Positively Ellinwood Street: Translation

Language is one of the things we take most for granted in our daily lives. It is entirely essential to every social interaction we have. It is the medium by which we communicate, by which we are entertained, and often, by which we express ourselves creatively. It is also the verbal expression of the culture to which it belongs. For example, no word exists in Latin to describe the female friend of a man. Where "amicus" would describe the male friend of a man, the female form of that word ("amica") describes a mistress. In Spanish, the words for "to wait," "to hope," and "to expect," all go by the same name (esperar). While language and culture are not totally inseparable, they are intrinsically linked on a very basic level.

Given this sort of culture-specific nuance, I often wonder as I read a translated text, just what am I missing here? As I pour over the words, their literal meaning seems to bely an implication which I feel is lingering just beyond the boundaries of my understanding. This feeling is enhanced enormously by the fact that I have, on occasion, read the same text both in its original, and a translation--in these instances I can clearly perceive exactly when the meaning of a phrase or conversation has been altered in its new rendition, or even when the subtext of a given locution has been lost entirely. What a shame that these painstakingly crafted subtleties which might provide otherwise overlooked insight into a character or setting would be so unceremoniously cast off; orphaned by the neat little box into which all of the linguistic contrivances of a single culture fit.

Happily, though, many books are great enough that they are entirely worth reading despite the occasional inkling that some bit of the intended meaning has gone missing, and when a book is well-translated, you might circumvent such an event entirely--or at the very least, mostly.

These are some of my favorites;

Don Quixote (Miguel De Cervantes)