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For most language learners and lovers, translation is a hot topic. Should I translate new vocabulary into my first language? How can I say x in Japanese? Is this translated novel as good as the original? I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been told that Pushkin isn’t Pushkin unless he’s read in Russian, and I have definitely chastised my own students for anxiously writing out lengthy bilingual wordlists: Paola, you’ll only remember trifle if you learn it in context!

Context-based learning aside, I’m all for translation: without it, we wouldn’t understand each other. However, I remain unconvinced that untranslatable words really exist. In fact, I wrote a blog post on some of my favorite Russian words that touched on this very topic. Looking at the responses it received both here and in the Twitterverse, I decided to set out on my own linguistic odyssey: could I wrap my head around ‘untranslatable’ once and for all?

It’s all Greek to me!

Many lovely people of the internet are in accordance: untranslatable words are out there, and they’re fascinating. A quick Google brings up articles, listicles, and even entire blogs on the matter. Goya, jayus, dépaysement — all wonderful words that neatly convey familiar concepts, but also “untranslatable” words that appear accompanied by an English definition. This English definition may well be longer and more complex than the foreign-language word itself (Oxford translates dépaysement as both “change of scenery” and “disorientation,” for example), but it is arguably a translation nonetheless. A lot of the coffee-break reads popping up on the internet don’t contain untranslatable words, but rather language lacking a word-for-word English equivalent. Is a translation only a translation if it is eloquent and succinct?

Translation vs. definition

When moving from one language to another, what’s a translation and what’s a definition — and is there a difference? Brevity seems to matter: the longer the translation, the more likely it is to be considered a definition. Does this make it any less of a translation? When we translate, we “express sense;” when we define, we “state or describe exactly the nature, scope, or meaning.” If I say that toska (Russian) means misery, boredom, yearning, and anguish, is that a definition or a translation? Or even both? It is arguably a definition — yet all of the nouns above could, dependent on context, be used as the best translation.

If we are to talk about what is translatable and what isn’t, we need to start talking about language, rather than words. The Spanish word duende often features in lists of untranslatable words: it refers to the mystical power by which an artist or artwork captivates its audience. Have I just defined duende, or translated it? I for one am not so sure anymore, but I do know that in context, its meaning is clear: un cantante que tiene duende becomes “a singer who has a certain magic about him.” The same goes for the French word dépaysement. By itself, dépaysement can mean many things, but in the phrase les touristes anglais recherchent le dépaysement dans les voyages dans les îles tropicales, it’s clear from context that the sense required is “change of scene” (“English tourists look for a change of scene on holidays to tropical islands”). Does this mean that all words are translatable, as long they are in context?

Saying no to stereotypes

One of my biggest beefs with untranslatable word memes is the suggestion that these linguistic treasure troves are loaded with cultural inferences. Most of the time they’re twee, rather than offensive: for example, the German word Waldeinsamkeit means “the feeling of being alone in the woods.” Gosh, how typical of those woodland-loving Germans, wandering around the Black Forest enjoying oneness with nature! The existence of an “untranslatable” word hints at some kind of cultural mystery that is beyond our comprehension — but does the lack of a word-for-word translation of Waldeinsamskeit mean that no English speaker (or French speaker, or Mandarin speaker) can understand the concept of being alone in the woods? Of course not! However, these misinterpretations of Waldeinsamskeit, Schadenfreude, Backpfeifengesicht et al. make me think: what about those words that really do have a particular cultural resonance? Can we really translate them?

Excuse me, can I borrow your word?

Specialized translation throws up its own variety of “untranslatable” words. For example, if you are translating a text about the Russian banya into a language where steam baths are not the norm, how do you go about translating nouns such as venik (веник)? A venik is a broom, but in the context of the banya it is a collection of leafy twigs (rather than dried twigs) that is used to beat those enjoying the restorative steam. Translating venik as “broom” here would be wildly inaccurate (and probably generate some amusing mental images). The existence of a word-for-word translation doesn’t provide the whole answer if cultural context is missing. We can find examples of “untranslatable” words in relation to almost any culture-specific event, be it American Thanksgiving, Spanish bullfighting, or Balinese Nyepi. If I were to translate an article about bullfighting and retain tienta rather than use “trial” (significantly less specific), does that mean that tienta in this context is really untranslatable?

So what has all this research taught me about translation? Individual words may not be translatable, but language is. And as for the accuracy of the translation? That often depends on how we, as speakers of a particular language, attribute our own meaning. Sometimes, the “translation” just has to be Schadenfreude.

What do you think? Are some words untranslatable? Share your thoughts in the “Translation and language-learning” board of the Oxford Dictionaries Community.

A version of this blog post first appeared on the OxfordWords blog.

Featured image: Timeless Books by Lin Kristensen. CC-BY-2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

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What is English? Ask any speaker of English, and the answer you get may be “it’s what the dictionary says it is.” Or, “it’s what I speak.” Answers like these work well enough up to a point, but the words that make it in the dictionary are not always the words we hear being used around us. And the language of any one English speaker can differ significantly in pronunciation and word order from the English of another, particularly today, when two out of three English speakers have learned English as a second or third language. In What Is English? And Why Should We Care?, Tim Machan addresses these deceptively complex questions in order to suggest the ways in which definitions of English always depend on speakers’ definitions of themselves.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Tim Machan is Professor of English at the University of Notre Dame. His books include What Is English? And Why Should We Care?, English in the Middle Ages, Language Anxiety, and Vafþrúðnismál.

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Below are a few definitions of important words used to define areas of writing.  It should give you food for thought when revising or writing the first draft of your novel.

TROUPE

Common pattern in a story.  The story or a recognizable attribute in a character that conveys information to the audience.  If over used , it can become a cliché and sadly, some of these troupes often perpetuates offensive stereotypes.

CHEKHOV’S GUN

Chekhov’s Gun is a literary technique whereby an unimportant element introduced early in the story becomes significant later on. For example, a character may find a mysterious necklace that turns out to be the power source to evil, but at the time of finding the object it does not seem important.

Many people consider the phrase “Chekhov’s gun” synonymous with foreshadowing (and they are related), but statements the author made about the Gun can be more properly interpreted as “do not include any unnecessary elements in a story.”  Like Foreshadowing, the object’s importance often goes unnoticed by the audience, and becomes clear only in retrospect, or during a second viewing.

Used properly, this rule gives the item in question some degree of presence before being used, enough to prevent appearing like the writer is pulling something out of thin air that might jar and/or grate on the reader’s willingness to suspend disbelief. It can, however, turn out to be a red herring later on.

DENOUEMENT 

Dénouement (pronounced day-noo-mahn) is French for “unknotting”, and means the point in the story when mysteries are unraveled, fates are determined and explanations are made. It is not, as is commonly believed, synonymous with climax: This is the aftermath of the action, not the peak. It is usually the scene after the climax — although, it can happen in such close proximity to the events of the climax that it may appear to be part of its final moments.  Not all stories have dénouements.

How final and extensive it is depends on the scale of the plot — and whether there may be a sequel. This is where you would put in a “Sequel Hook”, if you envision a series.

For a happy ending or even a bittersweet ending, this is generally where the happiness is shown. This is the place where many of the usual rules, directed at keeping the conflict going, are suspended.  If “The Hero” and “The Love Interest” marry at the climax, the dénouement may show them happily waiting for the birth of a child, or cooing over the child.

In the unhappy ending or even the bittersweet ending, the tragedy is often allowed to ease off. “The Hero” dies at the climax; the Dénouement shows his funeral, or his friends raising their glasses to their absence friend. The star-crossed lovers had to part; the Dénouement shows them going on with their lives, however sadly.

If too long, your reader will suffer from ending fatigue. If it’s missing, there’s no ending.

FOIL

Over the years, jewelers often put shiny metal foil underneath a gem to make the stone shine brighter. A literary foil is someone who highlights another character’s trait, usually by contrast, but sometimes by competing with him, making snarky remarks, or egging him on.

Sidekicks often serve as foils to the hero by being something the hero himself is not.  Example: a calm and pragmatic sidekick when the hero is hotheaded.

Any two characters or character types can serve as foils to each other. There is a large number of character types that exist primarily for the purpose of being a foil, usually to the main character.

In the classic good-guy versus bad guy sc

It’s been said that, “When you look at your life, the greatest happiness [es] are family happiness [es].” One of the questions, for me, is whether that statement is true or not.

I’ve had many happy moments in my life with and without family members in attendance. I tend to focus on how one quantifies happiness.

Does extreme happiness always have to be accompanied by tears, for instance? Or, is such a deep emotion as true happiness so overpowering that expression of any kind is beyond the ability of the one experiencing it?

What about a lack of happiness? I’ve seen occasions when great sorrow, not happiness, was what took over when family arrived. Where does a person draw the line of family involvement in one’s personal happiness?

Here’s another example of relevant questions. How many degrees of happiness does a person feel and does everyone feel the same degrees of that emotion and label them the same way? I don’t think anyone has a definitive answer to either of these questions simply because each person’s emotional thermometer registers feelings differently based on personal experience.

When you realize how genuinely moved a person is to meet you, does that evoke great happiness, sweet satisfaction, or deep humility coupled with gratitude. If humility, does that constitute a portion of happiness? If you feel satisfaction only, does that mean that conceit has crept into your thermometer?

You see how complicated emotional definitions and signals are? What if you feel nothing at all except seeming boredom when someone exhibits excitement at shaking your hand and talking with you face-to-face? After all, this could be a cousin that you’ve never met before.

Does your lack of emotion mean that you really don’t want to know any more family, that you’re too important to worry about those on the fringe of the family, or that you’re just a jerk?

Or, could it mean, as it does with me, that caution and trust issues rule your actions and responses during first meetings?

Circumstances dictate our responses to events in our lives. The exact experience also contributes to those responses, as well as the circumstances immediately preceding an event.

For instance, many years ago, when I was teaching in an elementary school, I’d gone outside during recess. I needed some quiet time without children’s voices in my ears or designs on my next thought. I spent my ten minutes breathing in the scent of blooming forsythia and tulips in nearby private yards, listening to birds announcing their romantic intentions, and generally decompressing. The afternoon sun warmed my face and hands, clean air wafted past my nose, and a sense of rightness filled me.

On my way back to the classroom, a curious sensation flooded my body. I stopped walking. I closed my eyes and felt my whole body fill with blinding light from the inside. I could see it, behind my eyelids, flooding through me. Such a wave of pure joy washed over me that there were no words, no other sensations, no sound. All else in the world fell away, leaving me held within this personal lightshow.

It ended, and I nearly cried. I felt in that instant the most amazing happiness. I’ve yearned for another taste of it ever since. I wait for the day I can feel that sensation, that joy, again. Where it came from, or why it came, I have no idea. I don’t care.

I only know that that one blazing event taught me more about joy than a lifetime of other experiences. Nothing can compare to it. I wish everyone could have their own instant of pure joy that they can aspire to feel it again.

What constitutes family? Does it come only in the form of childbirth placement, bringing baby home from the hospital, and then living with this new creature long enough to include them in the family photo carried inside your heart?

For myself, I’ve adopted people into my heart and my family many times during my adulthood. Yesterday I talked briefly about one man and his whole family whom I adopted in the 1990’s. Today, I chose to talk about another. Before I do, I want to explain one point.

I believe that as adults we adopt, whether acknowledged or not, those people who help define us to ourselves. Lou was one who encouraged me to play and not be so serious all the time, to relax without losing focus, to enjoy without dismissing the importance of other things. He and his family taught me many things. Through them I gained a broader understanding of the quality of family.

My first adopted sister was a college roommate. She and I survived tuna casseroles and pasta staples for a school year in a tiny apartment that gave us independence and an opportunity to exercise by walking to classes a mile away. We grew as people and as sisters.

Her family adopted me. I gathered them all into my expanding basket of potential family members. Cheryl was the first person to encourage me to write, who, in fact, sat down with me in off time and helped me write my first science fiction book. We wrote seamlessly together.

When she graduated at the end of that year, the book ended, but not the dream or intent of writing. Our friendship and sisterhood didn’t falter there, either. She named me Maid of Honor for her wedding, named me Godmother of her girls as they came along, and drove with her husband for two hours to be there for me at my mother’s funeral. She loved my mom almost as much as I did after having met her only a couple of times.

We no longer get the time to talk like we once did. Her life of motherhood, wife, and work keep her busy. My youngest goddaughter is getting married before long. I’d love to be there for that.

Throughout these many years of our friendship, Cheryl and I have remained connected. We could meet tomorrow and pick up conversations where we’d left off twenty years ago. That’s the kind of relationship we have. I would feel comfortable in her newly renovated kitchen; a kitchen I remember sitting in several times with her and her family, laughing, kibitzing, sharing.

I could rummage around in her new fridge and grab whatever I wanted to eat at midnight and not feel a bit of guilt or distress, because she’d be more upset if I didn’t feed my hunger. That’s part of who she is. I’m family, after all.

And while we’ve been separated by thousands of miles since the mid-eighties, we manage to talk once in a while, catch up, and commiserate. If we’re very lucky, one of these days we’ll meet somewhere for a few days and just play, shop, and laugh like we did at BSU. That would be a capper.

Yet, the real capper to the whole story is that my mother adopted Cheryl into her heart as well. I guess I followed my mother’s habits more than most realized. Mom tended to adopt all sorts of people, sometimes as much out of necessity as anything else.

In the end, I suppose, family is defined by those we hold close in our hearts, our thoughts, and our memories. I would be a lesser person if I’d never known this sweet lady with a smile that shines across a room and a generous spirit who holds true to her convictions and faith, regardless of provocation.

Like Lou and his family, Cheryl helped me define myself and what family really means for me. That’s what more important than bloodlines.

The way I see it, family is all relative.