Words create

Ignorance, Nostalgia, Homesickness

In his book Ignorance, Milan Kundera offers an etymological comparison of various European terms for the Greek concept of nostalgia, which powerfully demonstrates how nuances in language are difficult to translate into other languages. Even when languages have a common linguistic heritage, achieving equivalency of meaning in translation is often impossible. One must negotiate not only words (symbols), but cultural attitudes, norms, conventions: 

The Greek word for ‘return’ is nostos. Algos means ‘suffering’. So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. To express that fundamental notion most Europeans can utilize a word derived from the Greek (nostalgia, nostalgie) as well as other words with roots in their national languages: añoranza, say the Spaniards; saudade, say the Portuguese. In each language these words have a different semantic nuance. Often they mean only the sadness caused by the impossibility of returning to one's country: a longing for country, for home. What in English is called "homesickness." Or in German: Heimweh. In Dutch: heimwee. But this reduces that great notion to just its spatial element. One of the oldest European languages, Icelandic (like English)  makes a distinction between two terms: söknuður: nostalgia in its general sense; and heimþrá : a longing for the homeland. Czechs have the Greek-derived nostalgie as well as their own noun stesk, and their own verb; the most moving Czech expression of love: styska se mi po tobe ("I yearn for you," "I'm nostalgic for you"; "I cannot bear the pain of your absence"). In Spanish, añoranza comes from the verb anorar (to feel nostalgia), which comes from the Catalan enyorar, itself derived from the Latin word ignorare (to be unaware of , not know, not experience; to lack or miss). In that etymological light nostalgia seems something like the pain of ignorance, of not knowing. You are far away, and I don't know what has become of you. My country is far away, and I don't know what is happening there. Certain languages have problems with nostalgia: the French can only express it by the noun from the Greek root, and have no verb for it. They can say  Je m'ennuie de toi (I miss you), but the word s'ennuyer is weak, cold - anyhow too light for so grave a feeling.  The Germans rarely use the Greek-derived term Nostalgie, and tend to say Sehnsucht in speaking of the desire for an absent thing. But Sehnsucht can refer both to something that has existed and to something that has never existed (a new adventure), and therefore it does not necessarily imply the nostos idea: to include in Sehnsucht the obsession with returning would require adding a complementary phrase: Sehnsucht nach der Vergangenheit, nach der verlorenen Kindheit, nach der ersten Liebe (longing for the past, for lost childhood, for a first love).

Kundera, Milan. (2002). Ignorance, trans. Linda Asher, London: Faber, pages 5-7

Language Lessons

Dads can be helpful people. They know how to do things, important things. They know a little bit about helping kids too. Children rely on dads to help them with very important things. For instance, we were raising our English-speaking children in Germany, where German was more or less their primary, or first, language. We spoke English at home, as they would not be exposed to it at the Kindergarten or while playing with their German friends. 

One morning the opportunity to help my daughter with finer points of English grammar presented itself. 

“L’gus stop! I want be leave alone!” 

“Wait, Emony!” he begged, following her down the stairs. 

“No, I want be leave alone!” she cried. 

The patter from the Treppenhaus was louder. She made it to the Eingang and didn’t know where to turn. 

Lukas stopped behind her, well within her personal space. She was agitated. She was trapped. 

“Emony!” 

“I want be leave alone! Stop it, L’gus!” 

I turned and looked up from the table where I was working on a very important task. Dads always work on very important tasks that are, well, important. However, I wanted to help her out of her situation. Not her sense of being trapped by her six-year-old brother, who also had something important to do; he needed a playmate. No, what she needed was a language lesson. 

“I want be leave alone!” 

Her cheeks were blushed, dark pink. She was irritated by her brother’s unwanted attention. 

“Emily,” I said at last, looking up at my three-year-old, still in her cute H & M red plaid jammies. “We say, ‘I want to be left alone’. Not ‘I want be leave alone.’ Can you say that? ‘I want to be left alone.’” 

She looked at me. She was quiet. I was confident that this little bit of instruction in using the passive voice would be a welcome corrective. 

“Can you say that?” I asked again. 

She was quiet. She stared – glared, actually - straight at me. In a passionate tone, she said to me, “Leave me alone!” Then she walked away. 

Dads are not always very helpful. 

Lesson learned.



Note: Treppenhaus is the stairwell; Eingang is the foyer. Kindergarten is, well, you know.

Welcome to my site.  Whereas I have yet to post anything significant, interesting, or annoying, my intentions are good, or at least important to me.  I wanted a place where I can reflect on readings, philosophies, languages and language acquisition, and works in translation.

This site is titled "Sprachvernügen" as it is intended to explore the pleasures and enjoyment of language, in particular written language as the expression of ideas situated in culture and interpreted through culture.

As I am currently attempting to finish my dissertation on the measurement of personal epistemology in relation to information seeking behavior, my posts may be infrequent for the time being.  Once that work is behind me, I will be able to devote more time to other interesting pursuits, like discourse analysis.

At any rate, thanks for checking this out.