English is wonderfully concise, concentrating a great deal of meaning into relatively few words. Other languages, such as Romanian and French, struggle to follow suit, and that struggle goes beyond a translation problem; it’s a clash between worlds in which tenses and modes are meaning-making, and nuances, if not whole concepts, risk slipping through the cracks of imperfect translatability, as I have learned through my work as a translator, and through my philosophical incursions.
To be is arguably clean across the three languages, capturing potential outside of time and space, an abstract seed that’s just as clearly expressed in a fi and être. But the next step is already problematic: been conveys something that is temporally situated, with a concrete sense of completion, and the copulative value demands further qualifications. What is more, the Perfect mode creates what is called a bridging tense, connecting past to present in a way that neither Romanian nor French can manage. Where (am) fost and (j’ai) été are unidimensional, the English branches into (I) was and (I) have been, thus precluding identity between the three languages. Finally, being introduces an additional grammatical category that further complicates any attempt at establishing a strict equivalence. Being is not just a gerund of the verb to be, but also the noun that conceptualizes existence; it captures both process and result, thus illustrating in a most poignant manner the ontological force of the word. In this instance too, the Romanian fiind and the French étant lag behind – the gerund form exists, but the concept underneath it is poorly formulated, and thus weak.
For someone who has spent decades translating worlds into words, these difficulties are hardly surprising. What did come as a surprise was how such challenges arise even when translating – or, rather, attempting to translate – something as fundamental as philosophy. Fundamental and universal, one might say. And yet, even the universality of philosophy appears to be conditional on language, for what other way can there be to convey its contents?
And the be-been-being problem is as relevant in philosophy as anywhere else. When Descartes famously posited Je pense, donc je suis, he was counting on a generous interpretation of to be as to exist, even though the formulation would seem to require a further qualification. English inherited the same incompleteness in its I think, therefore I am. Romanian somehow took the high road and made it explicit: Gândesc, deci exist. A cheeky move for a language that hasn’t contributed much to universal philosophy, one might say. A language that still has a few tricks up its sleeve, as will soon become apparent.
But before we go there, let’s stop for a minute to consider what Descartes’s formulation opens the door to: the concept of a mind endowed with consciousness. It’s safe to assume that all languages have some way to convey this concept, but I’m content to look at how English, French, and Romanian deal with it. English is remarkably particular about it, as the word consciousness maps cleanly onto the concept it represents. French and Romanian require a detour through phenomenology: conscience and conștiință are ambiguous in their bare forms, as they conflate consciousness with conscience. And while it may seem that adding an extra word is merely a question of form – after all, where’s the problem in using conștiință fenomenală or conscience phénoménale? – I would argue that the matter shifts too, if only slightly: adding the qualifier, that is, specifying what kind of conștiință / conscience we’re dealing with might suggest that the relationship between conscience and consciousness is one of subordination, with conștiință fenomenală being a subcategory of conștiință, and conscience phénoménale a subcategory of conscience, respectively. A wrong conclusion, to be sure, but one that further illustrates the depths of confusion that language can engender, even within a monolingual culture. Translation into English saves the day, but it’s a rare exception, rather than the rule.
Differences also exist in how the various phenomena of consciousness are conveyed in the three different languages, and these differences reflect variations in the degree to which such phenomena are conceived of as abstract or somatic. English speaks of that which happens in the mind. French makes it more embodied in its ce qui se passe dans la tête. Romanian, once again, proves more expressive, or more flexible, as it can make sense of both ce-ți trece prin minte and ce-ți trece prin cap. Granted, analytical philosophers such as Gilbert Ryle have examined the connection between mind and head – and dismissed it as illusory – but the fact remains that, at the level of natural languages, even something as fundamental and universal as thinking, and in particular how we think about thinking, is shaped by cultural factors.
Naturally, the above are but a handful of examples. What they all have in common is that they illustrate not just the limits of our individual worlds as defined by the languages underpinning individual cultures, but also the creative potential of translation. When we translate with a keen awareness of the worlds we’re moving between, we create bridges, using what we have in common to integrate what makes us different, thus bringing new worlds into existence. Worlds that we then inhabit, shaping them further and allowing them to shape us.
Author Bio
A long-time translator, driven by curiosity and passionate about exploring the limits of the worlds I inhabit, I have often reflected on languages and all the ways they shape the human psyche, individually and culturally. Having majored in English and French 20 years ago, I am currently pursuing a degree in Cognitive Sciences, in English, while also exploring philosophy of mind and seeking to expand my understanding of consciousness and its phenomena.
