In Memory Speaks: On Losing and Reclaiming Language and Self, Julie Sedivy sets out to understand the science of language loss and the potential for renewal. Sedivy takes on the psychological and social world of multilingualism, exploring the human brain’s capacity to learn—and forget—languages at various stages of life. She argues that the struggle to remain connected to an ancestral language and culture is a site of common ground: people from all backgrounds can recognize the crucial role of language in forming a sense of self. Sedivy explains the importance of words that, although may not have a direct English translation, capture a feeling or emotion. She tells us that “documenting these languages reminds us that there are many different ways of understanding the world and our place in it.” She writes about how running the Czech word lítost through Google translate brings up “regret,” but that didn’t feel quite right to her. Delving further, Sedivy finds author Milan Kundera’s fascinating take: “Lítost is a Czech word with no exact translation into any other language. It designates a feeling as infinite as an open accordion, a feeling that is the synthesis of many others: grief, sympathy, remorse, and an indefinable longing. The first syllable, which is long and stressed, sounds like the wail of an abandoned dog. Under certain circumstances, however, it can have a very narrow meaning, a meaning as definite, precise, and sharp as a well-honed cutting edge. I have never found an equivalent in other languages for this meaning either, though I do not see how anyone can understand the human soul without it.”
Memory Speaks is full of these fascinating details, and over email Sedivy shared a couple of other interesting Czech words. Did you know that červánky in Czech is a poetic word used to refer to red clouds around sunset? And mlsač is used for someone who snacks on sweet goodies? Neither did we. So aside from hygge (a Danish word you might have heard of meaning the coziness that comes from doing simple things such as lighting candles, baking, or spending time at home with your family), what other words are out there with no direct English translation? We spoke to Harvard University Press authors and colleagues to find out.
Editorial Director Sharmila Sen told us: “In my native language Bengali, godhuli is the cow-dust hour, the time when a farmer's cows come home after a full day of grazing, their hooves raising a cloud of dust on the village road. Go is cow and dhuli is dust. It refers to dusk, a time of day when the universally flattering light of the setting sun makes everyone appear more beautiful. When I was a young girl growing up in India, we all wanted to be glimpsed by our future beloved at this magic time of day. In a society where arranged marriages were the norm, godhuli, or the cow-dust hour, was also colloquially referred to as kone dekha alo, or the bride-seeing light.”
Having grown up in Wales, our International Director of Sales and Marketing Richard Howells shared the word hiraeth. It means the deep longing for home, especially Wales. He told us that someone once said, “I cannot put into words the hiraeth that the Welsh feel for the hills and valleys, for everything which is their country and their home.”
Assistant Editor Joy Deng shared the French phrase aux petit oignons with us. You would say “we are with little onions,” which means you feel like the main meal (surrounded by onions). She told us it refers to being treated well and feeling comfortable. If you arrived at a hotel, the host might ask if everything is alright, and you could reply, “Yes, we are with little onions.”
The Yiddish words shlemiel and schlimazel immediately leapt to Editor Joseph Pomp’s mind, because of the hilarious aphorism used to differentiate between the two: "A shlemiel is somebody who often spills his soup; a shlimazel is the person the soup lands on." Joseph said, “My grandmother often used the former to describe inept people. I don't remember her ever using the latter, but I think of it as being reserved for the superlative loser, as opposed to the one for whom you still hold out a bit of hope.” Amelia Glaser, the author of Songs in Dark Times: Yiddish Poetry of Struggle from Scottsboro to Palestine, shared another Yiddish word luftmentsh with us, which refers to a person who seemingly lives on air, doesn’t think about material things, and is sometimes hard to bring back to earth.
In Spanish, sobremesa literally translates as “over the table.” Sobremesa describes the lingering conversation among companions after a meal has ended. Editorial Assistant Emeralde Jensen-Roberts is thankful that Spanish has a word for this experience; she says it reminds her to slow down and enjoy the company of people she loves. (Made even better with coffee or something sweet.)
According to Sotiris Kareglis, the manager of Athens-based bookstore Bookpath, the Greek word philotimo can mean a sense of integrity coupled with care for fellow human beings. He also shared kaymos with us, a word used for a sad longing, especially following a romantic rejection.
Our new Editor Sam Stark recently tweeted about a supremely useful German word he discovered recently. Zwiebelfisch (literally, “onion fish”) is a character that is accidentally printed in a font different from the rest. A helpful term in the publishing world!
We also spoke to our European sales agents at Durnell Marketing to find out if they had any words to add. Sarah shared the French phrase bon vivant. Literally, it means “person living well,” but it is generally used for someone who enjoys and appreciates life’s pleasures, such as good food, wine, and socializing. Sarah told us she loves this word. “I’ve never found a good translation for it in English (in fact, the English borrow it!) and it captures a certain philosophy of life: optimistic, open to new things, and living in the present.” Did you know that in Spanish friolero describes someone who always needs to wear an extra layer to keep warm no matter the temperature? Olivia chose this word not only because of the way it sounds, but because it gives an added meaning to the adjective frio (“cold”). In Swedish, Timur told us, lagom can mean just the right amount.
Do you know any words with no direct English translation? Share them with us! We’re on Twitter @Harvard_Press and @HarvardUPLondon.
