aster lit issue 12: translatability
editor theme reflections
Fiona Jin, Co-Editor-in-Chief
The linear perception of time implied by the English conjugation of verbs structures the past behind the present and the future, like a road: I wanted, I do not want, I will not want. Growing up in Beijing speaking Mandarin Chinese, however—a language whose verbs are never conjugated at all—I subtly understood time more like a three-dimensional art installation whose appearance changed depending on from what perspective you perceived it. I perceived the past as a part of the present, the present a part of the past. Even as I moved back to the American Midwest and began to write creatively in English, I always struggled to keep my tenses consistent: a form of translation without even using two different languages. I am who I am now: wheatfields, weeds, suburbia—but I am also who I “was:” gauzy smoke, steel factories, melt-blown sugar.
I want to say one more thing about verbs in Mandarin. The lack of conjugations means “要”—“want”—is often used to mean “will” with the completion particle 了. 我要回家, I want to go home, 我要回家了, I will go home. There’s something both beautiful and haunting in the idea of our future as the completion of our wants.
Zara Seldon, Co-Editor-in-Chief
Translation is not an exclusive process, nor is it always a conscious choice. Translation is an innate characteristic of the human existence—the vulnerability of slipping over consonants in your bold attempt at a three-way multilingual conversation, the subliminal shift between the phrases you use with your friends and with your parents, the gaps you are forced to fill when comprehending the language of various cultures.
As an everyday translator, I pore over grocery store dialogues in my AP Mandarin class, searching for ways to bridge the Chinese characters with my native tongue. How do methods of communication differ across languages, and how can I find common ground to ensure maximal understanding?
What I’ve learned in my inexperienced pursuit of language-to-language translation is that some words are better left untouched. In Mandarin, there is a phrase, 哪里哪里, which directly translates to “where, where?” In reality, this term reflects the selflessness that Chinese culture often perpetuates. My Mandarin teacher explained that while Americans emphasize confidence and use compliments to fuel their egos, the default response to a compliment in the Chinese language is “哪里哪里,” an expression of modesty that is stripped of all pride and self-interest: “I am not all that you claim I am.” There is no real way to translate “哪里哪里” in a manner that fits the flow of English conversation, and in these circumstances, I often choose to leave words in their original form, forcing readers to bridge the linguistic gaps themselves, find their own common ground. In doing so, they become active translators.
Of course, translation does not always take on a multilingual form. Sometimes, it can be as simple as transitioning from one speaking style to another. When I talk to my friends, I use “dude” and “bro” interchangeably. To my own detriment, I often don’t think before I speak, and end up spilling my every thought over boba tea and overpriced lavender ice cream. When I talk to my parents, I tread lightly over my words. I don’t want to appear ungrateful or let a random friendship-reserved thought loose into the ether. There are various modes of communication that I switch between on a subconscious level, and this, too, is translation.
When we translate, we often do so out of necessity. Whether it is between languages or cultural norms or ways of communicating, translation forges a path upon which we navigate the nuanced aspects of our lives. When we move from one method of expression to another, when we are forced to connect the parts of our experience that seem so intangibly different, we become humans in our most primitive form: messy and confused and trying to make sense of the worlds we inhabit.
Celina Simone, Co-Editor-in-Chief
With translation, I believe, something is always lost. Whether that’s the original author's intentions, a word that can’t be pushed into a new language, or the rhythm of a line, nothing can stay exactly the same because you’re going from one language to a brand new one. But this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Translation can be like making pasta. Obviously you start by boiling noodles, and then so you can eat them you must pour them through a strainer. As the noodles tangle together in the stomach of the strainer, all the water from which the noodles came from must be lost into the depths of the sink below. If you never strained your pasta, and were determined to hold on to all the water in your pot, you would have the worst noodle soup ever. As a translator you must be the pasta strainer. You have to know what of the original piece is worth letting go, and what you must hold on too. But just as pasta nourishes the stomach and gives a reason for us to sit around a table together, good translations satisfy the soul and can connect people around the world.
We should no longer look at the way words in translation change as a loss. Instead we should view it as an ultimate and necessary process that pushes literature further. What we may have given up from the original language, we have gained in a new community of readers who can savor the words too.
Tony Pan, Associate Editor
Throughout the countless years that human existence and civilizations has continuously been tested, weaving through the rises and collapses of societies, language remains an irreplaceable cornerstone of what defines us and the driver of collective growth. As creatives, we possess immense authority—and in turn, responsibility—to shape the course of languages for the future. I strongly believe in the use of intentionality when youth voices are compelled to speak up. The opportunity keenly lies within our palms—through the many approaches we may choose, outstanding symbols, diction, specific sonic structures, experimental trials, underlying messages. Not all ideas are translatable, and remain exclusive to a certain culture. In that perspective, language draws out authenticity, while stripping layers of purported masks.
Ultimately, the study of translatability invites us to reflect on the power and limitations of language as a tool for communication and connection. It encourages us to approach language with curiosity, humility, and a willingness to engage in dialogue across linguistic and cultural divides. The beauty resides amidst the unbridgeable gaps as we tiptoe and lean over each other, finally catching a glimpse and admiring it.
Sara Nath, Associate Editor
On some Tuesday mornings, my mother and I kneel on a thin woven rug with a pocket-sized book written in Sanskrit. I read haltingly. At points, my mother interjects to correct my pronunciation, and after each stanza, we pause to read the English translation beneath. The italicized English is purely for my benefit, but even then, English and Sanskrit are too different, both in context and lexicon, so my mother fills the gap with her own Hindi translation.
When we talk about translation, we tend to focus on what slips through the gaps — but there is so much more beauty beyond the loss.
All classic Hindu texts are written in Sanskrit, a language that hasn’t been spoken as a vernacular in almost eight hundred years — but through our three-language cascading translation, the stories embedded within my cultural inheritance come alive.
This is what translation does: it unites us across time and space. It’s a testament to the fundamental human desire to connect. However clumsy they may be, we humans build bridges.