Which language has the most words? Language records

At one of the symposia, four linguists met: an Englishman, a German, an Italian and a Russian. The conversation turned to languages. They began to argue, whose language is more beautiful, better, richer, and to which language does the future belong?

The Englishman said: “England is a country of great conquerors, sailors and travelers who spread the glory of its language to all corners of the world.

English language- the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron - undoubtedly best language in the world".

“Nothing like that,” said the German, “Our language is the language of science and physics, medicine and technology. The language of Kant and Hegel, the language in which the best work of world poetry is written – Goethe’s Faust.”

“You are both wrong,” the Italian entered into the argument, “Think, the whole world, all of humanity loves music, songs, romances, operas! What language are the best love romances and brilliant operas in? In the language of sunny Italy!

This greatly puzzled the interlocutors and all three said: “No, this is impossible in our languages.” Then the Russian replies: “But in our language this is quite possible, and I will now prove it to you. Name any letter." The German replied: “It’s all the same. The letter "P", for example."

“Great, here’s a story for you with this letter,” the Russian replied.

Pyotr Petrovich Petukhov, lieutenant of the fifty-fifth Podolsk Infantry Regiment, received a letter by mail full of pleasant wishes. “Come,” wrote the lovely Polina Pavlovna Perepelkina, “let’s talk, dream, dance, take a walk, visit a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond, go fishing. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, to stay as soon as possible.”

Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.

The train arrived after noon. Pyotr Petrovich was received by Polina Pavlovna’s most respected father, Pavel Panteleimonovich. “Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down more comfortably,” said dad. A bald nephew came up and introduced himself: “Porfiry Platonovich Polikarpov. Please, please."

The lovely Polina appeared. A transparent Persian scarf covered her full shoulders. We talked, joked, and invited us to lunch. They served dumplings, pilaf, pickles, liver, pate, pies, cake, half a liter of orange juice. We had a hearty lunch. Pyotr Petrovich felt pleasantly satiated.

After eating, after a hearty snack, Polina Pavlovna invited Pyotr Petrovich to take a walk in the park. In front of the park stretched a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond. We went sailing. After swimming in the pond we went for a walk in the park.

“Let’s sit down,” suggested Polina Pavlovna. Sit down. Polina Pavlovna moved closer. We sat and were silent. The first kiss sounded. Pyotr Petrovich got tired, offered to lie down, laid out his half-washed field cloak, and thought: this would come in handy. We lay down, rolled around, fell in love. “Pyotr Petrovich is a prankster, a scoundrel,” Polina Pavlovna said habitually.

“Let’s get married, let’s get married!” whispered the bald nephew. “Let’s get married, let’s get married,” the father approached in a deep voice. Pyotr Petrovich turned pale, staggered, then ran away. As I ran, I thought: “Polina Petrovna is a wonderful match, I’m really excited.”

The prospect of receiving a beautiful estate flashed before Pyotr Petrovich. I hastened to send an offer. Polina Pavlovna accepted the proposal and later got married. Friends came to congratulate us and brought gifts. Handing over the package, they said: “Wonderful couple.”

The interlocutors, linguists, having heard the story, were forced to admit that the Russian language is the best and richest language in the world.

The Englishman said: “England is a country of great conquerors, sailors and travelers who spread the glory of its language to all corners of the world. The English language – the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron – is undoubtedly the best language in the world.”

“Great, here’s a story for you with this letter,” the Russian replied.

Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.

The interlocutors, linguists, having heard the story, were forced to admit that the Russian language is the best and richest language in the world.

“Great, here’s a story for you with this letter,” the Russian replied.

Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.

The interlocutors, linguists, having heard the story, were forced to admit that the Russian language is the best and richest language in the world.

At one of the symposia, four linguists met: an Englishman, a German, an Italian and a Russian. We were talking about languages. They began to argue, whose language is more beautiful, better, richer, and to which language does the future belong?

The Englishman said: “England is a country of great conquerors, sailors and travelers who spread the glory of its language to all corners of the world. The English language - the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron - is undoubtedly the best language in the world.”

“Nothing like that,” said the German, “our language is the language of science and physics, medicine and technology. The language of Kant and Hegel, the language in which the best work of world poetry is written - Goethe’s Faust.”

“You are both Wrong,” the Italian entered into the argument, “think, the whole world, all of humanity loves music, songs, romances, operas! In what language are the best love romances and brilliant operas sounded? In the language of sunny Italy!”

The Russian was silent for a long time, listened modestly and finally said: “Of course, I could also say, like each of you, that the Russian language - the language of Pushkin, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Chekhov - is superior to all the languages of the world. But I will not follow your ways. Tell me, could you write a short story in your languages with a plot, with a consistent development of the plot, so that all the words of the story begin with the same letter? This greatly puzzled the interlocutors and all three said: “No, in Our Languages.” This is impossible." Then the Russian replies: "But in our language it is quite possible, and I will now prove it to you. Name any letter." The German replied: "It doesn't matter. The letter "P", for example."

“Great, here’s a Story for this Letter,” answered the Russian.

Pyotr Petrovich Petukhov, lieutenant of the fifty-fifth Podolsk infantry regiment, received a letter by mail full of pleasant wishes. “Come,” wrote the lovely Polina Pavlovna Perepelkina, “we’ll talk, dream, dance, take a walk, we’ll visit a half-forgotten, half-overgrown pond, we’ll go fishing. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, to stay as soon as possible.”

Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.

The train arrived in the afternoon. Pyotr Petrovich was received by Polina Pavlovna’s most respected father, Pavel Panteleimonovich. “Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down comfortably,” said dad. A bald nephew came up and introduced himself: “Porfiry Platonovich Polikarpov. We ask, we ask.”

“Let’s sit down,” Polina Pavlovna suggested. Sit down. Polina Pavlovna moved closer. We sat and were silent. The first kiss sounded. Pyotr Petrovich got tired, offered to lie down, laid out his half-washed field cloak, and thought: this would come in handy. We lay down, rolled around, fell in love. Pyotr Petrovich is a prankster, a scoundrel,” Polina Pavlovna said habitually.

“Let’s get married, let’s get married!” whispered the bald nephew. “Let’s get married, let’s get married,” the dad approached in a deep voice. Pyotr Petrovich turned pale, staggered, then ran away. As I ran, I thought: “Polina Petrovna is a Wonderful Party, I’ll take a steam bath.”

The interlocutors, linguists, having heard the story, were forced to admit that the Russian language is the best and richest language in the world.

“Great, here’s a story for you with this letter,” the Russian replied.

Petukhov liked the proposal. I figured: I’ll come. I grabbed a half-worn field cloak and thought: this will come in handy.

“Let’s sit down,” suggested Polina Pavlovna. Sit down. Polina Pavlovna moved closer. We sat and were silent. The first kiss sounded. Pyotr Petrovich got tired, offered to lie down, laid out his half-worn field raincoat, and thought: it would come in handy. We lay down, rolled around, fell in love. “Pyotr Petrovich is a prankster, a scoundrel,” Polina Pavlovna said habitually.

The interlocutors, linguists, having heard the story, were forced to admit that the Russian language is the best and richest language in the world.