The Myth of Untranslatable Words

On the in-between of language and often, motherhood.

I love “untranslatable words”. I love the many, many, many books on “untranslatable words”, especially if they are illustrated. I (mostly) love when writers mention “untranslatable words” in essays and books and I get that the idea that somewhere, someone, knows exactly the feeling you’re trying to convey and describe on paper in just one word (!) is poetic, romantic and a dream gift for a writer. I love that words like schadenfreude, hygge and tsudonku exist. I (mostly) love how talking about “untranslatable words” gets people thinking about other languages, other cultures and hopefully, opens their minds to something new.

But I also don’t believe in “untranslatable words”. Not really.

Illustration by Anjana Iyer

This illustration by Anjana Iyer from her Found in Translation series inspired this newsletter. I wasn’t planning on writing about untranslatable words, but I came across this image accompanying the Japanese word tsudonku and was immediately drawn to how the books are in a baby carriage! (In Japanese, tsudonku refers to constantly acquiring new books without necessarily reading them so they start to pile up. Hence, the characters, “pile up" (積) and "read" (読).) The reason I love when “untranslatable words” are accompanied by illustrations is it adds additional layers of interpretation and meaning. In this case, the illustrator’s perspective and mine as the reader/viewer.

I interpret tsudonku here as all the books I haven’t read (and written…yet) because I am a mother. Not only is there a pram in the hallway, but it is also filled with unread books! (If you don’t know the pram-in-the-hallway reference, forget I mentioned it.) But, for someone else, this illustrated interpretation perhaps refers to the sort-of coddling of new, unread and precious books. There is also potentially a reference to the newness in the pram while the other books are left piled up on the floor. I love all these interpretations and the entire series. You can see more here. 

But back to why I don’t really believe in untranslatable words, or when I say I don’t believe, I think considering words untranslatable perpetuates idea of othering: the us and them, the idea that speakers of one language understand something that speakers of another do not, that someone belongs and someone else does not. Some would argue that this is exactly why there is the fascination, because certain languages and cultures recognize these concepts and ideas linguistically, so they are different than us, sometimes better, sometimes darker or dreamier but different. In language and culture, different is a loaded term. Just because English doesn’t have a one-word equivalent of komorebi (Japanese for sunlight filtered through trees) doesn’t mean the sunlight does not shine filtered through the trees for English speakers. 

But what about something like hygge, you ask. Of course, different cultures practise different rituals, have different routines and everyone lives specific lives to their time and place. But even if someone doesn’t practise hygge, it does not mean they don’t know the concept of cosy.

In (my) ideal world, language unites, brings people together, lost-in-translation moments are opportunities to connect, to go beyond the spoken, signed, written word and to simply, communicate. Yes, there is nuance and cultural significance but rather than calling them “untranslatable words” and marvelling about how there is one word for this or that in another language but not our own, perhaps the solution is to start incorporating these words into our every-day vernacular when we are looking for that one, perfect word. Translanguaging!

I do, however, wholeheartedly believe in translation and am fascinated by the act of it, the vast difference between translating and interpreting and how people spend their professional, and often personal lives moving effortlessly between two languages so that books, articles, documents are accessible to as many people as possible. I love to read about the complex process of translation and how much skill, effort and perseverance it takes to get it just right, using one, or multiple words. I wrote about some of that here including this line:

“Translation is constant choice and endless sacrifice, a search for meaning in chaos and a call for interpretation at the most profound level, as is motherhood.”

When word-for-word translation is not adequate and as I’ve written before, more uncommon than we think, translators may use adaptation, borrowing, loanwords, calque, paraphrasing, compensation and other tools. In the practice of adaptation, for example, the translator draws on other words or phrases to convey the meaning and connotation of the original text. There are also many fragments of equivalence in translation: word-level, grammatical, textual and pragmatic.

When I say I don’t believe in untranslatable words, I don’t deny they exist, but I think they often leave us yearning for what is not ours or trying to comfort ourselves with something we consider belonging to someone else. We have the same feelings, the same desires, even if our experiences are different and even if we do not have the language for it. The idea of untranslatable words adds to a collective obsession of defining, of creating borders and a sense of straightforwardness when sometimes, there are none. Untranslatable words fill what are considered cultural or lexical gaps in certain languages but that in-between does not always need filling.

One of the often-cited parts of Eva Hoffman’s moving 1989 memoir, Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language is when the author, who I have had the pleasure of meeting not long ago, discusses tęsknota, the Polish word that Hoffman defines as, “a word that adds to nostalgia the tonalities of sadness and longing.” Saudade in Portuguese is often noted as an equivalent. Perhaps there is no word-for-word equivalent in English, but we all know the feeling of longing and sadness. Sometimes, multiple words, with some etymology thrown into the mix, do more work and convey a feeling just as well as one word. I am thinking here of these Kundera and McCullers quotes about nostalgia and longing:

“The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So, nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.”
― Milan Kundera, Ignorance

(Kundera wrote Ignorance in French and it was translated into English by Linda Asher.)

“We are homesick most for the places we have never known.”
― Carson McCullers

The idea of untranslatable words often reminds me of the ideals of motherhood: we want quick fixes, neat boxes, succinct explanations, a tidy summary of how and what. But, in reality, none of those exist.

In the spirit of loving untranslatable words even if I do not believe in them, I leave you with a list of motherhood-related and motherhood-inspired words in different languages. Please add any of your favourites in the comments.

Kaelling (Danish): a mother on her doorstep yelling at her children.

Gigil (Tagalog): the feeling of wanting to pinch or squeeze something, like a baby, that is unbearably cute.

Kyōiku mama (教育ママ) (Japanese, pejorative): a stereotyped figure in Japan of a mother who pushes her children to academic excellence.

Hyo (Korean 효): “dutiful”, describing the sense of duty and responsibility children have towards their parents.

Faamiti (Samoan): a high-pitched squeaking noise made by sucking air through tightly sealed lips in order to get attention from a pet or child.

Vabba (Swedish): colloquial, to take time off to care for a sick child.

(Of course Swedish has a term for that!)