Renue'd Inglish, Pt. 2 - What it could look like

Here's an example of what a new English spelling system (mine, in this case, which I laid out in last week's post) could look like.

This is the first few pages of Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea." First is the 'full form' of Rınū'd İŋgliʃ; second comes Renue'd Inglish, a milder version based on the current English alphabet; last, in italics, is the Modern English (what we're all used to).

*If you're interested in viewing other versions, go ahead and plug the Modern English into this converter.

**My spelling system isn't totally consistent yet. There are a few issues that I'm aware of, and probably a few that I'm not. Feedback is more than welcome! My particular concern at the moment is deciding which ways letters regularly "shift" their pronunciation (from voiced to unvoiced, for example, in things like the possessive tense: his /z/ but its /s/ and in vowels too, bar /a/ but bat /æ/; when a consistent pattern exists, I'd prefer to keep the current spelling over a purely phonetic one, but I haven't noted all such patterns yet)...

ð’ ōld Man and ð’ Sī

th’ Oeld Man and th’ See

The Old Man and the Sea

By Irnist Himiŋway

By Ernest Hemingway  

1

Hī was an ōld man whū fiʃ’d alōn in a skif in ð' Gulf Strīm and hī had gon aytī-fōr days now wiþowt taykiŋ a fiʃ.

Hee was an oeld man whue fish’d aloen in a skif in th’ Gulf Streem and hee had gon aytee-foer days now withowt tayking a fish.

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four

days now without taking a fish.

İn ð' furst fōrty days a boy had bin wiþ him. But aftır fōrty days wiþowt a fiʃ ð' boy’s parınts had told him ðat ð' ōld man was now dıfinit’ly and fynaly ‘salao’, wič is ð' worst fōrm of unluky, and ð' boy had gon at ðır ōrdırs in anoðır bōt wič kawt þrī güd fiʃ ð' furst wīk.

In th’ furst foerty days a boy had bin with him. But after foerty days withowt a fish th’ boy’s parents had told him that th' oeld man was now definit’ly and fynaly ‘salao’, wich is th' worst foerm of unluky, and th' boy had gon at ther oerders in another boet wich kawt three guud fish th' furst week.

In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week.

İt mayd ð' boy sad to sī ð' old man kum in īč day wiþ his skif ımpty and hī always wınt down to hılp him kary iyðır ð' koyl’d lyns or ð' gaf and harpūn and ð' sayl ðat was fürl’d arownd ð' mast.

It mayd th' boy sad to see th' oeld man kum in eech day with his skif empty and hee always went down to help him kary iyther th' koyl'd lyns or th' gaf and harpuen and th' sayl that was fuurl'd arownd th' mast.

It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast.

Ð' sayl was patč’d wiþ flow’r saks and, fürl’d, it lūk’d lyk ð' flag of purmanınt dıfīt.

Th' sayl was patch'd with flow'r saks and, fuurl'd, it luek'd lyk th' flag of purmanent defeet.

The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.

Ð' ōld man was þin and gawnt wiþ dīp riŋk’ls in ð' bak of his nık. Ð' brown blotč’s of ð' bınıvōlint skin kansır ð' sun briŋs from its rıflıkʃin on ð' tropik sī wır on his čīks.

Th' oeld man was thin and gawnt with deep ringk'ls in th' bak of his nek. Th' brown blotch's of th' benevoelint skin kanser th' sun brings from its reflekshin on th' tropik see wer on his cheeks.

The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its [9] reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks.

Ð' blotč’s ran wıl down ð' syds of his fays and his hands had ð' dīp-krīs’d skars from handliŋ hıvy fiʃ on ð' kōrds. But nun uv ðīs skars wır frıʃ. Ðay wır as ōld as ırōʒins in a fiʃlıs dızirt.

Th' blotch's ran wel down th' siyds of his fays and his hands had th' deep-krees'd skars from handling hevy fish on th' koerds. But nun uv thees skars wer fresh. Thay wer as oeld as eroezhins in a fishlis dezirt. 

The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased

scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.

Iv’ryþiŋ abowt him wuz old ıksıpt hiz iys and ðay wır ð' saym kolır as ð' sī and wır čirful and undıfīt’d.

Ev'rything abowt him wuz old eksept hiz iys and thay wer th' saym kolir as th' see and wer chirful and undefeet'd.

Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.

“Santīagō,” ð' boy sıd to him as ðay klym’d ð' bank from wırr ð' skif was hawl’d up.

"Santeeagoe," th' boy sed to him as thay klym'd th' bank from wer th' skif wuz hawl'd up. 

“Santiago,” the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up.

“İ küd gō wiþ yū agin. Wī’v mayd sum mony.”

"I kuud goe with yue agin. Wee'v mayd sum mony."

“I could go with you again. We’ve made some money.”

Ð' ōld man had tawt ð' boy to fiʃ and ð' boy luv’d him.  

Th' oeld man had tawt th' boy to fish and th' boy luv'd him. 

The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.

“Nō,” ð' ōld man sıd. “Yū’r wiþ a luky bōt. Stay wiþ ðim.”

"Noe," th' oeld man sed. "Yue'r with a luky boet. Stay with thim."

“No,” the old man said. “You’re with a lucky boat. Stay with them.”

“But rīmimbur how yū wınt aytī-sıvin days wiþowt fiʃ and ðın wı kawt big ōns ıv’ry day for þrī wīks.”

"But reemimbur how yue went aytee-sevin days withowt fish and then wee kawt big oens ev'ry day for three weeks." 

“But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones

every day for three weeks.”

“İ rīmimbur,” ð' ōld man sıd. “İ ‘nō yū did not līv mī bıkuz yū dowt’d.”

"I reemimbur," th' oeld man sed. "I 'noe yue did not leev mee bekuz yue dowt'd."

“I remember,” the old man said. “I know you did not leave me because you doubted.”

“İt was papa mayd mī līv. İ am a boy and İ must ōbay him.”

"It was papa mayd mee leev. I am a boy and I must oebay him." 

“It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him.”

“İ ‘nō,” ð' ōld man sıd. “İt is kwiyt nōrmal.”

"I 'noe," th' oeld man sed. "It is kwyt noermal." 

“I know,” the old man said. “It is quite normal.”

“Hī hasn’t muč fayþ.”

"Hee hasn't much fayth."

“He hasn’t much faith.”

“Nō,” ð' old man sıd. “But wī hav. Havn’t wī?”

"Noe," th' old man sed. "But wee hav. Havn't wee?"

[10] “No,” the old man said. “But we have. Haven’t we?”

“Yıs,” ð' boy sıd. “Kan İ off’r yū a bir on ð' Tırris and ðın wī’ll tayk ð' stuf hōm.”

"Yes," th' boy sed. "Kan I off'r yue a bir on th' Terris and then wee'll tayk th' stuf hoem." 

‘Yes,” the boy said. “Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we’ll take the stuff home.”

“Wy not?” ð' ōld man sıd. “Bıtwīn fiʃırmin.”

"Wy not?" th' oeld man sed. "Between fishermin." 

“Why not?” the old man said. “Between fishermen.”

Ðay sat on ð' Tırris and many of ð' fiʃırmin mayd fun of ð' ōld man and hı was not aŋgrī. Oðırs, of ð' ōldır fiʃırmin, lūk’d at him and wir sad. But ðay did not ʃō it and ðay spōk polyt’ly abowt ð' kurint and ð' dıpþs ðay had driftıd ðayr lyns at and ð' stıdy güd wıðır and of wut ðay had sīn.

Thay sat on th' Terris and many of th' fishermin mayd fun of th' oeld man and hee was not angree. Others, of th' oelder fishermin, luek'd at him and wer sad. But thay did not shoe it and thay spoek poliyt'ly abowt th' kurint and th' depths thay had drift'd thayr lyns at and th' stedy guud wethur and of wut thay had seen. 

They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not

angry. Others, of the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and they spoke politely about the current and the depths they had drifted their lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen.