pescado para cena' (to eat fish for dinner). The verb that introduces the food is 'comida' (food), while the verb 'de comida' (food) serves to indicate the time or type of food. In Mallorca, this structure also coexists with another very common solution: 'dinam de canelons' (I eat cannelloni), 'sopam de pescado' (I eat fish), with a complement introduced by the preposition 'de' (of). This construction allows us to specify the contents of the meal without it being a direct object, which also fits with the traditional classification of these verbs as intransitive. Contemporary grammatical norms maintain this line. The Catalan Language Grammar of the IEC (2016), in fact, states that these verbs "do not admit this transitive use under any circumstances." However, any speaker knows that real language does not always follow the boundaries drawn by grammars. In everyday conversation—and also in written texts—they can appear as 'What have you eaten?' or 'We had rice for dinner yesterday.' These are not isolated errors or slips of the tongue: they are part of the living use of the language. Transitive use

This transitive usage is, in fact, explicitly included in the Valencian Normative Dictionary, with examples such as 'Hoy comemos arroz al horno' (Today we're having baked rice). Given this, the interesting question is not whether these constructions exist (of course they do), but what real weight they carry within the Catalan system and how they can be explained from a descriptive point of view.

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If someone had told Paleolithic humans that one day we would send messages with yellow faces, the reaction would surely have been one of bewilderment. However, the mechanism itself wouldn't have seemed entirely foreign to them. The paintings of Altamira or Lascaux, with their animals and hunting scenes, weren't texts, but rather a form of visual communication shared within the group. This is, according to some, the oldest antecedent of writing: not because there was a written language, but because there were signs with intentionality. This visual communication became more complex with the first cities of Mesopotamia. Clay tablets were used to record sacks of grain, animals, wages, or taxes. Initially, pictograms were used—that is, signs that represented objects. However, the administration of a state required distinguishing nuances (actions, quantities, functions), and pictograms were transformed into ideograms. The need to go further finally led to the appearance of phonograms, which represented sounds and were an essential step toward being able to write real languages.

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Even if we speak the same way, we aren't always heard the same way. Tone, words, and attitude can change how we are perceived, and gender plays a significant role. Although we are often unaware of it, the way we speak—and how what we say is interpreted—is not neutral. Social norms, expectations, and even prejudices also influence what we say.

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There are few things more universal than speech. Where there are humans, there is language. Whether in the desert, the Arctic, or a city of millions, children begin to speak without anyone explicitly teaching them how. They don't consult manuals, they aren't given lessons, and yet, in just a few years, a child masters a language with all its complexities: they make agreement, conjugate verbs, understand nuances, create sentences they've never heard before, and even correct adults. How is this possible?

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At first glance, numbers seem like a universal truth. Counting to ten is such a basic skill that it's hard to imagine other systems. However, comparing how different languages count reveals a more varied picture: numbers, which we often consider an objective language, are also a cultural construct, elaborated within each linguistic tradition.

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You may have said more than once, "I like coffee but I hate tea." These are two simple, almost symmetrical sentences that express your preferences. If we pay attention, we'll see that they don't function the same way. In "I like coffee," the subject is coffee, not "I." The speaker appears as the indirect object: "(coffee) is liked by me." In contrast, in "I hate tea," "I" is the subject, while "tea" is the direct object. They express similar experiences, but with different grammatical structures. Verbs like "to like" and "to hate," as well as "to worry," "to frighten," "to interest," and "to bother," are examples of what linguists call psychological verbs—verbs that express mental or emotional states. They all share the same situation: there is someone who feels an emotion (the experiencer) and something that provokes it (the stimulus or theme). What changes between languages—and even within the same language—is how these two roles are organized in the sentence.

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"But is this correct?" is one of the most common questions philologists hear. It's often accompanied by a cautious gesture, as if language were a treacherous terrain where one must move carefully to avoid "committing a barbarism." Behind this uncertainty lies a widespread idea: that there is someone, a kind of invisible authority, who knows exactly what "speaking correctly" means.

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You said never'cringe'? AND 'boomr', 'random' or 'posturing''If the answer is yes, perhaps without realizing it you've participated in the process of lexical renewal in Catalan. If the answer is no, you've probably heard them anyway—on the internet, on TV, or in conversation—and perhaps they've made you wonder whether they're "good" or "bad" words. This hesitation, seemingly anecdotal, shows that the language is constantly adapting to reality and the expressive needs of its speakers. In fact, neologisms are one of the clearest symptoms of a language's vitality.

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Onomatopoeia is a word that imitates sounds. The term comes from the ancient Greek ('onoma', 'name', and 'poiein', 'to do'). They have always served to bring order to the noises of the world: those of animals, those of nature, those of objects, and even those of people. They are words that, apparently, escape the basic rule of the arbitrariness of language, that is, the idea that words have no natural connection with what they designate. However, they only do so apparently, because when we look at them closely we see that they are not as 'natural' as they seem.

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In Catalan, and in Romance languages in general, the verb carries so much information that it's unnecessary to say the subject. When we say "we work," we already know it's us. Our system is so automated that we're not aware of it, but every Catalan verb carries, on its own, information about who the subject is. However, if we change languages, things can be different. English speakers, for example, always need the pronoun: 'we work'Without that element, the sentence would be incomplete. The verb is the same for almost all persons, and only the third person of the present tense adds an 's': 'he/she works' (literally, 'he/she works'). That's why the pronoun is obligatory.

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When students return to school in September and write the typical "what I did this summer" questions, the answers are almost always the same: "I went to the beach," "I saw my friends," "I made my summer notebook." All with 'haber'. Now, anyone who has browsed through old texts or spoken with sponsors from certain places knows that things haven't always been so uniform. In many corners of the country, there are still people who, upon setting foot somewhere, explain that they've arrived, or that, upon seeing us, they're happy to have us back, with 'ser' instead of 'haber'.

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August is ending, it's time to meet people again on the street, at work, or on the sports team we play, and, without thinking about it, we throw out the classic question: "What have you done this summer?" The answer, which seems so trivial, is already a grammatical decision. It's not the same to say "I went to Vilaverd," which sounds as if there's still a thread of summer left to pull, than "I went to Xàtiva in July," which closes the episode and leaves it far away. And there's still the resource of the imperfect: "I used to go to the beach every day (but now I don't like it anymore because there are too many people)" tells us about a habit we had, rather than a specific event.

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Have you ever stopped to think about how often we say 'el', 'la', 'uno', 'sa', and 'se'? Or how natural it feels to place them before almost any noun, without thinking? Articles are part of the everyday landscape of the Catalan language, whether we speak or write. Now, what if I told you that there are many languages that don't have any and yet are equally precise and expressive?

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Yes, without context or knowledge of Catalan, a Spanish speaker feels that something is "huff and puff", you'll think the person speaking to you is talking nonsense. In Catalan, the phrase indicates that something is so easy that it can be done without effort, but the image – which has a certain grace and irony – doesn't translate to Spanish. The same thing happens with 'somiatruites'': try to make a version like 'dreams of tortillas' has neither feet nor feet.

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