CHAPTER 2

Senses and Inspirations

 Introduction       

Homophonic translation is a relatively difficult task compared to other translation strategies that are not that dependant on sound, but rather emphasize content and poetical devices. This section is devoted to the exploration of reasons for undertaking the task of homophonic translation.

There are several factors that may influence someone to indulge in this task; they range from one’s sensitivity to sounds, to sensitivity to language, from playing with the language, to the desire to learning it. One may be influenced by one or more of these factors, depending on their particular background or influences; nevertheless, it is important to remember that there are variations inherent to the four factors. In the first section, for instance, which examines how sensitivity to sound may play an important role in one’s interest in homophonic translation, I introduce the perspective of blind people who, commonly, are, or rather, have to, be more sensitive to sounds surrounding them. I certainly do not mean to imply, however, that sighted people are not able to appreciate the acute differences in sounds. One of the reasons for concentrating on blind people is the number of documented cases that describe this phenomenon more specifically. Equally interesting might be studies of music lovers who are likely as sensitive to sound as are the blind, but this exceeds the parameters of the present study.

The same holds true for the other factors mentioned. Sensitive to languages is not only to be expected among foreigners but also among those interested in studying different languages who are no less susceptible to the smallest variations between languages. With these remarks in mind, the reader may, I hope, proceed through the chapter, aware that what I present is a case in point, rather than an effort to privilege one group over others.

Sensitivity to Sound

Blindness is commonly associated with music: throughout centuries, blind people have been earning their living by performing on various instruments or singing. This has happened not out of coincidence, but because of their sharpened, more acute hearing. In many traditional societies music is not written down, so there is no alternative but to listen to others playing and imitating them. As Simon Ottenberg tells the story of Sayo Kamara, a blind musician from Bafodea Town in Sierra Leone, he comments:

After blindness set in, Sayo became serious about the kututeng [a traditional folk instrument in Africa]. He listened to others playing it. He imitated them informally, learning from them, but not, he [Sayo] says, from any single person. Most Bafodea instruments are learned in this way, for there is no formal apprenticeship system for musicians as there is for blacksmiths, and musical skills do not necessarily run in families. (Ottenberg, 1996:54)

It is not uncommon to meet blind people who dedicate their lives to music and Sayo is not an exception, but one of many confirmations of this phenomenon. When Ottenberg presents a biography of another blind musician from Bafodea, Marehu Mansaray, he paints the same image: AI have heard him in the early morning, as he walks the streets of Bafodea Town alone, playing his instrument for the pleasure of it, sometimes singing softly to himself (Ibid, 1996:136).

The image of a blind person earning his/her living on music is not necessarily linked only to traditional societies, although doubtlessly there are less alternatives there; yet the same image may be  transferred to the industrialized world, i.e. to places like Chicago where Joseph Witek has conducted a study of  blind blues musicians. His study offers an interesting analysis of the image of a blind musician, since he splits it in two images opposite to each other:

The blindness myth comes in two main forms. The best-known image is that of the blind genius, doomed and gifted by fate to trade his eyesight in return for his artistic talent. Here, the singer’s blindness enforces an almost mythical communion between the performer and his art; the “blind genius” tradition in Western culture stretches from Homer to Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder. The other, mostly negative image is that of the suffering blues singer begging with a tin cup. (Black Music Research Journal 1988:178)

The distinction between the positive and negative image of a blind musician is significant, because it shows that not every blind person loves music from the childhood and henceforth is bound to succeed in performing music. At the same time, however, this differentiation reinforces the idea that it is relatively easy for the blind to become musicians, no matter whether it is their life passion or necessity.

Nowadays, sensitivity to sounds is used not only for recreating music, but also for sound engineering. Sound engineering requires an acute sensitivity to sounds and detecting the smallest differences between them, and it becomes, one might argue, a myth/image of a “modern” blind musician. An e-mail exchange with a blind sound engineer, Tom Kingston from the MIDI-MAG mailing list, a list of blind musicians interested in audio and MIDI production, provides interesting insights into Tom’s sensitivity to music and sounds.

When asked how he became aware of the importance of sounds in his life, he responds:

It was definitely through playing music and learning how to distinguish the subtle changes in sound that would result from changes in how you controlled the instrument. For example, the changes in tone, attack, and decay, rather than just volume when playing hard or soft.

It is clear that for Tom the word ‘sound’ is a very general term. To illustrate this, it is enough to look at Webster Dictionary’s definition of a “Musical Tone,” which is in itself a complex one:

a) a sound that is distinct and identifiable by its regularity of vibration, or constant pitch (as distinguished from a noise), and that may be put into harmonic relation with other such sounds b) the simple or fundamental tone of a musical sound as distinguished from its overtness c) any one of the full intervals of a diatonic scale; whole step d) any of several recitation melodies used in singing.

A brief definition of an ‘attack’ is the promptness and precision in beginning a musical passage or phrase, while a decay means a decline of sound, i.e. in the end of a song. The “tone,” “attack,” and “decay” are only examples that Tom has described the sound with, but it is important to remember that there are more elements of the ‘sound’ that he has to consider. When asked if he had difficulty in deciding whether to dedicate his life to his current profession--which would enforce a mythical image of a gifted blind musician discussed by Witek--he responds: “It was definitely an easy and natural choice. Music has been an integral part of my life since I was a young child. And pursuing a career in something I love is truly a blessing to me.”

My own experience with music is so integrated into my life that I hardly realize it at times. I am not a music virtuoso (I used to play the violin and the piano), but the reliance and “trust” in sounds is an everyday phenomenon. My trust in people’s personality, for instance, is largely based on my reception of their voices (at least when I meet them for the first time). Since I cannot see the expressions on people’s faces, nor can I see their gestures, I have learned to rely on my judgment of their voices.

A voice may, for instance, sound harsh (staccato-like), with short, sometimes unfinished words and brief breaks between them,  or mild (legato-like), with smoothness, which tells me if a person is under stress or pressure, the mildness is a sign of relaxation and calmness. The person may speak slowly or very fast, which indicates his/her way of acting (i.e. having high or low energy level). A person may also speak loud or soft, as well as use a uniform harmony of voice, or have a tendency to jump from a low to a high octave, depending on the moon, energy level, and agitation. All these characteristics of voice (legato/staccato, high versus low, a uniform versus multi-octave harmony) are all terms closely related to music, or rather, to every individual sound that constitutes its wholeness. Interacting with people or hearing (or listening to) them in the radio on an everyday basis creates a distinct and invisible orchestra that produces a harmony or a cacophony of voices. Living without them would be an irreconcilable loss.

A more subtle difference is also distinguishable in pronunciation. And it is not the different ways of pronouncing sounds because of differences in accents that occur within a language that interest me, but the differences caused by the various ways people pronounce sounds. Some people, for instance, pronounce the phoneme “sh” harder than others, some pronounce “t” stronger than others, and yet some, i.e. the Japanese, have trouble distinguishing the difference between “l” and “r.” While the dissimilarity of voices has reinforced the idea of the different effects that the sounds may produce, the dissimilarity in pronunciation has induced me to explore the possibilities of homophonic translation, which is so dependant on sound, and yet never fully achieved due to the fact that even if the sounds are “matched,” there is no guarantee that they will be pronounced in the same way. It is one of my challenges in practicing homophonic translation, to be able to point out, as much as it is possible, the most acute differences between pronounced sounds. Yet at the same time, I realize that this challenge can be met only to some degree, since even though the smallest differences between pronounced sounds would be stressed, it should be left to the readers to decide how to pronounce sounds.

But apart from the tension between the desire to achieve the closest possible sound translation/pronunciation and the desire that the readers themselves make decisions, it is also the playful idea to expose words or combinations of words that I enjoy listening to, and avoid the words I don’t like that attracts me to homophonic translation. It is like working with one’s own internal audio dictionary, where the word “air” seems to be more likeable (maybe because of its gentleness and lightness) than “heir,” who inherits something from the dead (and dad). Or, it is nicer to hear of a “gem” (a precious stone) than of a “jam,” just a thing to eat, etc. The attachment to certain words and a dislike of others is hardly explainable, other  than by exploring and exposing one’s own personality. Homophonic translation allows a person to express his/her own preferences in using words that they wish to share with others for various reasons. Is not “Sigh-Land Night” more metaphysical than “Silent Night?”-- I will not attempt to find the answer in this project because I would have to introduce Freudian concepts of psychoanalysis, and it may be more appropriate to discuss it in another project in a greater detail.    

Sensitivity to Language

The other factor that may account for undertaking the task of homophonic translation is one’s acknowledgment that there are no true equivalent words in two languages (i.e. source and target ones); homophonic translation strives to minimize the differences by a foreignization strategy pushed to its extreme boundaries. This occurs when one either subconsciously mixes two or more foreign languages, or one studies them and mixes them with the full knowledge of the consequences. The effect is that one’s identity shifts while the languages are mixed. Each language carries a different language code (i.e. identities and associations) attached to a given word. Those who do not believe in seeking equivalence in translation will not compromise, but embrace the two or more language codes.

On one level, the shift of identities is easily distinguishable when names and nicknames are studied from the anthropological perspective. In her article “Naming as social practice: The Case of Little Creeper from Diamond Street,” Betsy Rymes offers an analysis of names and how they influence one’s identity. She cites among her examples the case of the Hopi People who are given not only several names at birth, but also acquire some new, more meaningful ones during their social intercourse. These names, even though they may sound insulting, refer to their character or outward appearance, and are commonly used for casual address.

Rymes points out, however, that

Another form of name mentioned in the literature is a new but powerful addition to the cultural repertoire of many groups studies: the addition of English or Christian names. As the Hopi and the Arizona Tewa begin going to English-speaking schools, they increasingly adopt English surnames (...)... the adoption of English names has tended to reduce the meaning of the Hopi names as well, by changing their pronunciation to ones easier for native English speakers. (241)

Rymes also studies a mediation of identities in street gangs. She points out, for instance, that while a person whose given name is “Federico” in the school environment, where his position is quite week because of his affiliation with the gang and thus vulnerability tobeing transferred from one school to another, his strong position in the gang is firmly established: “Little Creeper” and “Diamond Street” are associated with power and authority. The foreignization strategy, as well as homophonic translation allow the translator to leave the proper names in their original language, so that they are not adapted and change their language codes, as is the case with the Hopi People and gang members in English-speaking schools.

On another level, one can speak of differences that occur in objects one tries to name. Roman Jakobson brings attention to the fact that no two words are exactly the same in two languages, and he illustrates it with an example of “cheese”:

The English word “cheese” cannot be completely identified with its standard Russian

 heteronym “syr,” because cottage cheese is a cheese but not a syr. Russians say: prinesi

 syru i tvarogu, “bring cheese and [sic] cottage cheese.” In standard Russian, the food

 made of pressed curds is called syr only if ferment is used.

 (Schulte & Biguenet, 1992:146).

The difference between “cheese” and “syr” illustrates two different sets of associations. “Cheese” is both a cottage cheese and a yellow cheese, whereas “syr” represents only the latter English equivalent.

This important shift of identities and associations is not only present in proper names/nick names and objects, but also an integral part of psychology of a bi- or multi-lingual person. Susanne de Lotbinière-Harwood deals with her double identity on a regular basis, as she lives in Montreal, Québec. As a university professor, she has a thorough knowledge of both, the English and the French, which makes acutely aware of the subtlest differences between words in the two languages. She admits: « Je suis une traduction. Dans mon corps bilingue habitent au moins deux mots pour chaque chose. Si je dis lips je ne dis pas lèvres. À double sens de la tête au cul, je parle toujours beside myself » (de Lotbiniere-Harwood 1991:75).

One can see from this short statement that she indeed is a “traduction”[translation] herself, she constantly immerses herself in it, in order not to lose her double identity as a French and as an English speaker. I realize that I should translate this passage as all the other ones, but I am compelled to say that I’m doing it solely for the purpose of this paper. Otherwise, I would have left it in its original, so as not to distort the translation. But, in order to give the English readers at least the approximate double-identity mediation, I have decided to translate French words into English, but the English ones into French. The translation would approximately be the following: “I am a translation. In my bilingual body there live at least two words for each thing. If I say lèvres I do not say lips. In a double sens of head to bottom, I am always hors de moi”

It is significant, that Lotbinière-Harwood does not only analyze the constant mediation between the French and the English, but she skillfully shifts between them in her writing. Like Jakobson, she is fully aware of the most acute differences between words and produces a beautiful mosaic of joint identities:

         Dans l’image revée mes lèvres se posent sur tes lips. Le jour se lève, je me reveille visitée par ta chaleur though you are     far away (I do not know it). Le sang gonfle, je me                              retournerais t’envelopperais te gouterais. « C’est si simple l’amour. » Comment dire chose si simple? On en rève. But in which... tongue?

 (ibid: 1991: 75)

I will translate this passage using the same methods I have used in translating the previous quotation:

In the dreamed image my lips put themselves on your lèvres.  The day begins, I wake up

visited by your warmth, même que tu est loin d’ici (Je ne le sais pas). The blood swells, I would turn myself over to envelop you to taste you. “Love, it’s so simple.” How to say such a simple thing?  In dreaming it. Mais en quelle... langue?

I myself have experienced crossing the tangible boundary between various foreign languages since childhood, as I had lots of opportunities to travel abroad, then attended a bi-lingual high school, and finally, have studied in a foreign country. Learning a new language has always been a feeling similar to acquiring a new identity, where my name has suddenly changed-like the Little Creeper and the Hopies-- from the Polish “Karolina” to the French “Caroline.” My nickname, “Karo,” has changed its accent continuously: in Polish, the first syllable is accented, in French, the second, and in English the first one again, but usually pronounced with a softer “r,” not to mention my Chinese name, Li Li (there is a falling tone on both syllables) which has nothing in common with the other names.

After getting used to the different names, there is the problem of translating expressions and internalizing them as a natural part of a learned language. Why in Poland and the Ukraine people “go” to the bus, but in the U.S. France, and even in China, they just “take it”? Or, do the English  “ice-cream” and Chinese “bing qi link” (literally, frozen cream) taste differently if they are called “des glaces” in French and “lody” in Polish, where there is no emphasis on their having “cream” as one of the main ingredients? Even if they tasted the same in every country, their internal images in my mind are different and will never fully compromise the difference.

On the level of expressing oneself and communicating with others, a multitude of such (often more complex) images are used. Thus, depending if the image is “likable or not,” I am tempted or discouraged to express myself in a given foreign language. This is where de Lotière-Harwood’s and my own experiences in expressing ourselves are parallel. “Lips” and “lèvres” are so hardly translatable equivalents not only because of their difference is sounds, but also in associations of images that come to mind with the two words. While “lips” are “sticky” with a “lip-stick,” the “lèvres” are painted with “rouge à lèvre” [the red for the lips]. Apart from that, as was the case with sounds, there are personal associations that come with every word in any language. They may depend on strict sound associations, such as “lèvre” and “liver,” or “lèvre” (Ibid: 64) and “leaf,” etc., but also on personal associations, which, again, would require a reference to Freud and are too complex and divergent to be discussed in the present project. 

Openness to Language Games and Wordplay

In order to accomplish homophonic translation, it is necessary to be open to exploration of the language as far as possible. One has to treat it like a peace of plasticine which can be shrunk, stretched or reshaped. One cannot be afraid of being flexible with it; language, after all, is alive and cannot be reduced to Saussurean and Chomskyan model of rigid classification of rules. One should rather treat it as Jean-Jacques Lecercle in his “Theory of the Remainder,” where the “remainder” is defined as writing caused by “illuminations of linguistics and the delirium or logophiliacs or mental patients” (Lecercle 1990:30). Lecercle claims that it is through puns and language games that one can  readjust one’s mind in such a way that  it is capable of not only thinking through the structured, “common” language, but also that of the “remainder.”

It has been a hard task to choose among numerous examples of puns and word plays that Lecercle cites in Violence of Language, since all of them are challenging and playful at the same time. For the purpose of this section, however, I have chosen only two examples, one which illustrates a playful punning and the other a word game. Lecercle quotes the “mock Turtle” from Lewis Carrol’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, when he recalls his education, mainly, what subjects it was required to take: “Reeling and Writhing, ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision (the four arithmetical operations), Mystery and Seaography, Laughing and Grief, and, of course, Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.” (ibid, 1990:80). The puns on the school subjects are meant to make the readers laugh, but also reflect upon their meaning, as well as understand how one may adjust the language to make up new words, i.e. “Seaography” understood by everyone from the context around the pun.

        As for the wordplay, Lecercle proposes a game where the players have to come up with homonymous definitions for common words, i.e.:

DEHYDRATE: proportional excess tax you are charged with for concealing your true income

EQUIPMENT: he was only joking

GLADIATOR: how the cannibal felt about his mother-in-law

(D Partlett; Lecercle, 1990: 68)

Lecercle points out here that the pleasure derived from such wordplay is that it breaks one of the strictest linguistic rules, “do not tamper with words, for they are not yours. The imposition of a  fixed orthography,” he admits, “and the painful need for each of us to learn its senseless rules, is the latest and most extreme form the taboo has taken” (ibid 1990: 68).

In other words, the more open one is to break the rules imposed on a language, the more pleasurable it will be to play word games and expand the boundaries of a language. The boundaries can be pushed as far as to get to the point of being labeled ‘nonsense.’ In his book Philosophy of Nonsense: The Intuitions of Victorian Nonsense Literature, Lecercle defines nonsense not only as a literary genre, but also as a myth. He points out that books like Carroll’s Allice’s Adventures in Wonderland have been constantly referred to by literary critics and philosophers, as well as emblems constantly used in the popular culture. In the introduction he defines nonsense as A...mark of process not only of denial but also of reflexivity, (...) non-sense is also metasense. Nonsense texts are reflexive texts. This reflection is embodied in the intuitions of the genre. (Lecercle, 1994:2). He points out, for instance that Lewis Carroll commented on Chomskyan grammar, without being a professional linguist, but was not afraid to explore the language boundaries.  Playing with language is not, however,  an activity reserved only for the well-known people, like Lecercle or Carroll: it is reserved to people who embrace creativity and flexibility of language, as will be shown in the next section.                                                      

Language Learning

The process of language learning as such won’t necessarily influence one’s motivation to translate words homophonically. It is rather alternative methods of presenting rules for language learning that may lead to homophonic translation. There is a number of alternative methods of language learning, but for the purpose of this paper, only those that use homophones or, so called cognate words will be considered. What is important to remember is the link between Lecercle’s Remainder Theory alternative methods of language teaching, i.e. inspired by similar sounds of words in two or more languages, versus a typical, structural approach of presenting correct--sometimes barely used--grammar rules.

            Ellis Toussier-Ades Bigio-Antebi’s shows how one may learn foreign languages by using words that one already knows from one’s own language. The method seems strikingly simple: the author is using words similar in homophones in English and in Spanish, therefore, “poet” becomes “poeta,” “prophet” becomes “profeta,” etc. The poem is not only a creative approach to learning a foreign language by using similitude in homophones, but also to enjoy reading (and surely writing) poetry, treating it is fun:

I’m not good as profeta

So I’ll try it as poeta

Write about it in gaceta

I announce it with trompeta

Now you start on new proyecto

Get a dose of intelecto

You’ll speak Spanish soon correcto

(Or some other dialecto.)

For this method necesario

Study short vocabulario

It might help increase salario

You’ll be linguist honorario

Say it slow, with claridad

You’ll be glad eternidad

When you speak with variedad

Gives you more seguridad

You see, you know it, the definicioon