Translanguaging in Translation: Invisible Contributions that Shape Our Language and Society 9781800414945

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Translanguaging in Translation

TRANSLANGUAGING IN THEORY AND PRACTICE Series Editors: Li Wei, University College London, Angel Lin, Simon Fraser University, Yuen Yi Lo, The University of Hong Kong and Saskia Van Viegen, York University. Translanguaging in Theory and Practice aims to publish work that highlights the dynamic use of an individual’s linguistic repertoire and challenges the socially and politically defined boundaries of languages and their hierarchy. We invite research from across disciplines by both established and emergent researchers in multifarious settings, including everyday use, educational, digital and workplace contexts. We also actively welcome and solicit studies on translanguaging in contexts where English is not the mainstream language and where other modalities and semiotic resources take prominence over speech and writing. The series is transdisciplinary and encourages scholars to publish empirical research on translanguaging, especially that which aims to disrupt power relations, to create new identities and communities, to engage in the discussion of translanguaging theories and pedagogies, and/or to help the field of translanguaging consolidate its scholarship. Topics to be covered by the series include: • • • • •

Theoretical underpinnings of Translanguaging. Translanguaging Pedagogies. Translanguaging in Assessment. Translanguaging and Language Policy. Translanguaging in Everyday Social Practices in Different Contexts and Communities, including Digital/ Social/ Media.

All books in this series are externally peer-reviewed. Full details of all the books in this series and of all our other publications can be found on http://www.multilingual-matters.com, or by writing to Multilingual Matters, St Nicholas House, 31–34 High Street, Bristol BS1 2AW, UK.

TRANSLANGUAGING IN THEORY AND PRACTICE: 3

Translanguaging in Translation Invisible Contributions that Shape Our Language and Society Eriko Sato

MULTILINGUAL MATTERS Bristol • Jackson

For my mother, Etsuko Sato

DOI https://doi.org/10.21832/SATO4938 Names: Sato, Eriko, author. Title: Translanguaging in Translation: Invisible Contributions that Shape Our Language and Society / Eriko Sato. Description: Bristol; Jackson: Multilingual Matters, 2022. | Series: Translanguaging in Theory and Practice: 3 | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “This book brings applied linguistics and translation studies together through an analysis of literary texts in Chinese, Hindi, Japanese and Korean and their translations. It brings a new dimension to the burgeoning field of translanguaging studies and highlights the role of translation in the development of languages”— Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2021052810 (print) | LCCN 2021052811 (ebook) | ISBN 9781800414921 (paperback) | ISBN 9781800414938 (hardback) | ISBN 9781800414945 (pdf) | ISBN 9781800414952 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Translating and interpreting. | Translanguaging (Linguistics) Classification: LCC P306.97.T85 S38 2022 (print) | LCC P306.97.T85 (ebook) | DDC 418/.02—dc23/eng/20220208 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021052810 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021052811 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue entry for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN-13: 978-1-80041-493-8 (hbk) ISBN-13: 978-1-80041-492-1 (pbk) Multilingual Matters UK: St Nicholas House, 31–34 High Street, Bristol, BS1 2AW, UK. USA: Ingram, Jackson, Tennessee, USA. Website: www.multilingual-matters.com Twitter: Multi_Ling_Mat Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/multilingualmatters Blog: www.channelviewpublications.wordpress.com Copyright © 2022 Eriko Sato. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. The policy of Multilingual Matters/Channel View Publications is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products, made from wood grown in sustainable forests. In the manufacturing process of our books, and to further support our policy, preference is given to printers that have FSC and PEFC Chain of Custody certification. The FSC and/or PEFC logos will appear on those books where full certification has been granted to the printer concerned. Typeset by SAN Publishing Services.

Contents

Figures and Tables

ix

Preface and Acknowledgments

xi

1 Introduction 1.1 Translanguaging 1.1.1 Nature of language 1.1.2 Language learning 1.1.3 Code-switching and translanguaging 1.1.4 Translanguaging in written texts 1.1.5 Translanguaging across scripts 1.1.6 Intralingual translanguaging 1.2 Translation Studies 1.2.1 Equivalence 1.2.2 Manipulation and rewriting 1.2.3 Resistance 1.2.4 Foreignization 1.2.5 Study of translated texts with focus on language use 1.3 Translanguaging and/in Translation 1.4 Organization of the Book

1 3 3 4 7 10 11 12 12 14 16 18 20

2 Scripts 2.1 Hybrid Reading and Writing 2.1.1 Hybrid reading 2.1.2 Hybrid writing 2.2 Emergence of Kana 2.2.1 Gender-based linguistic boundary 2.2.2 Kanji-kana hybrid writing 2.3 Creative Use of Kanji 2.3.1 Ateji and jukujikun (kanji characters assigned to Japanese words) 2.3.2 Kokuji (Japan-made kanji characters) 2.3.3 Kango (Sino-Japanese vocabulary) 2.3.4 Wasei-Kango for translating Western concepts

26 27 27 29 32 33 34 35

v

21 22 24

35 38 39 40

vi  Translanguaging in Translation

2.4 Sensitivities 2.4.1 Perception of wago and kango 2.4.2 Perception of gairaigo 2.4.3 The choice of script 2.5 Furigana 2.5.1 Refining meanings 2.5.2 Supporting neo-loanwords 2.6 Conclusion

42 45 47 48 50 52 53 56

3 Names 57 3.1 Phonological Rendering of Names 60 3.1.1 Fictional place name 60 3.1.2 Fictional personal name 64 3.2 Grapho-Semantic Rendering of Names 65 3.2.1 Etymological factors 68 3.2.2 Hidden meanings 70 3.2.3 Sociopolitical factors 72 3.3 Pragmatic Rendering of Names 75 3.3.1 Omission 75 3.3.2 Creation 78 3.3.3 Adaptation/domestication of names 79 3.3.4 Reverse-adaptation of names 83 3.3.5 Imitation 85 3.4 Localization of Names 88 3.4.1 Transliteration (phonological rendering) 91 3.4.2 Translation (semantic rendering) 92 3.4.3 Renaming (pragmatic rendering) 92 3.4.4 Phonological/pragmatic hybrid rendering 93 3.4.5 Phonological/semantic hybrid translation 94 3.4.6 Semantic/pragmatic hybrid translation 95 3.4.7 Phonological/semantic/pragmatic hybrid translation95 3.4.8 Direct-literation 95 3.5 Conclusion 97 4 Words 4.1 Culture-Specific Words 4.1.1 Word pictures 4.1.2 Sound image 4.1.3 Material culture 4.1.4 Audio-visual subtitling 4.2 Society-Specific Terms 4.2.1 Professional title 4.2.2 Social class 4.2.3 Slogan 4.3 Unit of Measurement

98 98 99 100 102 107 108 109 111 112 113

Contributors vii

4.4 Personal Pronouns 117 4.4.1 First-person pronouns and societally constructed pragmatic information 117 4.4.2 First-person pronouns and dynamic gender-identity120 4.4.3 Second-person pronouns 121 4.4.4 Third-person pronouns 123 4.5 Terms of Address 127 4.5.1 Kinship terms 127 4.5.2 Professional titles 133 4.5.3 Life-time relationship 136 4.5.4 Morpheme-level translanguaging 139 4.6 Mimetics 140 4.6.1 Japanese mimetics 140 4.6.2 Mimetics in translation 142 4.6.3 Translanguaging and the nature of mimetics 151 4.7 Conclusion 153 5 Contexts 5.1 Metaphors 5.1.1 Metaphorization 5.1.2 Translating metaphors 5.1.3 Stock metaphor ‘nure-nezumi’ 5.2 Puns 5.2.1 Translatability of puns 5.2.2 Case study 1: Polysemy 5.2.3 Case study 2: Multi-morphemic pun 5.3 Heterolingual Texts 5.3.1 Heterolingual ST to monolingual TT 5.3.2 Heterolingual ST to heterolingual TT 5.3.3 Monolingual ST to heterolingual TT 5.4 Manipulation 5.5 Conclusion

154 154 154 158 160 165 165 166 171 180 181 182 186 193 200

6 Roles of Translanguaging and Translation 202 6.1 Language Development 202 6.1.1 Language and society 202 6.1.2 Recursive and multi-directional translanguaging204 6.1.3 Productive translanguaging morphology 205 6.1.4 Norm-breaking translanguaging morphology 206 6.1.5 Grammatical borrowing 206 6.1.6 Creativity 209 6.2 Language Use 210 6.2.1 Monolingualism 210 6.2.2 Multilingualism 211

viii  Translanguaging in Translation

6.2.3 Intercultural communication 213 6.3 Language Teaching 213 6.3.1 Translanguaging pedagogy in language classrooms214 6.3.2 National standards for the teaching of foreign languages 216 6.3.3 Translanguaging in a language textbook 219 6.3.4 Benefit of translation tasks in language learning221 6.4 Conclusion 224 7 Conclusion

225

References

227



238

Primary Sources

Appendices Appendix 1: Abbreviations for Grammatical Terms Appendix 2: Examples of SL Words in Anurag Yadav’s English Translation of Godaan Published in 2009 in India

248 248 248

Index250

Figures and Tables

Figures

Figure 2.1 Kun’yomi (gloss reading of Chinese characters)

37

Figure 2.2 Furigana in a horizontally written text (left) and in a vertically written text (right)

51

Figure 3.1 Common nouns and proper names

57

Figure 3.2 Localization of names

91

Figure 4.1 Context-based knowledge construction (lathi) 105 Figure 5.1 Layers of scaffolding provided in Joel Cohn’s English translation of Botchan 178 Figure 5.2 Interlingual and intralingual boundaries

197

Tables

Table 2.1

Phonetic and semantic use of kanji in Man’yōshū-song

Table 2.2

Examples of wago, kango and gairaigo 43

Table 2.3

Words for shops and occupations in Japanese

Table 2.4

Transition from furigana to full-fledged loanwords in Japanese found in two Japanese translations of Breakfast at Tiffany’s 55

Table 3.1

Names of some major Japanese cities in Japanese and Chinese

66

Table 3.2

Names of some well-known Japanese actors and actresses in Japanese and Chinese

66

Table 3.3

Proper names in two English translations of ‘Huánghèlóu sòng Mèng Hàorán zhī Guǎnglíng’ 78

Table 4.1

Mimetic renderings of mimetics

ix

31 46

143

x  Translanguaging in Translation

Table 4.2

Mimetic renderings of mimetics (lexicalized/non-lexicalized) 144

Table 5.1

English translations of the food items in Bansan 164

Table 6.1

Number of SL terms found in four English translations of Godaan 212

Preface and Acknowledgments

As we communicate and interact with others, we constantly sense linguistic boundaries that divide us in terms of nationalities, geographic regions, age, social status, power and even attitude. We are indeed surrounded by a lattice of linguistic boundaries. Pushing and pulling them strategically can help us transfer knowledge more effectively but can also disturb our social norms to cause changes in our societies and in our identities. Translators are bilinguals who are placed right at the boundary between two languages to facilitate intercultural communication. A trace of translanguaging found in translated texts serves as a snapshot evidence of a bilingual’s language use. This book presents 76 excerpts of translated texts to show the meanings, functions, effects and implications of ­translanguaging in translation. I believe that this book can be of interest to applied linguists, scholars of translation studies, translators, language teachers and anyone who is interested in learning languages, translating and engaging in intercultural communication. There are many people I would like to thank for helping me complete this book. I am extremely grateful to Agnes Weiyun He, the Director of the Center for Multilingual and Intercultural Communication (MIC) at Stony Brook University, for her kindest support and for engaging me in MIC’s activities, which greatly stimulated my ideas on translanguaging, intercultural communication and linguistic justice. I appreciate the insightful and helpful comments and suggestions provided by Li Wei, Angel Lin, Yuen Yi Lo and Saskia Van Viegen, who are the editors of the Multilingual Matters series Translanguaging in Theory and Practice. I am also very grateful to those who gave me warm encouragement and comments on my earlier works of this project, in particular, Ofelia García, T.K. Lee, Junko Mori, S.N. Sridhar, E.K. Tan and Richard Young. Special thanks to the translator, Anurag Yadav, for sharing his reflections on his translation practices as well as to my colleagues, Jiwon Hwang, Hannah Li and Aruna Sharma who kindly helped me with the interpretation of Korean, Chinese and Hindi texts. My teaching always feeds my research, and my research will not exist without teaching. I am truly grateful to all my students who took xi

xii  Translanguaging in Translation

Translation Studies of Asian Languages I taught in the past seven years for giving me the inspiration and the purpose to write this book. In particular, I’m grateful to Rose Goldberg, Soo Hwan Jung, Xinran Min, Anne McNulty, Chikako Nakamura, Shun Kiu Ng and Qiwen Tong. Anna Roderick, Editorial Director of Multilingual Matters, has been so helpful and accommodating. Her kind assistance is greatly appreciated. Last, but not least, I am deeply indebted to my husband, Yimei, and our daughter, Anna, for their unwavering support, encouragement and love. Each of us speaks Japanese, Chinese and English to different degrees; translanguaging is a norm in our family. Eriko Sato 1 February 2022 *The research presented in this book was partially supported by the American Fellowship provided by the American Association of University Women (AAUW) in 2019.

1 Introduction

The term ‘translanguaging’ is Colin Baker’s English translation of a Welsh term ‘trawsieithu’, which was originally coined by Cen Williams to refer to the pedagogical practice of deliberately using two languages (C. Baker, 2001: 281; Williams, 1994). The meaning of the term ‘translanguaging’ was significantly expanded across disciplines in the wake of the 21st century. Ofelia García uses the term translanguaging in her study of bilingualism and bilingual education, where translanguaging refers to bilinguals’ fluid use of their linguistic resources that disregards named language categories and enables them to ‘make sense of their bilingual worlds’ (García, 2009: 45). For Li Wei, translanguaging is a creative and critical multilingual practice as well as a continuous action that goes ‘between’ different linguistic structures and systems and goes ‘beyond’ them (Li, 2011). In their groundbreaking publication, Translanguaging: Language, Bilingualism and Education, García and Li (2014) conceptualize translanguaging as encompassing a wide range of linguistic phenomena in different contexts (e.g. classrooms and communities), in different modes (e.g. spoken and written), in different mental states (e.g. unconscious and fully conscious), with different perspectives (e.g. sociolinguistic, psycholinguistic, sociopolitical and pedagogical) and with different orientations (e.g. prescriptive, descriptive and theoretical). Translation and translanguaging are both bilinguals’ language practices but sharply diverge in terms of how linguistic boundaries are dealt with: Linguistic boundaries are to be respected in translation practices but are disregarded or manipulated in translanguaging practices by definition. Translation is a monolingual practice, whereas translanguaging is a multilingual practice. Nonetheless, translation and translanguaging sometimes complement each other. Translanguaging in translation has been practiced since ancient times but is viewed as a problem only if the linguistic norms of the receiving culture of translation are societally monolingualized. As claimed by Lawrence Venuti, highly praised and economically profitable translations in Anglophone societies are in fluent standard English without a trace of the source language (SL) to the extent that they do not look like translations (Venuti, 1995, 1998). However, SL linguistic elements in translated texts can be essential to the readers of translation 1

2  Translanguaging in Translation

to directly sense the context of the source text (ST). Similarly, the use of SL elements in translation can be the only way to avoid distorting the culture of the ST. Strikingly, the way texts are translated mirrors the ideology toward multilingualism in the receiving culture of translation. This monograph brings applied linguistics and translation studies together and qualitatively examines the traces of translanguaging in translated texts to show their benefits, challenges, mechanisms and roles. At the same time, it debunks the problems of ‘monolingualizing’ forces prevailing in Anglophone societies and explores the nature of language. Translanguaging perspectives in applied linguistics contributes to translation studies to enable us to gain a uniform account of a variety of heterolingual translation practices, ranging from Venutian resistant foreignization to creative integration of SL elements in translation for enhanced rhetorical effects or for enhanced intercultural communication. On the other hand, the methodology of descriptive translation studies and cultural perspectives in translation studies contribute to applied linguistics to enable us to see the nature of our languages as societal constructs. A trace of translanguaging found in translated texts serves as a snapshot evidence of bilinguals’ strategic language use. In this monograph, translations of Chinese, Hindi, Japanese and Korean from and into English are examined, with special focus on linguistic elements such as culture/society-specific words/morphemes, proper names, pronouns, terms of addressing, metaphors, units of measurement, onomatopoeias, scripts, puns, heterolingual discourse and etymologybased vocabulary classes. The results show that languages change mostly, if not always, due to our translanguaging practices in a broad sense. Translanguaging in translation in particular triggers both the formation of neo-borrowings and the changes of grammatical structures. Unlike code-switching, translanguaging is not based on the static view of language or the notion of native speakers and does not view one’s use of multilingual resources as a sign of inadequate language proficiency. In addition, translanguaging can explain why languages change as our societies change, but code-switching cannot. These are the very reasons why heterolingual phenomena in translated texts should be analyzed through a translanguaging perspective, and not as code-switching phenomena. The current study empirically supports translanguaging as a theory of language and language use, and thus translanguaging has a transformative implication especially on pedagogical practices in language classrooms. It liberates language learners, language teachers and textbook authors from monolingual constraints and makes our classrooms more inclusive. This chapter provides an overview of the concept of translanguaging and central issues in translation studies with focus on heterolingual translation, presents the main assumption on the relationship between translanguaging and translation held in this book and outlines the organization of the book.

Introduction 3

1.1 Translanguaging

This section overviews the theoretical assumptions of translanguaging that are relevant to the research presented in this book. 1.1.1 Nature of language

Translanguaging takes a Bakhtinian interactionalist’s position and is based on the idea that language is not a static set of rules and codes, but is an ongoing and dynamic action, ‘languaging’, that emerges in communicative interactions (García & Li, 2014). We use languages not only to convey information but also to elicit responses, request an action, persuade someone, evoke emotions and cause some change during communicative interaction (Austin, 1962). Interactionists’ view of language cannot be separated from the context of language use. Our language use is systematically related to its function in a given situation, in a given discourse and in a given sociocultural environment (Halliday, 1985/2014), and thus words cannot mean anything without their contexts. We cannot understand someone else’s utterance without relating it to the context. As we make utterances, we automatically adjust them so we can bring about the highest contextual effect with minimum interpretive cost (Sperber & Wilson, 1986). Our language practices are constantly shaped and reshaped as the surrounding sociocultural environment changes. People move from one place to another. Our sociopolitical ideologies, our understanding of the history, our socioeconomic status and our popular culture also change from time to time. As our surroundings change, new meanings naturally arise or we create them to introduce a new concept, to fine-tune our expressions, to voice our critical views and to advance our societies. Thus, languages self-evolve in the context of its use. The interactionist’s view of language suggests that languages, including language varieties, vary depending on the users as well as the context. Otheguy et al. (2015: 290) argue that ‘everyone speaks his unique idiolect, which is a mental grammar that is acquired primarily through, and deployed mostly in his surrounding environment’. The factors of language variation include not only the speaker’s geographic origin but also his age, gender, education, occupation, economic status, lifestyle, personality, interest, attitude, migration history, family heritage, value, belief, interest and more. Linguistic variations are not limited to lexical words but are also found in the choice of pronouns, morphosyntactic elements, contractions, sentence structures, sentence-endings and so forth. No two persons grow up in exactly the same environment even if they belong to the same family: The second child in a family has a very different linguistic and social environment than the first child of the same family even though they have exactly the same parents and live in exactly the same house.

4  Translanguaging in Translation

Furthermore, even the same person speaks differently depending on the situation and the mode. As Otheguy et al. (2015) argue, we are constantly adjusting our idiolect, keenly reflecting on our communicative context at each and every moment in our communicative activities. Children in a multilingual family continuously adjust their language use depending on who is nearby at the dining table at each given moment. Some adjustments may be temporary, but others may be long term. Languages are not a set of finite linguistic features. No one person grows up having exactly the same set of linguistic features throughout his life. Languages are living and constantly changing through communicative interaction. If we all speak idiolects as Otheguy et al. (2015) argue, named languages are only sociopolitical constructs. This point is made by Max Weinreich: ‘A language is a dialect with an army and navy (A shprakh iz a dialekt mit an armey un flot)’ (Weinreich, 1945). The invention of nation-states triggered the invention of monolingualism (Makoni & Pennycook, 2007). Naming languages is a relatively new practice in human history, and named languages are sociopolitically charged ideological illusions. A pair of two named languages such as Danish and Norwegian can be just two dialects. A pair of two dialects such as Cantonese and Mandarin can be two separate languages. A pair of two named languages such as Hindi and Urdu can be the same language if their scripts are disregarded. Similarly, English has many communitybased varieties, and so we actually have ‘Englishes’ (plural) (Kachru, 1985). Whether we call some language ‘a language’ or ‘a language variety’ and whether we call multiple languages ‘a language’, ‘languages’ or ‘varieties of the same language’ are sociopolitically determined. 1.1.2 Language learning

The Chomskyan view of language as a single static set of rules and codes is partially supported by the notion of native speakers. Its assumption is that the native speakers of a language share the same grammatical judgment over sentences. However, it is not always the case especially when a sentence is syntactically complex and semantically ambiguous or when the speakers are in different age groups or from different geographic areas. Interestingly, their subtle grammaticality judgments change after being extensively exposed to a different language or language variety for many years. This leads us to think that what seems to be the native speakers’ intuition is environmentally constructed through experiences and conditioned by the frequency of language use. Lieven and Tomasello (2008) argue that children learn language from experience and by using their general cognitive ability to make connections and learn, rather than through imitation and without requiring a separate module in a child’s mind. This usage-based cognitive approach is realistic because there is an interdependency between children’s general

Introduction 5

cognitive development and their linguistic development (Piaget, 1951; Vygotsky, 1978). More and more research findings suggest that first language acquisition requires human interaction. Kuhl et al. (2003) shows that American infants (10–12 months) learned Chinese phonemes through interacting with a Chinese caregiver in person with picture books and props, but not through watching the pre-recorded video of the same Chinese caregiver re-enacting the situation of being with a child using the same props and making similar utterances. This is surprising because infants are seeing the same person, who is using the same props and making similar utterances. What is the difference between seeing and hearing her in person, versus on a pre-recorded video? The only difference is the presence or absence of two-way interaction. In person, they can react to her utterances and she can react to their reactions. This is not possible through watching a pre-recorded video. Interactions are essential even for phoneme ­acquisition according to the results of their experimental research. Kuhl (2010) argues that ‘social brain systems’ are essential for language acquisition. Roseberry et al. (2014) have shown that toddlers (24–30 months) learned novel verbs through live training and through socially contingent video chat training, but not through pre-recorded yoked video ­training. This also shows that the crucial factor for learning languages is social ‘interaction’, regardless virtual or in person. Sachs et al. (1981) examine the language development of two hearing sons of deaf parents (initially 3;9 and 1;8). The older child was placed in a linguistically deprived environment until the age of 3;9 because his parents did not communicate with him in sign language and the only language contact he had at home was through television. He performed well below age level in all aspects of language including comprehension, articulation, expression, mean length of utterance (MLU) and grammar although his cognitive development was normal. However, he showed significant improvement after one month of biweekly conversation sessions with an adult, and within a year, his performance reached the normal range for most aspects of language. The younger son was placed in the same linguistically deprived environment and showed early signs of language delay, but because his older brother became able to interact with him after the intervention, the younger son reached the normal proficiency quickly. These studies demonstrate that human interaction is essential for L1 acquisition. What is special about interaction? Interaction enables us to ‘negotiate meaning’ using all resources including contextual information as well as verbal and non-verbal signs such as gestures, gaze and facial expressions. They can even use miming, onomatopoeias and verbal prosodic features such as pitch, rhythm, speed, intonation and tone of voice to indicate what they mean and how they feel about them. Communicative

6  Translanguaging in Translation

interaction helps children fine-tune the forms, meanings, usage and connotations of linguistic elements and help them cognitively process linguistic information to expand their vocabulary and construct and reconstruct the grammar of the language. Watching television and pre-recorded videos does not give children opportunities to negotiate meanings, even when they are age appropriate. Communicative interaction makes language learning a part of what we naturally do to live and survive. In this sense, language learning ability is considered innate, not because we have an innate language learning device, but because we have an innate interactional instinct in addition to cognitive abilities to process information. Lee et al. (2009) view language as a complex adaptive system. They argue that humans have an innate ‘interactional instinct’ that enables language acquisition based on evolutionary biology and neurobiology. The interaction/usage-based cognitive approach to language learning is theoretically economical: L1 acquisition only requires children’s general cognitive abilities to learn and their general interactional instinct to make them interact with their caregiver starting day one in their lives. Interaction/usage-based cognitive language learning has been argued for L2 acquisition. Language learners use their cognitive ability to receive input, form chunks of words, store information, make connections, recognize constituents through chunks, abstract structural dependencies through successive chunking, find patterns, find selectional properties of morphemes, construct grammar such as selectional properties of verbs and restructure the grammar based on their ongoing communicative experience (Ellis, 2005; Schmidt, 2001). When two people interact oneon-one and face a communication breakdown, they can slow down, confirm meanings/understanding, request repeating/clarification and use nonverbal semiotic resources such as gesture, gaze and facial expressions (Long, 1983). Meanings may change as they are negotiated at each segment of interaction even during the same discourse. L2 learners need to acquire discourse competence in addition to form-based pragmatic competence (Taguchi & Roever, 2017; Young, 2019). Some of the arguments for Chomskyan innatism that distinguish L1  acquisition and L2 acquisition can also be explained through the ­interaction/usage-based cognitive perspective. First, critical period hypothesis (CPH) can be reduced to a general optimal age for humans (and animals) to acquire certain skills, which are not limited to oral languages but include other skills such as swimming, ballet and music. Maturational changes in the brain and the bottoming out of the number of synapses and metabolic rate around puberty are plausible causes of CPH (Pinker, 1994). Acquisition of phonology may be most sensitive to age among all aspects of language learning. However, Newport (1990) shows the relevance of age to sign languages, which do not depend on spoken language (Newport, 1990). Thus, it is more natural

Introduction 7

to think that a critical period is a general optimal age for us to learn certain skills, not just spoken language. There are some cases of children who were deprived of human interaction early in their childhood and never gained normal linguistic competence afterward (e.g. Genie and Victor). However, such cases do not contradict with the broader view of CPH presented here. Second, the poverty of stimuli that argues for the unrealistically small amount of possible language input that children receive for fully learning a language only suggests children’s high cognitive abilities to learn before they reach the critical period. Furthermore, Roy (2009) shows that they are receiving a surprising level of fine-tuning from their caregivers, which makes the poverty of stimuli questionable. Third, the myth of our ‘unconsciously’ known grammatical knowledge in our native language can be explained simply because we cannot ‘consciously’ learn grammar until we develop metalinguistic awareness. By the time we develop metalinguistic awareness, we have learned our first language through communicative interaction. Adults tend to learn their second language consciously because they have full metalinguistic awareness, and they even have a separate first language that they can compare their second language with. However, even adults may also learn their second language grammar unconsciously when they learn languages through social interaction as they are preoccupied with what they are doing such as cooking, shopping and playing games. Thus, knowing grammar unconsciously is expected and explainable under the ­interaction/ usage-based cognitive approach. Fourth, the natural order of morpheme acquisition (Brown, 1973; Krashen, 1982) that appears to support the existence of the Universal Grammar (UG) is untenable simply because the inventory of morphemes is not comparable at all between languages such as English and languages such as Japanese and Korean. In addition, Otomo et al. (2015) show that the natural order of acquisition of morphemes in Japanese reflects the frequency of the maternal language input, which precisely supports the interaction/usage-based cognitive approach to language learning. The conclusion we draw from reconceptualizing language learning is that languages are learned through interacting with people using general cognitive abilities to learn. Furthermore, native speakers’ grammatical intuition is not anything absolute, stable or permanent, but cognitively constructed and reconstructed based on their linguistic experience and the frequency of usage. 1.1.3 Code-switching and translanguaging

Code-switching has a wide variety of interpretations, but it is, after all, a ‘monolingualized’ concept. This crucially distinguishes translanguaging and code-switching. As evident from the word ‘switch’, the

8  Translanguaging in Translation

concept of code-switching cannot exist without presupposing at least two separate linguistic repertoires that are switchable, and each of the two repertoires presupposes ‘languages’ as discrete and identifiable static systems. This is the core of the problematic concept that is rejected by the concept of translanguaging (Otheguy et al., 2015: 282). Furthermore, ‘switching’ entails that a person uses only one of the monolingual repertoires at a time. It follows that everyone is always ‘monolingually’ speaking at each given moment. Thus, two code-switchers are not supposed to be able to communicate with each other unless they signal each other when they switch languages and carefully coordinate the timing of language switching. This is simply unrealistic because bilinguals usually succeed in communicating even when they frequently switch languages back and forth. They just need to be aware of their conversational partners’ linguistic abilities, resources and interactional engagement. Furthermore, code-switching serves as the evidence of interference between languages of a bilingual, a sign of deficient proficiency in one or two of his languages. This is also because code-switching presupposes two monolingual repertoires in one person and because a bilingual person’s proficiency level in each of his monolingual repertoires is evaluated based on the standard of monolingual native speakers. Again, it is a monolingualized concept commonly held by structuralists based on the notion of native speakers. On the other hand, translanguaging presupposes that a bilingual person has one and only one linguistic repertoire filled with heterolingual linguistic features, without any clear-cut boundary that divides them (García, 2009; García & Li, 2014; Grosjean, 1982). This idea is compatible with and explains the interdependency between bilinguals’ proficiencies in two languages (Cummins, 1979). Kroll et al. (2014) argue, based on research results in cognitive neuroscience, that both of a bilingual’s languages are active regardless of his or her intention to use one language only. García (2009) argues that individual bilingualism cannot be additive or subtractive, but dynamic. In other words, language repertoires are not discrete pieces like building blocks that can be stacked or unstacked and cannot be switched. Some sociolinguists have approached code-switching by studying a bilingual person from his internal point of view, through perspectives such as situational and metaphorical functions (Blom & Gumperz, 1972), discourse strategies (Gumperz, 1982), social-management strategies (Heller, 1988), communicative codes (Alvarez-Cáccamo, 1998) and social interactional processes (Gafaranga & Torras, 2002). Their insights have been embraced in translanguaging, where the use of multiple languages is viewed as resourcefulness, rather than as a sign of linguistic inadequacy. Through translanguaging, a bilingual person flexibly or strategically selects linguistic features from their linguistic repertoire depending on who they are talking to in what context.

Introduction 9

Translanguaging conceptualized in García and Li ( 2014) has a sociopolitical implication in the 21st century against the notion of native speakers and named languages (García, 2009) as well as socially and linguistically transformative semiotic potential driven by criticality and creativity (Lee & Li, 2020; Li, 2011, 2018), which code-switching does not have. A translanguaging perspective debunks institutionalized monolingualism. Many bilingual education programs adopt institutionalized code-switching: They promote either additive or subtractive bilingualism and require the use of only one language at a time, by either separating them by the time periods or physical classrooms in which they can be used. Many foreign language classrooms are also monolingualized: The direct method, which is a part of communicative language teaching, bans the use of non-target languages and rejects translation activities entirely. Similarly, many academic, business, publishing and government institutions systemically monolingualize their operations by expecting their reports, articles and proposals to be written in grammatical and pure standard English. These institutionalized monolingualizing forces make emergent bilinguals lose the opportunity to fully use their linguistic resources and lower their chances to succeed academically and professionally. Thus, the implicit institutionalized monolingualizing forces in our societies are heavily responsible for increasing socioeconomic and sociopolitical inequality in the 21st century. Thus, translanguaging, not codeswitching, implies the liberation of bilinguals from monolingualized classrooms, institutions and communities. García (2009: 45) defines translanguaging as ‘multiple discursive practices in which bilinguals engage in order to make sense of their bilingual worlds’. Translanguaging liberates bilinguals from monolingual norms and revitalizes their natural instinctive language use. Translanguaging is driven by language users’ creativity and criticality (Li, 2011). We make meanings and gain knowledge, using our creativity and criticality, and use our linguistic repertoire effectively. For this, we also need to manipulate existing linguistic boundaries, which is a part of translanguaging practice. This is especially essential for survival when we are placed at a border between two languages, two cultures or two societies. As a result, translanguaging can be not only fluid or spontaneous language use but also deliberate, strategic or manipulative language use. Selecting and incorporating the elements of the external community has been essential for survival (Li, 2018). This kind of strategic language use is not predicted or explained by the conventional understanding of codeswitching. The point is that monolinguals and bilinguals have the same linguistic capacity and the same kind of language practices, but bilinguals have more diverse features in their repertoire and have the option of insisting or disregarding linguistic boundaries whenever useful for communication, meaning-making and knowledge-gain.

10  Translanguaging in Translation

The creative and critical nature of translanguaging has been the catalyst for language evolution throughout human history. This can be proven by traces of translanguaging in translated texts, which is an important part of what will be presented in this book in the following chapters. Because our languages and our societies are interwoven and evolve together, our communicative practices transform our languages and our societies, moment by moment, within our linguistic performance (Li, 2011, 2018). However, our communicative practices also transform our languages in the long term over centuries. Human beings are following their social-interactional instinct to communicate by creatively and critically making meaning using all linguistic features that they have, and constantly reflecting the surrounding contexts, which in turn keeps feeding their linguistic repertoire and affecting our societies. It is a natural ecological cycle of human languages that cannot be stopped. We do not speak the way people spoke three millennia ago, three centuries ago, three decades ago or even three years ago. Many borrowed words become indistinguishable from native vocabulary words. For example, most Japanese people believe that words such as uma (horse), ume (plum) and kiku (chrysanthemum) are native Japanese words although these words were originally borrowed from Chinese. What drives the evolution of our languages is not the biological change of humans. It is the surrounding environment and our engagement with it through communication. Translanguaging is driven by this interactional human instinct and transforms languages and societal norms. 1.1.4 Translanguaging in written texts

Translanguaging, as a general instinctive language use, applies not only to spontaneous spoken utterances, but also to written forms (García & Li, 2014). What is called ‘mixed-language’ bilingual writing is also becoming more prevalent today. For example, in the US, Spanish/English bilinguals, writing in English, are using translanguaging strategically for literary effect. (García & Li, 2014: 27)

Translanguaging is also common in song lyrics. The song lyrics of ‘Across the Universe’ by The Beatles, written by John Lennon, include a nonEnglish phrase, Jai guru deva om, in otherwise English lyrics. It is an Indian mantra (Sanskrit) whose translation approximates to ‘Hail to the divine guru’ (Gurreo, 2015). It appears three times in this song, right before the chorus ‘Nothing’s gonna change my world’, in each of the three verses in this song. The Sanskrit phrase, Jai guru deva om, serves as an opaque element for English-speaking audiences, but because of it, its repeated use adds a magical feeling, enhances the spiritual element of the

Introduction 11

song and transcends what transparent words can convey. In addition, the insertion of Jai guru deva om shows the song writer’s interest and admiration toward Indian culture as well as the benefit of mixing two languages in creative expression. Utada Hikaru, a bilingual song writer, more ‘fluidly’ mixes Japanese and English in her song lyrics to the extent that it becomes unclear which language is more dominant than the other. In the lyrics written by Utada for her song ‘First Love’, English elements appear as a single word, a short phrase or a clause/sentence, and they are syntactically tightly connected with nearby Japanese linguistic elements, and the two languages are seamlessly integrated as if they are from a single language. Furthermore, English appears as the host language in some verses in this song: A Japanese adverbial clause in the third verse modifies the English main clause before it. In addition, the same Japanese adverbial clause simultaneously modifies the English clause after it, obscuring sentence breaks. Translanguaging in writing has been common since ancient times as evidenced in the mixing and switching among Latin, Greek and additional languages (García & Li, 2014: 26). Multilingual practices are usually perceived marked, whereas monolingual practices are always perceived unmarked. However, it should be vice versa: Monolingual practices result from monolingual policy or monolingual education, while multilingual practices are natural states. Monolingual practices are justified and implemented by the one-nation/one-language ideology against the natural state of language use. 1.1.5 Translanguaging across scripts

Our communication has been not only multimodal, but also multisemiotic. Our languages are not entirely verbal. Non-verbal elements have been as essential as verbal elements for our communication. We have been deploying not only sounds but also many types of non-verbal signs such as facial expressions, hand gestures, scripts, symbols, icons and emoji. Language is made up of a semiotic repertoire that consists of linguistic and multimodal semiotic features, and we constantly select and deploy any of these features to communicate (Baynham & Lee, 2019; García & Li, 2014; Lee, 2015; Li & Zhu, 2019; Sato, 2018b). Translanguaging goes beyond simplistic linguistic communication and works between different semiotic modes as well as between different named languages. For example, translanguaging practices can be found in the use of scripts especially when scripts bear ideological sensitivities. Weekend Chinese schools in North America face a sociopolitically difficult decision when selecting one type of script to teach Chinese to children, either traditional or simplified Chinese script. On the other hand, Japanese schools do not need to make such a sociopolitically sensitive decision but need to teach three types of script: kanji (Chinese characters adapted to Japan),

12  Translanguaging in Translation

hiragana (Japanese phonetic syllabary created by deforming kanji characters) and katakana (Japanese phonetic syllabary created by taking parts of kanji characters). All three types of script often appear in the same Japanese sentence. In addition, Roman letters and Arabic numerals can also be mixed with hiragana, katakana and kanji in the same sentence. In Japanese, the choice of script can influence the perception of words and the concepts that they represent. For example, a Japanese medical expert pointed out that the perception of tobacco is different depending on which type of Japanese script is used to represent it. He claims that tobacco written in kanji (煙草) would give the wrong impression that tobacco has existed in Japan from ancient times, whereas tobacco written in hiragana (たばこ) would give the misleading impression that it is safe for health. Instead, he suggests that tobacco should be written in katakana (タバコ) to show that it is harmful for our health because katakana makes it perceived foreign (Usui, 2012). Thus, translanguaging across script types can be driven by critical meaning-making (Sato, 2018b). 1.1.6 Intralingual translanguaging

Everyone speaks his or her own idiolect (Otheguy et al., 2015), but they can sense many kinds of linguistic boundaries that socially divide us, which include the boundaries between named languages, geographic dialects, social dialects based on age, gender, economic class and occupation, origin-based vocabulary classes, script classes and vocabulary classes. For example, the manipulative use of gender-sensitive pronouns in Japanese reported by Abe (2004) is an instance of intralingual translanguaging that closely reflects the language users’ sociosituational or sociopersonal identities (Sato, 2018a). Intralingual translanguaging can also construct new identities and a new language variety. For instance, women’s language in Japan today can be understood as being constructed by taking some linguistic features of traditional court ladies’ language and schoolgirls’ language, through both intra- and interlingual translanguaging. The process reflects the hybrid identity of traditional women, symbolized by polite court ladies’ language, and the identity of modern women, symbolized by vulgar schoolgirl’s language and their enthusiastic use of the feature of English (Sato, 2018a). Translanguaging in Translation seeks to identify traces of translanguaging that manipulate both interlingual and intralingual translanguaging practiced through translating texts. 1.2 Translation Studies

There are records of translations since the time of Ancient Egyptians. Translation has enabled us to communicate with those in different places on this planet and to understand the ideas of those who lived in different

Introduction 13

time periods throughout history. Some religious texts, mythologies and literary masterpieces have been translated again and again at different times, for different audiences, from different perspectives and for different purposes. Translation has been indispensable for human civilization and even for the advancement of technology across cultures and generations. ‘Translation’ can be understood very broadly. Our daily communication is by and large translation if we accept the idea that each person speaks a unique language or idiolect (Otheguy et al., 2015). By reporting what one heard from his three-year-old brother to his colleague, he may be translating a telegraphic utterance into a complete sentence so that his colleague can understand it. By stating what one thinks directly to his teacher, he is translating his words in his idiolect into the one that is appropriately perceived by his teacher. Friedrich Schleiermacher, a German philosopher and theologian in the 18th century, applies the same line of reasoning and draws the conclusion that we are constantly translating someone else’s words and even our own words, because words change their meanings in each context and restating anything is translation (Schleiermacher, 1813/2012: 43). It is not an exaggeration to say, ‘when we learn to speak, we are learning to translate’ and ‘language itself, in its very essence, is already a translation’ (Paz, 1971/1992: 152). For Roman Jakobson, all forms of ‘interpreting a verbal sign’ are translation, and there are three subcategories of translation: intralingual translation or rewording; interlingual translation or translation proper; ‘intersemiotic translation or transmutation’ (Jakobson, 1959: 233). All of our communicative practices that involve interpreting a text and expressing it for someone else are intralingual or interlingual translation, and if it is done through a different semiotic mode, for example, from a novel to a film, it is an intersemiotic translation. Humans naturally want to gain new knowledge from beyond the cultural border, internalize it, make use of it and share it with others. All artistic activities such as painting, music composition and dancing are also translation. All of our facial expressions and hand gestures can also be deployed for translation. Thus, Jacobson’s notion of translation that includes not only interlingual translation but also intralingual translation and intersemiotic translation implies that our daily activities are all translation. In this way, we can say that we cannot live even a day without translating. Thus, as Ryōsuke Ohashi states, the existence of human beings itself is like translation (Ohashi, 1993: 32). Now, let us bring our focus back to ‘translation’ proper, which is the translation from one named language to another. At some point, any translator will experience difficulty in choosing between ‘literal’ translation and ‘free’ translation. Literal translation is faithful to the ST and accurate, but sounds unnatural and stiff to the readers of the target text (TT). By contrast, free translation may sound natural and easy to understand but may not be faithful to the ST. The choice between ‘literal’ and ‘free’ has troubled almost all translators, and the dichotomy between ‘literal’ and ‘free’ has

14  Translanguaging in Translation

occupied the central problem for philosophers who seriously consider the nature of translation. Friedrich Schleiermacher metaphorically describes the two orientations: In literal translation, ‘the translator leaves the writer in peace as much as possible and moves the reader toward him’; in free translation, the translator ‘leaves the reader in peace as much as possible and moves the writer toward him’ (Schleiermacher, 1813/2012: 49). Marcus Tullius Cicero, who translated many Greek texts into Latin two millennia ago, expressed his preference of ‘free’ translation: I decided to take speeches written in Greek by great orators and to translate them freely, and I obtained the following results: by giving a Latin form to the text I had read I could not only make use of the best expressions in common usage with us, but I could also coin new expressions, analogous to those used in Greek, and they were no less well received by our people as long as they seemed appropriate. (Extract from De oratore (‘On the Orator’), dated 55 BC., cited in Lefevere, 1992a: 47)

On the other hand, Walter Benjamin, who views literary translation as a form of art in his essay ‘The task of the translator’ written a century ago, expressed his preference of ‘literal’ translation: True translation is transparent: it does not obscure the original, does not stand in its light, but rather allows pure language, as if strengthened by its own medium, to shine even more fully on the original. This is made possible primarily by conveying the syntax word-for-word; and this demonstrates that the word, not the sentence, is translation’s original element. (Benjamin, 1923/2012: 81)

The field of translation studies that emerged in the latter half of the 20th century started with the investigation of the nature of the aforementioned literal/free dichotomy. Vinay and Darbelnet (1958/1995) label literal and free translations as direct translation and oblique translation, respectively, and demonstrated what specific methods constitute each of them: Direct translation includes borrowing, calque and literal translation, whereas oblique translation includes transposition, modulation, equivalence and adaptation. The literal/free paradox underlies many models of translation proposed by scholars of translation studies. The reason why the literal/free dichotomy is an ever-present question is because complete equivalence between the ST and the TT in terms of form, meaning and pragmatics is not attainable. 1.2.1 Equivalence

Roman Jakobson (1959) argues that there is no full equivalence between code units. For example, there is no fully equivalent Russian

Introduction 15

word for the English word ‘cheese’. The Russian word ‘syr’ is closest, but it does not include cottage cheese. Even if a semantic equivalence is achieved, a syntactic equivalence may not be. For example, ‘honey’ is masculine in French, German and Italian, but it is feminine in Spanish. In the pursuit of equivalence, being inspired by Chomskyan transformational grammar, J.C. Catford and Eugene Nida propose structure-based model of translation that maps the ST to the TT through operations called ‘shift’ (Catford, 1965) and ‘analysis-transfer-restructuring’ (Nida, 1964; Nida & Taber, 1969). ‘Shift’ gives an insight into sentence-internal structures at different levels such as morphological, syntactic and semantic levels, but not at the pragmatic level of the text contrary to his intention. The ‘analysis-transfer-restructuring’ model of translation resembles the earlier stage of Chomskyan transformation that maps Deep Structure to Surface Structure, and thus appears to be limited to a sentence level. However, this model is enriched by an innovative method that allows a sentence to be filtered by the pragmatically sensitive condition of equivalence. To solve the literal/free paradox, Eugene Nida relativizes equivalence. He separates textinternal factors and text-external factors and distinguishes two types of equivalence, namely formal equivalence and dynamic equivalence. Formal equivalence aims to match the message (TT) with the original message (ST) in terms of both form and content and emphasizes accuracy. On the other hand, dynamic equivalence aims to match the message-receptor ­relationship in translation with the original message-receptor relationship in terms of the effect. The objective of dynamic equivalence is to find the ‘closest natural equivalent’ (Nida, 1964: 159). An example case of dynamic equivalence is where ‘bread’, in the Bible’s ‘Give us this day our daily bread’, is rendered as ‘fish’ or ‘rice’ in cultures where these foods are more common than bread. Nida’s contribution is to create an option to highlight the textexternal domain and relativize translation based on the ‘function’ of the text. Nida’s work opened a path to formally introduce pragmatics to the linguistic model of translation. Many of the linguistic theories of translation developed after Nida’s proposal of dynamic equivalence are equipped with a tool that connects texts with their contexts. However, the dichotomy between ‘literal’ and ‘free’ is still the central issue, and the two orientations are distinguished with different names and different nuances. Peter Newmark distinguishes semantic translation, which focuses on the meaning of the ST, and communicative translation, which attempts to recreate the effect obtained on the readers of the ST (Newmark, 1981, 1985). However, he rejects literal/ free-based ‘binary’ notions and proposes a spectrum of translation approaches, ranging from borrowing (extreme literal translation) to adaptation (extreme free translation). He also accepts mixing of different strategies even within a text. Some translation scholars focus on situational contexts and create a model of translation based on relevance included in Paul Grice’s

16  Translanguaging in Translation

cooperative principle and maxims of conversation (Grice, 1975). For example, Gutt (1990) attempts to provide a uniform account of translation based on the relevance theory proposed by Sperber and Wilson (1986), which expands Grice’s maxim of ‘relation’. Gutt’s theory predicts that translators make decisions based on relevance, which is calculated by the ratio between contextual effect and processing effort. This idea is equivalent to Levy’s (1967/2000) ‘minimax’ strategy, where translators ultimately decide to take the translation strategy that promises maximum effect with minimal effort. Some construct a model of translation based on Hallidayan linguistics (Halliday & Hasan, 1976). For example, M. Baker (1992) relativizes the concept of equivalence at different levels (word, above-word, grammar, thematic structure, cohesion and pragmatic levels), reflecting Hallidayan systemic functional linguistics. House (1977, 1997) combines the Hallidayan register and the genre (generic purpose) of the text to assess translation based on the individual textual function. Hatim and Mason (1990, 1997) incorporate Hallidayan analysis for revealing ideologies hidden in translated texts. Some translation scholars make the ‘function’ of the text the top priority that translators should consider for deciding their translation strategies. Katharina Reiss (1977/1989) proposes the text-type model of translation. She categorizes texts into three types, namely informative, expressive, and operative, based on their function, and prescribes how to translate texts accordingly. Informative texts such as tourist guidebooks, instruction manuals and encyclopedia entries should be translated respecting semantic equivalence. Expressive texts such as poetries and creative essays should be translated respecting stylistic equivalence. Operative texts such as commercial advertisements should be translated respecting communicative equivalence. The problem of the text-type approach to translation is that a text cannot always be categorized into one text type. For example, a commercial advertisement can be an informative, expressive and operative text, if it provides information of the product and has aesthetically expressive styles and persuasive effects. How can we maintain any sort of equivalence between the STs and the TTs? 1.2.2 Manipulation and rewriting

The functional orientation hidden in Nida’s dynamic equivalence and Reiss’s text-type-based equivalence was radicalized by Hans J. Vermeer. Building on the view that translation is ‘translatorial action’ that requires cooperation among people who are involved in each translation process (Holz-Manttȁri, 1984), Vermeer (1989/2012: 202) argues that no one translates a text in a void, but according to a given ‘skopos’ (purpose) or commission. Thus, the adequacy of translation is based on whether it fulfils its stipulated purpose rather than whether it is faithful to the ST:

Introduction 17

As its name implies, the source text is oriented towards, and is in any case bound to, the source culture. The target text, the translatum, is oriented towards the target culture, and it is this which ultimately defines its adequacy. (Vermeer, 1989/2012: 193)

Reiss and Vermeer (1984/2014) more fully explain Vermeer’s Skopos theory and lays out five hierarchically ordered principles that translators should follow upon their decision-making. In this model, the ‘purpose’ of translation is the top priority and the coherence between the translation and its ST is the lowest priority. This downplaying of the ST may be harmless and beneficial for some types of texts such as advertisement of cosmetics and apparel but causes a serious problem for other types of texts such as legal documents. It can also ruin the stylistic and aesthetic values of literary works, which Reiss’ text-function model prescribes to preserve (Reiss, 1977/1989). If the skopos of a particular translation work is the accuracy, semantic content of the ST should be fully respected, but if not, the semantic content of the ST can be altered. Who decides the skopos of translation? It is not usually the author of the ST, but the user of the TT. Christiane Nord inserts the notion of loyalty to the functionalist approach to translation based on the Skopos theory. However, the ‘loyalty’ she refers to in this context is not about faithfulness to the ST, but about ‘a social relationship between people’ who are involved in the given translation process (Nord, 1997: 125). Downplaying of STs is not uncommon in literary translation. Some expressive texts such as poetry and novels are extensively altered in terms of forms and semantic meanings to the extent that we can say that they were ‘rewritten’ rather than translated. A famous case of translation as rewriting is the one committed by Edward Fitzgerald in the 19th century. He published Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám in 1859, as his English translation of a selection of quatrains (rubáiyát) originally written in Persian by Omar Khayyám (1048–1131). Fitzgerald felt Persians were ‘inferior’ and took liberty in translation in order to ‘improve on the original’ as we can see in his letter to E.G. Cowell, his ultimate authority for Persian, in 1867: It is an amusement for me to take what liberties I like with these Persians, who (as I think) are not Poets enough to frighten one from such excursions, and who really do want a little Art to shape them. (Fitzgerald et al., 2014: 216)

André Lefevere (1992b) claims that Fitzgerald’s translation of Rubáiyát is ‘one of the most effective rewritings’ in the 19th century (1992b: 8) and that he would never have taken such liberties with classical Greek or Latin literature because they are prestigious in his culture (1992b: 75). In this case, translation as rewriting is driven by the translator’s marginalization of

18  Translanguaging in Translation

Persian culture. This case convinces us that translation is heavily influenced by text-external sociopolitical power. Translation is ‘the most obviously recognizable type of rewriting’ and the decisions driven by ‘considerations of an ideological and/or poetological nature’ win out the decisions driven by ‘linguistic considerations’ if they are in competition (Lefevere 1992b): Translation is, of course, a rewriting of an original text. All rewritings, whatever their intention, reflect a certain ideology and a poetics and as such manipulate literature to function in a given society in a given way. Rewriting is manipulation, undertaken in the service of power, and in its positive aspect can help in the evolution of a literature and a society. Rewriting can introduce new concepts and new genres, new devices and the history of translation is the history also of literary innovation, of the shaping power of one culture upon another. (Lefevere, 1992b: vii)

Total equivalence is unattainable for translators. However, should the ST deserve to be respected by translators by virtue of its status of ‘original’? The ‘originality’ of the ST is being questioned and denied in the movement to value all translations as originals. One argument for this position is that no text can be completely original (Paz, 1971/1992: 154). Bassnett and Trivedi (1999: 2) claim that the status of the original as de facto arose due to the invention of printing and did not exist previously. Through multiple translations of the same ST, or translations of translations, the ideas in one text evolve to reflect the surrounding contexts just as folktales branch out over centuries and a language transforms into multiple varieties over time. We see a parallel between the self-evolving nature of a text enabled by translation and the self-evolving nature of language enabled by translanguaging. 1.2.3 Resistance

Translators are not working in a vacuum. They are not free from external voices, and they themselves are not always free from any sociopolitical ideology or dominant poetics. Translation is sensitive to numerous types of power imbalance including the ones between the West and non-West, between former colonizers and colonized, between dominant literature and peripheral literature and between hegemonic and marginalized languages. Naturally, translation is vulnerable to distortion, manipulation and rewriting. Tejaswini Niranjana (1992) and Gayatri Spivak (1993) argue that translation inscribes distorted views of individuals and cultures of former colonies in history and shapes the asymmetrical relationship between former colonies and colonizers. Niranjana illustrates it with a spiritual vacana poem in South India translated into English. The name of the god

Introduction 19

in Shaivism in a vacana poem written in classical Kannada is assimilated to the one in Christianity in one of its English translations, obscuring an indigenous religion (Niranjana, 1992: 180). She also shows the rendering of liṅga in the English translation just as ‘light’ can eliminate the crucial concept of Shaivism. The liṅga ‘is / is not Śiva, or god; it is a form for formlessness, a shape for shapelessness’ (Niranjana, 1992: 178). Niranjana suggests an ‘interventionist’ approach that undoes the distortion by restoring the original names and culture-specific terms. Compare the translation by A.K. Ramanujan and the translation by Niranjana for an excerpt of this poem: Translation by A.K. Ramanujan (Niranjana, 1992: 174) Looking for your light, I went out: it was like the sudden dawn of a million million suns, a ganglion of lightnings for my wonder. O Lord of Caves, if you are light there can be no metaphor. Translation by Tajaswini Niranjana (Niranjana, 1992: 175) Drawing back to look at your radiance I saw the dawning of a hundred million suns. I gazed in wonder at the lightning’s creepers playing. Guhēśvara, if you are become the liṅga of light Who can find your figuration.

The translation by Ramanujan is easily accessible to Western readers, but the indigenous spiritual concept in Shaivism is assimilated to Christian tradition. Niranjana attempts to resist it by injecting the SL name Guhēśvara, and the SL word liṅga in her English translation. The insertion of SL elements in translation in this case was ideology-driven but can also be broadly applied as the best solution to represent ideas faithfully to the ST and its culture. Tymoczko (1999) shows that translations of early Irish literature into English in the 19th and 20th centuries represent both assimilation and resistance and have played an important role toward the country’s independence. At the border between cultures, societies and eras, translation has played a pivotal role. The tension between assimilation and resistance is also crucial in George Steiner’s view of translation represented by ‘the hermeneutic

20  Translanguaging in Translation

motion’. For Steiner, a good translation has the creative tension between affinity and resistance to the language and the culture of the other and grows ‘elucidative strangeness’ (Steiner, 1975/1998: 413). That is, certain foreignness or stiffness in translation is valuable if that is what a translator identified and was attracted to. Thus, lexical gaps can be opportunities for translators to dive into the culture of the ST. 1.2.4 Foreignization

Lawrence Venuti (1995, 1998) takes a unique approach to value the ST and its culture by resisting the dominance of the culture of the TT. He strongly criticizes the dominant translation practice in Anglophone contexts that marginalizes the ST and its culture. He argues that translation practices in Anglophone societies eliminate any sign of foreignness from its translation and make the translation completely fluent to the extent that it appears to be the ‘original’ and to the extent that the translator becomes invisible. He calls this phenomenon ‘the translator’s invisibility’. The translator’s invisibility is implemented by setting the highest priority for translations to be accepted by the reviewers, publishers and readers in the receiving culture of translation (Venuti, 1995: 1). For Venuti, translator’s invisibility is an ethical issue: This relationship points to the violence that resides in the very purpose and activity of translation: the reconstitution of the foreign text in accordance with values, beliefs and representations that preexist it in the target language, always configured in hierarchies of dominance and marginality, always determining the production, circulation, and reception of texts. (Venuti, 1995: 18)

He calls this approach domestication, ‘an ethnocentric reduction of the foreign text to target-language cultural values’ and then advocates for the 180-degree opposite orientation, foreignization, ‘an ethnodeviant pressure on those values to register the linguistic and cultural differences of the foreign text’ (Venuti, 1995: 20). Venuti admits that these two orientations are based on the two methods of translation that Friedrich Schleiermacher argued for in the early 19th century, which we discussed earlier in this section: ‘Either the translator leaves the author in peace, as much as possible, and moves the reader toward him; or he leaves the reader in peace, as much as possible, and moves the author towards him’ (Schleiermacher, 1813/2012: 49), of which the first orientation (similar to foreignization) is preferred over the second (domestication) by Schleiermacher himself. For Venuti, foreignization is not quite the same as bringing readers toward the author. Foreignization is a strategic, political and cultural

Introduction 21

intervention that interrupts the hegemony of English and makes the translator and the source culture visible (Venuti, 1995: 20). Thus, foreignization is not about the faithfulness to the ST for him. Venuti (1998) links foreignization to ‘minoritizing’ translation (1998: 14), which he illustrates with his own English translation of an Italian text through the use of calques, juxtaposition of archaism and modern colloquialism, and close adherence to the ST structure and syntax. Crucially, Venuti’s foreignization is not about the faithfulness to the ST but is about the resistance to the dominance of the receiving culture that marginalizes the culture of the ST by purposely making English translation non-fluent. 1.2.5 Study of translated texts with focus on language use

As stated earlier in this section, translation studies originally focused on structure-based linguistics (Catford, 1965; Nida, 1964; Nida & Taber, 1969), which was harshly criticized because their models were incapable of handling anything above the sentence level. From the late 1970s to the 1990s, the linguistic approach shifted its focus from sentences to texts, constructing theories of translation based on the theories of language use, discourse and pragmatics, closely comparing STs and TTs and their respective cultures. For example, House (1977, 1997) employs Hallidayan systemic linguistics in her framework for translation assessment. M. Baker (1992) relativizes the concept of equivalence at different levels (word, above-word, grammar, thematic structure, cohesion and pragmatic levels), reflecting Hallidayan systemic linguistics. Hatim and Mason (1990, 1997) incorporate Hallidayan analysis for revealing ideologies hidden in translations. Gutt’s (1991) model of translation is based on Relevance Theory proposed by Sperber and Wilson (1986). Such a context-oriented linguistic approach complements what the structure-­ oriented linguistic approach is incapable of explaining. Although it was challenged by the scholars who advocate for the ‘cultural turn’ in the 1990s for its lack of emphasis on sociocultural and sociopolitical ideologies (Bassnett & Lefevere, 1990), the context-oriented linguistic approach can also integrate larger issues such as ideologies and ethics through a descriptive study of linguistic elements in translation (M. Baker, 2005; House, 1997; Malmkjaer, 2005). Any evidence-based study of translated texts cannot be performed without examining linguistic elements first. Some methods for the descriptive study of translated texts have been proposed in the field of translation studies. Toury (1995) proposes Descriptive Translation Studies (DTS), a research methodology where specific units of ST–TT pairs called ‘coupled pairs’ are descriptively analyzed to draw generalizations about translation patterns and to construct the ‘norms’ of translation. Similarly, Chesterman (1997) proposes a methodology based on the descriptive study of translated texts to draw

22  Translanguaging in Translation

a different set of generalizations called ‘S-Universal’ and ‘T-Universal’ to characterize translation behaviors and translated texts. S-Universal is found by comparing STs and TTs; T-Universal is found by comparing TTs and non-translated target language texts. Although corpus-based quantitative studies of translated texts are becoming popular, qualitative studies of translated texts are valuable for analyzing the pragmatic and sociocultural factors that affect translation. Lambert and van Gorp (1985/2014) propose ‘the atomic approach’ where a text is examined individually for ‘author-text-reader system’: It is not at all absurd to study a single translated text or a single translator, but it is absurd to disregard the fact that this translation or this translator has (positive or negative) connections with other translations and translators. (Lambert & van Gorp, 1985/2014: 51)

Lambert and van Gorp (1985/2014: 52) lay out four layers of a synthetic scheme for translation description: (i) preliminary data such as title page and preface; (ii) macro-level data such as the division of the text; (iii)  micro-level data such as grammatical patterns and modality and (iv) systemic context such as genre. They are aware of the danger of overgeneralization of results from one case study, but they also argue that the combination of such descriptive case studies can certainly shed light not only on the linguistic features of translated texts but also on the norms of translations, the risks for translators and the ethics of translation. Recently, there is a renewed interest in situating the study of translation within applied linguistics, mainly because of the emergence of translanguaging perspectives in applied linguistics. Baynham and Lee (2019) inquire the epistemology of translanguaging and translation. Sato analyzes traces of translanguaging in translated texts to see the nature of language and language use (Sato, 2017, 2018b, 2019, 2021). Lee (2021) reconceptualizes translation through the notions of distributed language, semiotic repertoire and assemblage. García et al. (2020) analyze the roles that translation and translanguaging play in primary bilingual classrooms from a decolonial perspective. Sato and García (forthcoming) and Sato and Sharma (2017) analyze the relationship between translanguaging and translation from a sociolinguistic decolonial perspective. 1.3 Translanguaging and/in Translation

Translanguaging and translation naturally co-exist in casual oral discourse. Translation can be performed in the midst of a translanguaging conversation at a multilingual multi-generational household. Similarly, translanguaging may take place in the midst of oral translation of a story performed by a teacher for their bilingual children.

Introduction 23

Nonetheless, translanguaging within translated texts could put translators at a serious professional risk. However, it should not be viewed as a problem as long as translators remember their mission of making the translated text intelligible for its readers. Translanguaging in translation has existed since ancient times. Over 2000 years ago, Cicero stated that the use of SL elements in translation is a legitimate solution: You could even do what I usually do: where the Greeks have one word I use more than one if I can’t translate otherwise, but that does not mean that I should not have the right to use a Greek word whenever Latin is unable to offer an equivalent. (Extract from De finibus bonorum et malorum (‘On the Limits of Good and Evil’), dated 44 BC, cited in Lefevere, 1992a: 47)

Here, Cicero is prescribing a translanguaging approach to translation practices. Translanguaging in translation is a normal state but is viewed as a problem only if the linguistic norms of the receiving culture of translation are societally monolingualized. Translanguaging is our general linguistic practices, and translation is only a subset of translanguaging, translanguaging practices with monolingual constraint. Thus, translanguaging in translation is only the manifestation of the underlying translanguaging, permeating through monolingual constraints. Creativity has been vital for the survival of human beings. Differences between people inspire creativity. When we notice a difference between ‘us’ and ‘them’, we naturally desire to either catch up or get ahead. To catch up, we start adopting ‘their’ practices or mixing them with ‘ours’. To get ahead, we develop new concepts, products or technology, or condemn and denounce ‘their’ practices. Here, ‘they’ can be those in a different continent, country, town, social class or age/gender/race/ethnic group. Along the same lines, our creative language use is awakened when we are placed at a border between two languages or two language varieties defined by geographic, political, economic, social and demographic factors. Our creative language use is heightened when linguistic differences need to be overcome for successful communication, knowledge gain, artistic expression or redefinition of our social identities. Languages constantly change through use in communication and adapt to sociocultural environments. Meanings of words are never stable (Derrida, 1982), and new meanings emerge through communicative interaction. Linguistic elements are not impermeable, but porous. They can absorb and create new meanings and new sensitivities. They are ‘communicative potentials’ (Li & Lee, 2020), and our languages are shaped as they are used to reflect the surrounding societal contexts (Li, 2018). That is, our languages are not static but living ‘because’ and ‘as long as’ their users are living. Traces of translanguaging found within translated texts can serve as informative and solid evidence of the nature of languages and language use.

24  Translanguaging in Translation

1.4 Organization of the Book

Translanguaging in Translation examines 76 translated texts: English translations of Japanese, Chinese, Korean and Hindi, and translations of English into some of these languages. The relationship between a ST and its TT is closely examined and different TTs of the same ST are also compared. Traces of translanguaging will be quantitatively or qualitatively analyzed in terms of text-internal linguistic factors such as phonological, morpho-syntactic, orthographic, semantic and discourse/pragmatic features and in terms of text-external factors such as sociocultural, sociohistorical, sociopolitical and socioeconomic factors that surround the translation and translators. The organization of the book is as follows. Chapter 2, ‘Scripts’, shows that scripts are not just coding symbols, but semiotic elements that play important roles in translation and translanguaging and can express sociopolitical ideologies of writers and translators. The emergence of complex Japanese reading and writing practices is analyzed as a result of translanguaging in translation evidenced in ­k anbun-kundoku (漢文訓読, Japanese reading of Chinese texts). Then, the emergence of three types of scripts and the creation of new kanji, new compound kanji words and non-Chinese loanwords written in katakana are analyzed as a result of translanguaging practices. Competition and complementation among different scripts and vocabulary classes based on different script types are revealed, showing that intralingual boundaries are sensitive to sociopolitical power and gender. This chapter also discusses the role of furigana in Japanese as a place for translanguaging. Chapter 3, ‘Names’, considers if names should be semantically translated or phonologically transliterated. Transliteration of a name is not as simple as it appears to be: Transliteration may introduce irrelevant connotative meanings, which could ruin authorial themes. On the other hand, semantic translation of names may also introduce irrelevant connotative meanings or unnecessarily revive forgotten historical events. The most outrageous case is the adaptation of people and place names that shifts the cultural identity of the entire text. This chapter also discusses brand and product names. The latter kinds of names are freely localized through translanguaging practices that purposely deploy phonological, semantic, pragmatic and/or orthographic features of a name to achieve socioeconomic business success in a given local area. Chapter 4, ‘Words’, examines six kinds of words and terms, which are culture-specific words, society-specific terms, personal pronouns, terms for addressing, units of measurement and mimetic words, and also examines how they are rendered in translated literature. Words are chosen or created by language users for communicative interaction in a given situation and in a given sociocultural context. Removing a word from the context may erase its contextual meaning. This chapter shows how a translanguaging approach is actually being taken by some translators and

Introduction 25

how it enables intercultural communication through translated literature. Chapter 5, ‘Context’, examines some types of language use where context is everything. It examines how the contextual meanings in STs survive in translated texts. Metaphors and puns are those that cannot exist or function as defined without context. They are often believed to be untranslatable and are typically deleted, just explained or replaced by a metaphor or pun in the culture of the TT. However, could a scaffolded translanguaging approach save the ‘untranslatable’ in translation? This chapter also examines how multilingual narrative and discourse in the ST can be represented in the TT. Multilingual language use in a single discourse represents the language user’s identity: it shows their linguistic/ cultural background, personality, social status and social relationships they hold with the surrounding people. They may be erased by the linguistic purification process of translation. This chapter also analyzes translators’ translanguaging practices that manipulate intralingual linguistic boundaries driven by sociopolitical ideology. Again, context is everything here. Chapter 6, ‘Roles of Translanguaging and Translation’, characterizes the relationship between translanguaging and translation based on the analysis of translated texts presented in the previous chapters and considers their three main implications. First, translanguaging operates recursively, multi-directionally and productively, even at morpheme levels. It is essential to the development of languages. Second, the acceptance of translanguaging in translation depends on the mindset of the receiving culture of translation toward multilingualism. Translanguaging in translation is essential to experience the culture of the ST and engage in virtual intercultural communication. Third, the pedagogical effectiveness of translanguaging and translation needs to be re-evaluated. Although the use of non-target language and translation have been denied by the currently dominant Communicative Language Teaching approach, they can effectively promote the five goal areas of World-Readiness Standards for Learning Languages created by the American Council on the Teaching of Foreign Languages (ACTFL). Chapter 7 is a brief conclusion of this book.

2 Scripts

Under the view that languages are societal constructs, orthographic scripts are a vital part of our linguistic competence as much as our spoken language. Orthographic scripts are not simple coding tools but are loaded with sociohistorical and sociopolitical ideologies that are conveyed by their sensory meanings. Thus, they keep affecting our societies, and as they do so, they reinforce their sensory meanings or develop new ones, which in turn affect our societies again. Scripts can divide or unite people. For example, Hindi and Urdu are mutually intelligible languages that mainly differ in their scripts: Hindi is written in the Devanagari script, while Urdu is written in the Perso-Arabic script. Their difference in script symbolizes the division between Hindu and Muslim and between India and Pakistan. By contrast, several related but mutually unintelligible languages may share the same scripts. For example, Cantonese speakers and Shanghainese speakers may not be able to communicate orally but can easily understand each other once they write. Yet, the choice between traditional and simplified characters symbolizes the political partition between different countries/regions and often brings a conflict to the educators and parents at weekend Chinese schools in places such as the United States and Canada. Scripts may emerge or diminish due to language contact. For example, Cherokee scripts were created after their speakers encountered Europeans. Being inspired by their ‘Talking Leaves’, Sequoyah invented logographs and then syllabic phonographs for Cherokee speakers in the early 19th century. According to John K. White, Sequoyah had perfected a syllabary of 85 characters that was ideally suited to Cherokee phonetics by 1819, and by 1828, the Cherokee nation had a national press and was printing a weekly newspaper (White, 1962: 511). On the other hand, the Baybayin script was being used along with other writing systems in pre-colonial Philippines, but its use declined after they were colonized by the Spanish (Cabuay, 2009). The nature of scripts may be vague or may change, and logographic scripts may function as phonographic scripts at the same time but may completely evolve into phonographic scripts. For instance, logographic scripts partially evolved into two sets of phonographic scripts during the classical period in Japan, and three types of scripts currently appear within the same sentence or even within the same word in Japanese. 26

Scripts 27

This chapter illustrates how translanguaging and translation practices have been operating using scripts in Japan through literacy practices. 2.1 Hybrid Reading and Writing

The earliest written artifacts found in Japan were Chinese coins and mirrors with short inscriptions, which date back to the 1st century BC (Lurie, 2011: 2). Original states of scripts were not necessarily functional but were mainly decorative. Thus, the boundary between drawing and writing, and the boundary between art and literacy remained blurred for some centuries. Then, scripts transformed from ornamental patterns to linguistic signs. The first text produced in Japan as a linguistic entity was created in the 5th century although fully fledged literacy practices started in the 7th and 8th centuries (Lurie, 2011: 1). During the 6th and 7th centuries, Chinese Buddhism was brought into Japan through Korea, causing the necessity for the Japanese to read numerous Chinese texts. Chinese texts, kanbun (漢文), were read in two different ways: ondoku (音読, sound reading of texts) and kundoku (訓 読, gloss reading of texts). Kanbun-ondoku (漢文音読, the sound reading of Chinese texts) is the mere vocalization of Chinese texts as Chinese, just like a second language reading, where a second language learner reads a text written in the target language, in the same target language. On the other hand, kanbun-kundoku (漢文訓読, the gloss reading of Chinese texts) is the verbalization of Chinese texts in vernacular Japanese. It often required kunten (訓点, reading marks), which are phonological annotations and diacritic marks for reordering words and transposing sentence structures from Chinese to Japanese. 2.1.1 Hybrid reading

Chinese characters used in China are mono-morphemic and monosyllabic. Once Chinese characters were adapted to Japanese and started to be called kanji, each of them was read in on’yomi (音読み, sound reading of a kanji character) and/or kun’yomi (訓読み, gloss reading of a kanji character). On’yomi readings are the approximations of the Chinese pronunciations of the characters. They are mostly used when the kanji character is being combined with other kanji characters to form a kanji compound. Because original Chinese characters are monosyllabic, on’yomi readings are short and crisp, comprising of either one syllable (e.g. ri, ha, kan, dō, ei (ē), sū) or two short syllables (e.g. yaku, jutsu, moku, ritsu, teki, seki, shiki). A kanji character may have multiple on’yomi readings mainly because the same kanji character was brought to Japan multiple times in different time periods in history, from different areas in China, or as a part of different kanji compound words. In addition, some on’yomi reading

28  Translanguaging in Translation

gains variations due to the phonological conditions that operate in the Japanese language. So, for example, the on’yomi readings of the kanji character 生 include sei and shō, and the onset consonant of the latter can be voiced (jō) when preceded by a nasal consonant: sei, as in 生活 (sei-katsu, daily life), 生産 (sei-san, production), 学生 (gaku-sei, student) shō, as in 生涯 (shō-gai, lifetime), 一生 (is-shō, whole life), 殺生 (ses-shō, killing) jō, as in 誕生 (tan-jō, birth)

Kun’yomi readings are the pronunciations of the native Japanese words whose meanings can be matched with the meanings of a given kanji character, partially or entirely. Unlike on’yomi readings, kun’yomi readings can be quite long because many Japanese native vocabulary words consist of three or more syllables as in kokoro (heart), hikari (light) and umareru (to be born). When the matching native Japanese word is a verb or an adjective, a kunten annotation was provided to the kanji character to show the inflectional endings in kanbun-kundoku practices in the early history of Japanese literacy. Then, these kunten annotations developed into okurigana (送り仮名). For example, the kun’yomi readings of the same kanji 生 include the following, where the division between them and okurigana, if any, are divided by the short dash: nama: 生 (raw) u-mareru: 生まれる (to be born) i-kiru: 生きる (to live) u-mu: 生む (to create) ha-eru: 生える (to sprout)

As we can see, one kanji character may have numerous kun’yomi readings. Similarly, there can be multiple kanji characters that have the same kun’yomi. For example: ashi (leg, foot): 足 and 脚  to-ru (to take): 取る, 撮る, 採る, 摂る, 獲る, 捕る 

On’yomi readings, which take linguistic features of Chinese, and kun’yomi readings, which take linguistic features of Japanese, are both employed in kanbun-kundoku within the same text. This hybrid reading practice characterizes kanbun-kundoku as a form of script-based translanguaging. At the same time, kanbun-kundoku can be viewed as a form of ‘mental translation’ (Wakabayashi, 2005: 24) because a reader sees a Chinese text, mentally visualizes meanings, and instantly verbalizes it in Japanese. When some kanji characters and kanji compound words are read in on’yomi, neo-loanwords from Chinese are instantly created. When

Scripts 29

other kanji characters are read in kun’yomi, Chinese words are instantly transferred into Japanese. The practitioner of kanbun-kundoku is a bilingual, who both simultaneously borrows and translates Chinese words, and the outcome of this practice is an instant oral translation of a Chinese text. This acrobatic translanguaging-heavy translation-producing reading process was made possible due to the logographic nature of kanji characters, where the language user’s eyes are retrieving the meanings of kanji characters, while the text is transferred from Chinese to Japanese. In this process, the boundary between comprehension (reading) and production (verbalizing) is also disregarded: comprehension and production are simultaneously processed because the bilingual’s eyes are focused on kanji characters, which serve as the meeting point between comprehension and production. 2.1.2 Hybrid writing

Since there was no original writing system in Japan, the earliest form of writing required to creatively use Chinese characters. One way was to write in the Chinese language, using Chinese words and grammar to represent their ideas. This method was just like a second language writing, where a second language learner would write their ideas solely in the target language. It was also like a translation from Japanese to Chinese. However, writing in the Chinese language was an option only for those who were versed with the Chinese language in Japan. Thus, only a limited number of Japanese could do so at that time. The alternative method was to transliterate the Japanese language using a smaller number of kanji characters. It was done entirely throughout the text, or partially, mixing transliteration and Chinese translation. At any rate, only Chinese characters were used for writing at the initial stage of literacy in Japan. When the Japanese transliterated their own language using kanji characters, the latter were only used as phonetic symbols, and their logographic meanings were disregarded. In this method, each Japanese syllable was assigned with one or more Chinese characters for its sound value, mostly based on the Chinese pronunciation of the character. This is the origin of man’yōgana (万葉仮名). Man’yō literally means ‘ten thousand leaves’, a part of the title of an anthology of ancient Japanese poems, Man’yōshū (万葉集, ‘Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves’), compiled sometime in the Nara Period (710–794), because many poems in this collection were written in man’yōgana, although man’yōgana was used in earlier texts. The transliteration method based on man’yōgana was not very systematic. In this method, on’yomi readings were dominantly used, but kun’yomi readings were also occasionally used. For example, the Japanese word yama (mountain) could be written by combining two characters 夜 (night) and 麻 (hemp) as 夜麻 ya-ma. In this case, the on’yomi

30  Translanguaging in Translation

readings of these kanji characters were used. On the other hand, the Japanese word natsukashi (nostalgia) could be written by combining two characters 夏 (summer) and 樫 (oak) as 夏樫 natsu-kashi. In this case, the kun’yomi readings of these kanji characters were used. Man’yōgana that is based on the on’yomi reading of kanji, as in 夜麻 yama (mountain), are called on-gana. Man’yōgana that uses kun’yomi reading of kanji, as in 夏 樫 natsu-kashi (mountain), are called kungana. Because ongana and kungana could be mixed in a text, reading a text written in man’yōgana is not very easy at times. We must try both ways to see which way makes sense. Another aspect of man’yōgana that is not systematic is the option of characters. There was no one-to-one matching between a syllable and a kanji character. The same syllable can be represented by dozens of man’yōgana. For example, the syllable ya was represented by 也, 移, 夜, 楊, 耶 or 野, which are all ongana, and also by 八, 矢 or 屋, which are all kungana. One kanji character could even serve as an ongana and as a kungana. For example: 子: shi (ongana); kwo (kungana) 木: mo (ongana); ko, kwi (kungana) 八: pa (ongana); ya (kungana) 田: de (ongana); ta (kungana)

When the Japanese (graphically) translated their own language, kanji characters were only used as semantic symbols, and their Chinese sounds were completely disregarded. In this method, each Japanese word was matched with a kanji character that shares the same meaning. For example, when they wanted to refer to and write yama, which is the native Japanese word that means ‘mountain’, they could represent it with the kanji character 山 because 山 also means ‘mountain’ in Chinese. Writing ‘mountain’ as 山 is a form of (graphic) translation for the Japanese at that time. Thus, the Japanese word yama (mountain) could be written as 夜 麻, using kanji phonetically for transliterating (man’yōgana method), or as 山, using kanji semantically for translating (graphic-limited Chinese translation). By using kanji for transliteration and translation, an entire Japanese sentence could be written in kanji. For example, consider one of the songs in Man’yōshū, written by Yamanoue no Okura: Yononaka-wo ushi-to yasashi-to omoe-domo tobitachi kanetsu tori-nishi ara-ne-ba  Word-by-word gloss World-ACC depressing-QUO humiliating-QUO think-though fly-away cannot bird-DAT-EMP be-not-if Verbatim translation: Though our world seems depressing and humiliating, we cannot fly away because we are not a bird.

Scripts 31

This song was written as follows, exclusively in kanji (Univ. of Virginia Library, 1999: song 893): 世間乎宇之等夜佐之等於母倍杼母飛立可祢都鳥尓之 安良祢婆

Here, some kanji characters are used phonetically, whereas others are used semantically. To show how, the constituents of this song are listed along with their pronunciation and meanings in Table 2.1. 世間, 飛立 and 鳥 are graphic Chinese translations of the Japanese words yononaka (world), tobitachi (fly-away) and tori (bird), respectively. They were obviously read in kun’yomi reading judging from the number of syllables required for this type of songs. The rest of kanji characters in this song are all transliteration of Japanese words and grammatical items. Thus, it is a hybrid text with Chinese and Japanese linguistic elements produced through translation and transliteration, a result of hybrid writing or translanguaging practice. The Kojiki (古事記, Records of Ancient Matters), completed in 712 CE, can be viewed as a representation of the earliest translanguaging writing in Japan. In the Kojiki, the author/compiler, Yasumaro, deliberately used three ways of writing: Chinese style (the semantic use of kanji), Japanese style (phonetic use of kanji or man’yōgana) and Chinese–Japanese hybrid style: (i) the Chinese style was used for writing Table 2.1  Phonetic and semantic use of kanji in Man’yōshū-song #893 Kanji

Use of kanji

Pronunciation (in the song in Japanese)

Meaning (in Japanese)

世間

semantic

yononaka

world

乎

phonetic

wo

ACC

宇之

ushi

depressing

等

to

QUO

夜佐之

yasashi

humiliating

等

to

QUO

於母倍

omoe

think

杼母

do mo

though

飛立

semantic

tobi-tachi

fly away

可祢都

phonetic

kanetsu

cannot

鳥

semantic

tori

bird

尓

phonetic

ni

DAT

之

shi

EMP

安良

ara

be

祢

ne

not

婆

ba

if

32  Translanguaging in Translation

the preface to indicate formality; (ii) the Japanese style was used for writing songs to represent the Japanese language respecting the way it was spoken, which was suitable for straightforwardly expressing feelings and emotions; and (iii) the Chinese–Japanese hybrid style was used for writing the main text, successfully maintaining the formality and the brevity needed for the text body while facilitating readability for the Japanese (Seeley, 1991: 46). In the Chinese/Japanese hybrid style, the writer was using the linguistic features of Japanese and Chinese languages and mixing them freely within the same text to maximize expressiveness while minimizing reading effort. This method allowed the Japanese to represent their emotions and ideas using their vernacular language whenever they wanted to express themselves as they speak and to represent things and concepts simply using the Chinese language whenever they needed preciseness and brevity. This flexible deployment of linguistic features for rhetorical and communicative effectiveness disregarding the boundary between languages is evidently translanguaging. The boundary between semantic signs and phonetic signs is also compromised in this hybrid writing practice: Some kanji characters are semantically used, but others are phonetically used within the same text. To summarize, kanbun-kundoku (the gloss reading of Chinese texts) that emerged in the 6th century in Japan can be viewed as the earliest form of translation in Japan and as the earliest form of translanguaging through scripts in Japan, where linguistic features and lexemes in both Chinese and Japanese were simultaneously deployed by the reader of the Chinese text while the entire process was held together by scripts. The earliest form of writing in Japan that exclusively used Chinese characters often combined transliteration and translation. Such a hybrid writing process is a translanguaging practice, where Japanese and Chinese linguistic features as well as phonetic, semantic, and graphic features are strategically deployed. 2.2 Emergence of Kana

Kana (仮名) literally means ‘temporary name/character’. It was coined as a counterpart of mana (真名), which literally means ‘true name/character’. Mana refers to kanji characters, whereas kana refers to symbols created from kanji, more specifically from phonetically used kanji, man’yōgana. Accordingly, kana only represent sounds, not meanings, unlike mana. Two sets of kana, hiragana and katakana, evolved from man’yōgana in the Heian Period (794–1185). Hiragana (平仮名, plain kana) is a set of cursively written selected whole man’yōgana. They were cursive, fluid, abstract and aesthetically pleasing and were associated with literature and calligraphy. Katakana (片仮名, fragment kana) is a set of

Scripts 33

selected fragmented man’yōgana. They consist of straight lines and acute angles and were practical to use in annotations on texts where space is limited. Interestingly, the transformation from man’yōgana to kana took place gradually, and there was a period of coexistence of man’yōgana and kana (Frellesvig, 2010: 162). During this period, the Japanese were using scripts quite freely taking advantage of both phonetic features and semantic features of kanji characters as well as newly emerging kana characters. When kana systems were established and acquired functional status, the Japanese gained their own literacy identity: Kana were unambiguously recognizable as Japanese scripts rather than Chinese scripts. In addition, kana were easily recognized as phonetic symbols rather than semantic symbols. When kanji characters were exclusively used for writing, readers were always uncertain whether a given kanji character was being used as a phonograph or as a logograph. However, after kana systems were introduced to Japan, phonograph/logograph ambiguities of kanji disappeared. The invention of kana enabled the Japanese to straightforwardly write any Japanese sentence as they speak in vernacular Japanese. In other words, the birth of kana liberated the Japanese from the Chinese language when expressing their ideas in writing. They became able to write what they thought using only a limited number of kana characters without using any kanji. 2.2.1 Gender-based linguistic boundary

In the Heian Period, a literary genre called ‘kana literature’ emerged. Most works in kana literature were written by women in hiragana. Hiragana was called ‘onna-de (女手, women’s script/hand)’ and was ‘the only script normally used by women’ (Seeley, 1991: 78), although men could also write in hiragana as well as in kanji. On the other hand, ‘otoko-de’ (男手, men’s script/hand) was the term devised to denote kanji (Seeley, 1991: 79). Japanese male literary authors ­g enerally ‘considered writing in Japanese to be beneath them’ and devoted themselves to write in Chinese using kanji (Keene, 1955: 24). Academic, intellectual or public writing was mostly done in classical Chinese, presumably by men, while women were traditionally excluded from the world of learning and classical Chinese. Evidently, the choice of scripts was not made simply based on rhetorical effectiveness but was deliberately made by reflecting the user’s sociocultural and sociopolitical ideologies in terms of gender and power. The Japanese were recognizing an authoritative value in kanji that originated from China. Accordingly, hiragana was not a part of the writing practice associated with power and intellect, and women were normally writing only in hiragana in the Heian Period.

34  Translanguaging in Translation

This shows that scripts bear societally constructed sensory meanings, and a script-based gender-sensitive linguistic boundary existed in the Heian Period in Japan. It was not the case that women were biologically incapable of writing kanji, and it was not the case that men were biologically incapable of writing hiragana, either. Men could write hiragana, and men could express their feelings more freely if they wrote in hiragana. What was preventing men from writing in hiragana was the societally constructed gender-based linguistic boundary. If they could disregard this boundary, they could enrich their expressiveness in their writing. A translanguaging practice that manipulates a gender-based linguistic boundary was taken by some authors. Tosa Nikki (土佐日記, The Tosa Diary) was actually written by a male poet, Ki no Tsurayuki (紀貫 之, 872–945), in hiragana, because travel diary could be more freely written in hiragana. He starts this travel diary with his statement that he was writing ‘as a woman’ (Seeley, 1991: 79). His use of hiragana can be an instance of intralingual translanguaging obviously motivated by rhetorical effectiveness, but it could have been done for voicing his critical view on gender (Sato, 2018b). 2.2.2 Kanji-kana hybrid writing

From the middle of the Heian Period (794–1185), a writing style called kanji-kana majiribun (漢字仮名交じり文), or kanji-kana hybrid writing, started to be used more widely, replacing kana-only writing. In kanjikana hybrid writing, content words were mainly written in kanji while grammatical particles and inflectional endings were written in katakana. Kanji-kana hybrid writing arose as a transfer of the techniques of kunten to the writing of Japanese (Frellesvig, 2010: 158). The shift from perfectly feasible kana-only writing to more complex kanji-kana mixed writing was partially motivated by the efficiency of reading. Reading a kanji-kana mixed text requires less time than reading an all-kana text. There are some reasons for this. First, the presence of kanji helps readers quickly identify content words and perceive their meanings. Second, it helps readers recognize morpheme boundaries quickly. Third, writing in kanji can visually disambiguate many homophones in Japanese regardless of whether they are native Japanese words (e.g. ha for teeth (歯) or ha for leaf (葉)) or words from China (e.g. kan for sense (感) or kan for tin (缶)). Fourth, because one kanji character can represent two or more syllables, kanji-kana hybrid texts are always shorter than all-kana texts if not the same length. In the Edo Period (1603–1867), the Tokugawa shogunate promoted Chinese studies in general, in particular, neo-Confucianist studies, which were useful for preserving the status quo in the society (Seeley, 1991: 101). This naturally fostered the use of the Chinese-style writing among scholars, but what was firmly established was kanji-kana hybrid writing. The

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practice of kanji-kana hybrid writing is still used in the modern writing system, except that grammatical particles and inflectional endings are now written in hiragana rather than in katakana. The shift from kanji-only writing to kana-only writing was driven by the ease of writing and by the desire to write in the vernacular Japanese. However, this shift was not realized overnight. It went through a period of constant translanguaging practices, where phonetic features and semantic features of kanji and two kinds of kana that derived from kanji were mixed and freely combined to make sense. The following shift from kana-only writing to kanji-kana hybrid writing was partially driven by the ease of reading, but it was also socioculturally and sociopolitically conditioned, driven by the ideology in the pre-modern era in Japan, namely, the admiration of the Chinese culture. This societally constructed ideology-driven dynamic transformation of the norms of writing that manipulate the boundary between Japanese and Chinese shows that scripts serve as spaces for translanguaging. To summarize, the development of the Japanese literacy system has closely reflected sociopolitical ideologies in Japan. Kana phonographs emerged from kanji logographs and allowed the Japanese to write in their vernacular language in the Heian Period (794–1185), whereas kanji continued to symbolize writers’ sociopolitical power. The two types of scripts not only helped the Japanese write their ideas but also created genderbased and power-based social boundaries. Later, the two types of scripts were mixed in the same text, creating kanji-kana majiribun (kanji-kana mixed writing). 2.3 Creative Use of Kanji

Chinese characters have been serving as spaces for translanguaging in Japan since they were adapted to Japan as kanji. In addition to the creation of on’yomi, kun’yomi, man’yōgana, hiragana and katakana discussed in Sections 2.1 and 2.2, native Japanese words gained new dignified appearances as they were assigned with kanji characters based on the sound (ateji) or the meaning (jukujikun) of existing kanji or gained a brand-new kanji created in Japan (kokuji). New words and concepts were also created by combining kanji characters (Sino-Japanese compounds) and played an important role to translate Western texts in the Meiji Period (1868–1912). They have enriched the Japanese language and facilitated the modernization of Japanese societies. 2.3.1 A  teji and jukujikun (kanji characters assigned to Japanese words)

Many existing native Japanese vocabulary words were graphically resurfaced with the use of kanji. In this case, two or more kanji characters

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were combined and assigned to one Japanese word. It was motivated by the writer’s desire to write texts solely by kanji in the premodern time (Seeley, 1991: 188). They are classified into ateji (当て字) and jukujikun (熟字訓). Ateji are combinations of kanji characters chosen for their sound value, either on’yomi or kun’yomi, ignoring their semantic meanings. For example, the native Japanese word, sewa, means ‘care’. To represent this word, the two kanji characters – 世 (se) and 話 (wa) – were combined due to their pronunciations although their meanings are irrelevant to ‘care’: 世 means world, and 話 means speaking. The basic principle for the creation of ateji is the same as the use of man’yōgana. That is, transliteration of Japanese words using kanji. However, the choice of kanji characters in ateji is fixed for a given Japanese word, unlike man’yōgana that are randomly selected in the early literacy practice in Japan. The following are some examples of ateji: 出来る deki-ru (to be able to do): combination of 出 de (to come out), 来 ki (to come), and the suffix る ru  出鱈目detarame (nonsense): combination of 出 de (to come out), 鱈 tara (cod fish), and 目 me (eye) 風呂 furo (bath): combination of 風 fū (wind) and 呂 ro (backbone) 怪我 kega (injury): combination of 怪 ke (suspicious) and 我 ga (oneself) 真面目 majime (serious): combination of 真 ma (true), 面 men (face), and 目 me (eye) 目出度い medeta-i (celebratory): combination of 目 me (eye), 出 de (to come out), 度 tabi (frequency), and the suffix い i　 矢鱈 yatara (recklessly): combination of 矢 ya (arrow) and 鱈 tara (cod fish) 野暮 yabo (unrefined): combination of 野 ya (field) and 暮 bo (dusk)

As you can see, ateji are not limited to nouns, but include verbs and adjectives, which are supported by hiragana that represents inflectional endings. Jukujikun is a combination of kanji characters chosen for their semantic value, ignoring their sound to represent an existing Japanese word. For example, the native Japanese word kesa means this morning. To represent this word graphically, the two kanji characters 今 (current) and 朝 (morning) were chosen and combined because of their meanings. The original pronunciations of 今 are kon (on’yomi) and ima (kun’yomi) and those of 朝 are chō (on’yomi) and asa (kun’yomi). Evidently, the sounds of these kanji characters are disregarded, and the Japanese pronunciation of the word kesa was applied to the entire sequence of the two kanji characters. The combination of these two kanji characters, 今朝, was created in Japan, and it does not exist in Chinese. The Chinese counterpart of this word is 今天早上 (jīntiān zǎoshang). The following are additional examples of jukujikun:

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今日 kyō (today): combination of 今 (now) and 日 (day) 明日 asu (tomorrow): combination of 明 (bright) and 日 (day) 明後日 asatte (the day after tomorrow): combination of 明 (bright), 後 (after), and 日 (day) 大人 otona (adult): combination of 大 (big) and 人 (person) 土産 miyage (souvenir): combination of 土 (soil) and 産 (produce) 山葵 wasabi (Japanese horseradish): combination of 山 (mountain) and 葵 (wild ginger) 五月雨 samidare (early summer rain): combination of 五 (five), 月 (month), and 雨 (rain)

In the above examples, it is impossible to analyze each character as a bearer of a specific sound because the whole pronunciation of a Japanese word was assigned to the whole sequence of the kanji characters. The basic reading principle of jukujikun is the same as that of kun’yomi in that the Japanese read kanji using the semantically equivalent Japanese words. However, we think of kun’yomi as resulting from a translation of a character in Chinese into a word in Japanese as shown in Figure 2.1:

Figure 2.1  Kun’yomi (gloss reading of Chinese characters)

By contrast, jukujikun is a secondary, reverse, graphic and creative translation from a Japanese word to a set of kanji characters that form another Japanese word. It is secondary because this kind of translation uses already internalized Chinese characters, kanji. It is a reverse translation because it is a translation of a preexisting Japanese word without Chinese characters into the one with Chinese characters, unlike kun’yomi, which is the translation of an existing Chinese character to the one with Japanese word. It is a graphic translation because the pronunciation of the Japanese word remains the same, and a Japanese word only gains a new graphic outlook. It is like resurfacing existing kitchen cabinets. It is also a creative translation where kanji characters are strategically chosen and combined.

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The division between ateji and jukujikun is blurry. That is, the division between phonographic nature and semantic nature of creative use of kanji has significant overlaps. For example, 多分 tabun (probably) was created by combining 多 ta (numerous) and 分 bun (divide/part). The phonological features of the two kanji are used to represent the sound of the word tabun. However, the semantic meanings of these kanji characters jointly mean ‘numerous part(s)’, which can be understood to represent the semantic meaning of ‘probably’. Thus, 多分 is both ateji and jukujikun at the same time. Some scholars call both types ateji. Ateji ateyomi kanjihyogen jiten (dictionary of assigned kanji expressions) edited by Hiroyuki Sasahara lists over 11,000 of ateji and jukujikun. In the modern era, their use has been considerably reduced through kanji reforms, but some are still frequently used. The practice of ateji and jukujikun extends to the representation of Western concepts. Although they are usually written in katakana now, some are still written in ateji or jukujikun. For example: Ateji: 型録 (katarogu, catalog): combination of 型 (kata) and 録 (roku) 珈琲 (kōhī, coffee): combination of 珈 (ka) and 琲 (hi) 倶楽部 (kurabu, club): combination of 倶 (gu), 楽 (raku), and 部 (bu) Jukujikun: 麦酒 (bīru, beer): combination of 麦 (wheat) and 酒 ( liquor)  煙草 (tabako, tobacco): combination of 煙 (smoke) and 草 (grass) 

In these cases, linguistic features of English and Chinese, regardless of whether they are phonological, semantic or graphic, are creatively combined in the Japanese context. The processes are not strictly rule-governed and often obscure, but it shows that they are outcomes of translanguaging practices by translators of Western texts. 2.3.2 Kokuji (Japan-made kanji characters)

Many kanji characters were created in Japan by combining existing kanji characters or the components of a kanji character. They are called kokuji (domestically made characters). Some of them are documented in Shinsen jikyō (Newly Compiled Mirror of Characters) compiled in the Heian Period (794–1185) (Seeley, 1991: 203). For example, the kanji 峠 (mountain pass) was created in Japan by combining three kanji characters, namely 山 (mountain), 上 (up) and 下 (down), and the pronunciation of the native Japanese word tōge (mountain pass) was assigned to this kanji character. Similarly, the kanji 働 in 働く hatara-ku (to work) was created in Japan by combining イ, which is a kanji component (radical) that represents ‘person’, and the existing kanji 動 dō (to move).

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The following are additional examples of kokuji listed in Okimori et al. (2008: 47) based on the Daijirin Dictionary: 鰯 iwashi (sardines): combination of 魚 (fish) and 弱 (weak) 粁 kiromētoru (kilometer): combination of 米 (rice/meter) and 千 (thousand) 凩 kogarashi (cold wintry wind): combination of 几 (radical for wind) and 木 (tree) 粍 mirimētoru (millimeter): combination of 米 (rice/meter) and 毛 (hair) 鯰 namazu (catfish): combination of 魚 (fish) and 念 (thought) 躾 shitsuke (teaching manners): combination of 身 (body) and 美 (beauty) 鱈 tara (cod fish): combination of 魚 (fish) and 雪 (snow) 腺 sen (gland): combination of 月 (radical for body) and 泉 (spring) 膵 sui (pancreas): combination of 月 (radical for body) and 萃 (collect) 

As you can see, the pronunciation of the kokuji can be the pronunciation of the matching native Japanese word, something comparable to kun’yomi reading (e.g. iwashi 鰯, kogarashi 凩, namazu, shitsuke 躾 and tara 鱈). It can be the pronunciation of a component character in the Chinese way, something comparable to on’yomi reading (e.g. sen 腺 and sui 膵). Or, it can be the pronunciation of the matching Western word, something that is not on’yomi or kun’yomi (e.g. kiromētoru 粁 and mirimētoru 粍). The last type is particularly interesting because it takes features of English and Chinese in the Japanese context. The character 米 is used to represent the unit of length ‘meter’. Thus, the outcome of combining 米 and 千 (thousand) is 粁 kiromētoru (kilometer), and the outcome of combining 米 and 毛 (hair) is 粍 mirimētoru (millimeter). The formation process of kokuji is part of a translanguaging process at grapho-morpheme level. 2.3.3 Kango (Sino-Japanese vocabulary)

Kango (漢語) is Sino-Japanese vocabulary. They include vocabulary words borrowed from Chinese. For example, the following are kango borrowed from Chinese (Iwashita, 2003): 愛 ai (love) 印 in (seal) 豆腐 tōfu (soybean curd, tofu) 仏事 butsuji (Buddhist memorial service) 料理 ryōri (cooking) 椅子 isu (chair)

They sound very differently from wago (和語), native Japanese words such as sushi (sushi), kokoro (heart) and akebono (dawn). Wago tend to have short open syllables and are written in hiragana or kanji (e.g. sushi can be written as すし in hiragana or as 寿司 or 鮨 in kanji).

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Kango also include vocabulary words that were created in Japan by combining kanji characters while preserving their semantic meaning and their on’yomi reading. They are called wasei-kango (和製漢語), literally ‘Japan-made’ kango. Some wasei-kango were created based on a phrase that consists of wago. The following examples are from Oda (2008: 34): 返事 hen-ji (reply): created based on 返り事 kaeri-goto (return-matter) 物騒 bus-sō (insecurity): created based on 物騒がし mono-sawagashi (thing-noize) 大根 dai-kon (daikon radish): created based on 大根 ōne (big root) 火事 ka-ji (fire, conflagration): created based on 火の事 hi no koto (fire’s matter)

Wasei-kango graphically appear like ateji and jukujikun as they are all represented by kanji characters. However, ateji and jukujikun are not kango. Kango preserve the meaning and the sound of kanji characters. By contrast, ateji preserve the sound of kanji characters, but not their meaning, and jukujikun preserve the meaning of kanji characters, but not their sound. 2.3.4 Wasei-Kango for translating Western concepts

The modernization of Japan in the Meiji Period (1868–1912) required the adaptation of a large number of concepts from the West to translate a large number of texts from the West. In particular, Western words that represent abstract concepts such as ‘society’ and ‘individual’ were significantly challenging to translate because of the lack of equivalent words and/or equivalent realities that stood for them in Japan at that time (Yanabu, 1982/2015: 3). Representing them using wago would have made the words too lengthy, imprecise, perceptually too primitive or misleading. To illustrate this point, Kindaichi (2010: 22) states that some poets referred to 鉄道 tetsudō (railroad) with the wago phrase くろがねのみち kurogane no michi (a road of black iron) and referred to 電信 denshin (telegram) with the wago phrase 針金だより harigane-dayori (communication through metal wire), and he claims that both are ‘quite mouthful’. These wago phrases sound poetic but are not concise and sound misleadingly familiar. The use of ateji was one of the options to represent words from the West. However, ateji could have misled the Japanese by the irrelevant semantic meanings automatically expressed by kanji characters for the sake of their sound values. Some ateji were made quite well so they can represent relevant meanings while faithfully representing the sound of the word. For example, 倶楽部 (kurabu) was the ateji for ‘club’, which

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consists of 倶 (together), 楽 (fun) and 部 (division) (Seeley, 1991: 137). The joint meaning of these three characters is quite relevant to the meaning of ‘club’ in English. However, to satisfy both sound and meaning simultaneously this way is not very easy and is impossible in most cases. Transliterating words from the West using katakana could have been an appropriate alternative solution. For example, ‘club’ can be easily represented as クラブ using katakana. However, thousands of katakana-­ transliterated words from the West would have overwhelmed and confused the Japanese during the crucial modernization period in Japan (Frellesvig, 2010: 409). The predominantly taken approach at that time was to use the semantic meaning and the on’yomi reading of a kanji character as a ‘building block’ and combine two or more kanji characters based on their combined meaning to create a new kango to translate words from the West. They are often referred to by Sino-Japanese coinage. The following are some of their examples listed in Frellesvig (2010: 409): sha-kai 社会 (society): combination of 社 (shrine) + 会 (association) ji-yū 自由 (freedom): combination of 自 (self) + 由 (reason, means, effect) tetsu-gaku 哲学 (philosophy): combination of 哲 (philosopher) + 学 (study) kai-sha 会社 (firm, company): combination of 会 (association) + 社 (shrine) rō-dō 労働 (work): combination of 労 (labor) + 働 (work) yū-bin 郵便 (postal service): combination of 郵 (mail) + 便 (letter) ji-dō-sha 自動車 (automobile): combination of 自 (self) + 動 (move) + 車 (car) tetsu-dō 鉄道 (railway): combination of 鉄 (iron) + 道 (road) den-wa 電話 (telephone): combination of 電 (electric) + 話 (talk)

Numerous Sino-Japanese words were coined through this process during the Meiji Period in an effort of translating a large number of texts from the West to Japanese. In fact, many of the Sino-Japanese coinage are attributable to some prominent individuals in the Meiji Period such as Amane Nishi (1829–1897), Yukichi Fukuzawa (1835–1901) and Tetsujirō Inoue (1856–1944). Japanese translation of William Fleming’s The Vocabulary of Philosophy, Mental, Moral and Metaphysical (1857) by Tetsujirō Inoue (Tetsugaku Jii 哲学字彙, 1881) provides over 2500 SinoJapanese words (Frellesvig, 2010: 409). Directly borrowing English words as gairaigo (foreign loans) using katakana would have caused only confusion during this important period in Japan. Kanji were ideal building blocks because each of them has an abstract meaning and can be pronounced by one or two syllables and the Japanese were already familiar with them. Furthermore, the foreignness or remoteness of kanji that the Japanese perceive could have been helpful for them to construct a new concept using them. Without coining

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Sino-Japanese compounds, Japan would not have been able to absorb new concepts from the West (Frellesvig, 2010: 409). Kanji played crucial roles for creating new concepts needed for modernizing Japan during the Meiji Period. Sino-Japanese coinage is a part of translanguaging practice, where Chinese characters are creatively combined to adapt concepts from the West for the Japanese. Interestingly, many Sino-Japanese compound words coined in Japan to express Western concepts were also used in China and Korea afterward (Liu, 1995; Song, 2005). Liu (1995: 284–301) lists over 600 examples of Sino-Japanese coinage used in modern Chinese, for example, 電話 den-wa (telephone). Some Chinese officials and scholars bitterly criticized the terms coined in Japan and created some alternative terms that represent Western concepts. However, the Japanese terms had mostly prevailed, and the new terms invented by Chinese scholars were by and large abandoned (Huang, 2012: 52). This is an interesting aspect of the recursive nature of translanguaging. Chinese words along with Chinese characters traveled from China to Korea and from Korea to Japan, crossing interlingual boundaries, in ancient times. After a thousand years, the Japanese created characters and words that appear similar to those in Chinese, many of which crossed the same linguistic boundaries again, but took opposite directions, from Japan to China and Korea. Such recursive multi-­ directional translanguaging (E. Sato, 2021) facilitated by the logographic nature of Chinese characters have blurred some boundaries between named languages in terms of scripts and Sino vocabulary words. To summarize, Kanji characters have been serving as building blocks for meaning-making at character levels and word levels. Kanji characters are used not only for representing Chinese borrowings but also for creating new words, resurfacing existing Japanese native vocabulary, or translating abstract concepts from the West. 2.4 Sensitivities

In Section 2.3, we discussed three types of vocabulary words in Japanese, which are wago, kango and gairaigo. Wago (和語) are native Japanese words. Kango (漢語) are Sino-Japanese words, which may have been borrowed from Chinese or created in Japan. Gairaigo (外来語) are foreign loanwords, except those from Chinese. Table 2.2 shows some of the examples for each of them. As we can see in Table 2.2, these three types of words are written differently. Wago are written in hiragana or kanji, or the combination of the two. Kango are written only in kanji. Gairaigo are written in katakana. We can also see, in Table 2.2, that these three types of words have distinct phonological characteristics. Wago are mostly made of one or more short open syllables as in sakana (fish). Palatalized consonants (e.g. ky, hy, ry, sy) are rarely found in wago. Voiced obstruents (e.g. b, d, g, z)

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Table 2.2  Examples of wago, kango and gairaigo Wago

Kango

Gairaigo

sakana (魚) fish yama (山) mountain ha (葉) leaf yubi (指) finger otoko (男) man hikari (光) light hikaru (光る) to shine ageru (あげる) to give furo (風呂) bath asu (明日) tomorrow otona (大人) adult 

ryōkin (料金) fee gogen (語源) etymology  kankyaku (観客) audience hai (肺) lungs i (胃) stomach hyaku (百) hundred bukka (物価) commodity prices sanchō (山頂) mountain peak ryōri (料理) cooking henji (返事) reply tetsugaku (哲学) philosophy

miruku (ミルク) milk pen (ペン) pen kurabu (クラブ) club raisu（ライス) rice kamera (カメラ) camera Amerika (アメリカ) America Deibiddo (デイビッド) David nekutai (ネクタイ) necktie  sutoraiku (ストライク) strike  beddo (ベッド) bed kōhī (コーヒー) coffee

and the liquid consonant (r) are rarely found at the beginning of a wago. By contrast, kango are made of one or more syllables that may include palatalized or voiced obstruent onset consonants, long vowels and coda consonants anywhere in the word. Kango are graphically and phonetically dependent on kanji characters: They are written exclusively in kanji and pronounced exclusively in on’yomi readings of kanji. Thus, the phonological characteristics of kango mainly reflect the phonological characteristics of kanji characters. Although Chinese characters are monosyllabic, kanji characters are monosyllabic or disyllabic because some heavy syllables must be converted into two light syllables to fit in the Japanese syllable structures. However, even if the on’yomi pronunciation of a Japanese kanji character is disyllabic, the second syllable is limited to ki, ku, chi or tsu. On’yomi such as kai and kan are bimoraic monosyllabic rather than disyllabic. The following are examples of disyllabic on’yomi readings of kanji: Ending in ki: shiki (式), riki (力), geki (激), heki (壁), seki (籍), teki (的) Ending in ku: gaku (学), myaku (脈), chiku (蓄), shuku (宿), ryoku (力), hoku (北) Ending in chi: hachi (八), ichi (一), shichi (七), kichi (吉), nichi (日) Ending in tsu: matsu (末), hitsu (必), butsu (物), ketsu (欠), kotsu (骨), getsu/gatsu (月)

On the other hand, gairaigo are the approximations of the original words in the source language. Because they are transliterated using katakana, they were subject to extensive phonological adjustment to fit in the Japanese syllable structures. The majority of gairaigo made during and after the Meiji Period (1868–1912) were from English. Since English syllables have many consonant clusters, coda consonants and diphthongs, English words frequently underwent vowel epenthesis, consonant gemination and vowel lengthening when they were transliterated with katakana. As a result, gairaigo written in katakana are often lengthy. For example, the one-syllable English word ‘strike’ became a five-syllable gairaigo, ストライク

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su-to-ra-i-ku, once it was borrowed into Japanese and written in katakana. In addition, English has a greater number of vowels and consonants than Japanese, and thus many phoneme pairs such as /l/ and /r/, /f/ and /h/, and /v/ and /b/ in English were merged in Japanese. Accordingly, ‘right’ and ‘light’ are both written as ライト in katakana. It is relatively easy to guess if a word is wago, kango or gairaigo based on how they are written and/or how they sound. However, there are some words that deceive Japanese speakers. For example, the word tempura, which refers to battered fried seafood and vegetables, is often perceived as a wago. This word is also used in English as a loanword from Japan due to the spread of Japanese food in English speaking societies. However, the word tempura did not originate in Japan. It was actually borrowed from Portuguese (tempero) or from Spanish (templo) to Japan in the Muromachi Period (1336–1573). Another deceptive example is kabocha (pumpkin). Most Japanese think that it is a wago, but it was originally a Portuguese word that refers to the country name, Cambodia. The Portuguese brought pumpkins to Japan from Cambodia in the 16th century, and the Japanese have been referring to them as kabocha since then. Similarly, some gairaigo are wrongly perceived as kango. For example, konpeitō refers to colorful small-sized sugar candies that have existed for centuries in Japan. This word is perceived as kango by most Japanese probably because it is written in kanji as 金平糖 and is pronounced with the on’yomi reading, and the word meaning can be associated to the meaning of each kanji, ‘gold’ (金), ‘flat/peace’ (平) and ‘sugar’ (糖). However, the word konpeitō was borrowed from Portuguese. It was originally the Portuguese word confeito (candies). The word was borrowed to Japan when Portuguese brought these candies to Japan in the 16th century. Some kango are also wrongly perceived as wago. The following words are perceived as wago by most Japanese speakers because their pronunciations are like those of wago, but are actually kango, whose readings are based on the on’yomi of the kanji or the Chinese pronunciation of the character used in ancient times (Frellesvig, 2010: 148, 291): kama (sickle, 鎌) kinu (silk, 絹) kuni (country, 群) ume (plum, 梅)  niku (meat, 肉)  e (we) (picture, drawing, 画)

These examples show that the boundaries between named languages do not coincide with the language users’ imaginary boundaries. Language users are mentally constructing imaginary linguistic boundaries based on

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what they sense from how they look and sound. The Japanese have been developing visual, semantic, auditory and pragmatic sensitivities that distinguish different languages within their mind. 2.4.1 Perception of wago and kango

Native speakers of Japanese perceive wago and kango very differently. Wago are felt familiar, tangible, affectionate, poetic, primitive or informal, whereas kango are felt distant, cold, formal, serious, sophisticated, academic, respectful or official. The perceived differences between wago and kango can be most easily seen if we examine pairs of wago and kango that are written with exactly the same kanji characters and represent a similar semantic meaning. For example, the wago neiro and the kango onshoku are both written as 音 色, combining two kanji characters that mean ‘sound’ (音) and ‘color’ (色), and they both literally mean ‘sound color’. However, the wago neiro (音色) is associated with subjective and positive sound qualities such as soothing, warm and beautiful, whereas the kango onshoku (音色) is associated with objective sound qualities such as bright, dark, hard, soft and metallic. Thus, the former is suitable for literary contexts and in casual conversation, whereas the latter is suitable for educational or professional contexts for musicians. Similarly, the wago shiraga and the kango hakuhatsu are both written as 白髪, combining ‘white’ (白) and ‘hair’ (髪), and both refer to gray hair that we grow as we age. However, the wago shiraga (白髪) is perceived negatively, as something that one does not wish to have, whereas the kango hakuhatsu (白髪) has no such negative connotation but may even be perceived positively, as something that can be viewed as a symbol of graceful aging. Other such pairs include the wago asu (明 日) and the kango myōnichi (明日), both of which mean ‘tomorrow’ and the wago kinō (昨日) and kango sakujitsu, both of which mean yesterday. The wago versions sound casual, whereas the kango versions sound formal. The choice between kango and wago affects the perception of the same concept. Thus, by choosing kango, one can make his failures sound less recognizable than using wago. Kindaichi (2010: 24) illustrates it by quoting two senryū poems (a humorous poem that consists of three unrhymed lines of five, seven and five mora-syllables). The following senryū includes the wago 物忘れ (monowasure) and the kango 失念 (shitsunen), both of which mean ‘forgetfulness’: 失念といえば聞きよい物忘れ Shitsunen-to ieba kikiyoi monowasure If one says shitsunen, his monowasure sounds better. (It sounds better to say, “lapse of memory” rather than “forgetfulness.”) (Kindaichi, 2010: 24)

46  Translanguaging in Translation

The following is another senryū quoted by him, which includes the wago 勘ちがい (kanchigai) and the kango 錯覚 (sakkaku), both of which mean ‘misunderstanding’: 錯覚といえば聞きよい勘ちがい Sakkaku-to ieba kikiyoi kanchigai If one says sakkaku, his kanchigai sounds better. (It sounds better to say, “an erroneous perception” rather than “a misunderstanding.”) (Kindaichi, 2010: 24)

By using kango such as shitsunen (失念) and sakkaku (錯覚), one can prevent his failures from sounding obvious and avoid being perceived stupid. These senryū poems show that wago are felt more tangible than kango. Wago and kango diverge when referring to some types of business. Zhao (2016) reports that Kisha Handobukku (Handbook for Newspaper Reporters), which was first published in 1964 from Kyodo News, has been recommending newspaper reporters not to use wago that denote businesses with ya, but use equivalent kango. Some examples of wago-kango pairs for businesses are listed in Table 2.3. Table 2.3  Words for shops and occupations in Japanese English

Wago

Kango

barber

tokoya (床屋)

rihatsugyō (理髪業)

fish store

sakanaya (魚屋)

seigyoten (鮮魚店)

meat store

nikuya (肉屋)

seinikuten (精肉店)

flower shop

hanaya (花屋)

seikaten (生花店)

rice store

komeya (米屋)

seimaiten (精米店)

toy store

omochaya (おもちゃ屋)

ganguten (玩具店)

Businesses referred to by wago with ya (屋) at the end are perceived friendly, but small-scale and less professional, whereas businesses referred to by kango are perceived large-scale, well-organized and professional. Thus, kango are considered appropriate for referring to a business in media, but wago are not. The editions of Kisha Handobukku after 2001 add that wago with ya (屋) can be appropriately used in media if the context clarifies that the term is used as an ‘affectionate’ expression (Zhao, 2016: 93). This shows that wago are perceived more affectionately than kango. The perceived differences between wago and kango can be observed from a gender perspective. Gender-based differences between the users of kango and the users of wago emerged in the Early Middle Japanese: Academic, intellectual or public writing was mostly done in classical

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Chinese in the Heian Period (794–1185), presumably by men, while women were traditionally excluded from ‘the world of learning and Classical Chinese’ (Frellesvig, 2010: 157–162). Thus, kango were dominantly used by men in the Heian Period. Endo (1997) discusses court ladies’ language (nyōbō kotoba, 女房言葉), a speech style that emerged in the 14th century used by women within the closed world of the imperial court. She states, among other properties of this variety, that court ladies’ language was perceived pleasing to the ear because of the avoidance of kango that were filled with strong sounds such as voiced obstruents (stop and fricative consonants) and palatalized sounds. The avoidance of kango reflects the tradition carried on from the Heian Period, where women were discouraged from using kanji and kango. Women were supposed to speak quietly and softly, and thus kango were not appropriate for them at that time (Endo, 1997: 59). Accordingly, kango were often replaced with wago by court ladies. Some of the examples that Endo (1997: 57–58) provides are listed below, where the left-hand side is the kango and the right-hand side is the wago: kaji (火事) kinsu (金子) ginsu (銀子) henji (返事)

→ → → →

akagoto (あかごと, fire (conflagration) kogane (こがね, money, gold coin) kurogane (くろがね, money, silver coin) irae (いらえ, reply)

Endo’s observation shows that kango were perceived as masculine, sounded harsh and stiff, and were reserved for those with education and political power. On the other hand, wago were perceived as feminine, soft and quiet. It is clear that word class such as wago, kango and gairaigo is not really about the origin of words, but they are all about how the language users sense them, solidify their sense and use their unconsciously developed linguistic classes and boundaries to implicitly represent ­societally constructed social classes and social boundaries. 2.4.2 Perception of gairaigo

Gairaigo are written in katakana, and thus they can be easily identified. Taking advantage of the transliteration method facilitated by katakana, the Japanese have been freely translanguaging interlingually. Words written in katakana are not limited to names, but also common nouns, which results in the introduction of a large number of borrowing from English and other Western languages. During the Meiji era (1868– 1912), kango were the preferred option for translating the concepts in the West as discussed in Section 2.3, but more and more katakana words or gairaigo are being used for this purpose after World War II. Gairaigo are perceived as modern, sophisticated and fashionable. Irie (2010) quantitatively analyzed the vocabulary words used in Chūōkōron, a Japanese literary magazine. She extracted 10,000 sample

48  Translanguaging in Translation

word occurrences from its issues in each year between 1906 and 2006 and analyzed wago, kango, gairaigo and konshugo (hybrid words) in terms of the number of word occurrences and the number of distinct words. She shows that the use of gairaigo dramatically increased after the end of World War II (1945): the total number of distinct gairaigo increased by 43% from 1946 to 1956, and nearly tripled from 1946 to 2006. This is due to the sociocultural, socioeconomic and sociopolitical influence of the United States over Japan after World War II. Some kango and gairaigo are interchangeably used. For example, to mean ‘cancel’ in business contract, either the kango 解約 (kaiyaku) or the gairaigo キャンセル (kyanseru) is used. Some kango are gradually being replaced with gairaigo. For example, to refer to one’s ‘loan’, the gairaigo ローン (lōn) is preferred over the kango借金 (shakkin) because the former is perceived something common and has no negative connotation, but the latter is perceived as seriously problematic. Similarly, to refer to ‘toilet’, the gairaigo トイレ (toire) is preferred over the kango 便所 (benjo), because the former gives the impression that the toilet is modern style and clean, but the latter gives the impression that it is old fashioned and dirty. Furthermore, the globalization of business, research and industry in the 21st century has caused a further increase of new gairaigo such as アカウ ンタビリティー (akauntabiritī, accountability) and インセンティブ (insentibu, incentive). However, gairaigo that recently appeared may not always be accessible for all readers in Japan. Unlike kango, gairaigo are written in katakana, and their meanings are not transparent or analyzable. The gairaigo committee of the National Institute for Japanese Language and Linguistics (NINJAL) released ‘Gairaigo iikae teian’ (Suggestion on Rewording Loanwords) in 2006 (NINJLA, 2006). For example, the alternative word for アカウンタビリティー (akauntabiritī, accountability) suggested by them is 説明責任 (setsumei-sekinin), whose verbatim translation is ‘explanationresponsibility’ (NINJAL, 2006: 15). Similarly, the suggested alternative word for インセンティブ (insentibu, incentive) is 意欲刺激 iyoku-shigeki, whose verbatim translation is ‘motivation-stimulus’ (NINJAL, 2006: 28). Most of the suggested alternatives in this document are kango rather than wago. This seems to be déjà vu of the competition between kango and gairaigo we saw one hundred years ago in Japan. However, the suggested kango for ‘accountability’ and ‘incentive’ are very long and may be semantically too transparent and not tasteful. The recurring waves of competition that alternate gairaigo and kango just like recursive fashion trends characterize translanguaging sequel (E. Sato, 2021) in the Japanese context. 2.4.3 The choice of script

Depending on the choice of script, words are perceived differently. Accordingly, the choice of scripts is sometimes deliberately made in Japan.

Scripts 49

Some katakana words have undergone intralingual translanguaging over scripts while maintaining the same pronunciation and meaning. For example, tobacco is conventionally written in katakana (タバコ) since the word is from the Western. However, it can also be written in hiragana (た ばこ) or even in kanji (煙草). タバコ, たばこ, and 煙草 are all read in the same way as tabako. However, tabako is perceived differently depending on how it is written. The choice of scripts can influence the perception of concepts. Usui (2012) claims that if we follow Japanese cultural norms, tobacco written in kanji (煙草) would wrongly give the impression that tobacco has existed in Japan from ancient times, tobacco written in hiragana (たばこ) would give the misleading impression that it is safe for health, and tobacco written in katakana (タバコ) would be most appropriate if we want to express that tobacco is harmful for our health. What Usui states are justified if we consider sociohistorical development of these orthographical systems. The initial type of scripts used in Japan was kanji. Tabako written in kanji (煙草) gives the impression that it has been existed in the Japanese culture for a long time. Hiragana was created from kanji. They are cursive and gives friendly impression. Hiragana can be read by anyone in Japan even by first graders in elementary schools. Thus, tabako written in hiragana (たばこ) would give the impression that it is a commonly used familiar item. Katakana are angular and mainly used for words from the West. In addition, katakana are used to highlight words for emphasis or for alerting. Thus, tabako written in katakana (タバコ) would give the impression that it is foreign and relatively new and may require attention or caution. The choice of scripts is also sociopolitically sensitive. Konno (2009: 46) provides a very interesting case about the script used for naming a newly developed city. Names of towns and cities are usually written in kanji in Japan, as in 東京 (Tokyo) and 大阪 (Osaka). In 2001, three cities in Saitama Prefecture (埼玉県) – Urawa City (浦和市), Ōmiya City (大宮市) and Yono City (与野市) – were merged and became one city. The new city was named Saitama City and was written in hiragana as さいたま市 instead of kanji. The name written in hiragana makes the new city visually distinct from the name of the prefecture. It also gives the impression that the city is flexible and friendly. Similarly, Akigawa City (秋川市) and Itsukaichi Town (五日市町) in Tokyo merged and became Akiruno City, which is written partially in hiragana (あきる akiru) and partially in kanji (野 no), as in あきる野市 Akiruno City. It is possible that the sociocultural, sociohistorical and sociopolitical perceptions bundled in the original names written in kanji could be removed by not continuing to use the kanji characters used in some of the place names, which must have been crucial for creating a sociopolitically neutral name for the new city. The choice of script types is also socioeconomically sensitive, and it has been taken seriously when creating or changing names for companies, brands and products. SONY’s initial name was written in kanji as 東京通

50  Translanguaging in Translation

信工業株式会社 Tokyo Tsūshin Kōgyō Kabushiki-gaisha (Tokyo Telecommunications Engineering Corporation) when the company was first established in 1946. However, its name changed to ソニー株式会社 Sonī Kabushikigaisha (Sony Corporation). In this name, its unique name portion (Sonī) is written in katakana (ソニー) and its type portion (Kabushikigaisha, corporation) is written in kanji (株式会社). A name written in katakana allows the company to be perceived as more modern and globalized than a name written in kanji. Konno (2009: 46) provides more examples of companies that changed their names from kanji to katakana, from kanji to Roman alphabet, and from kanji to katakana and to Roman alphabet: From kanji to katakana: 豊田紡織 (Toyota Bōshoku) → トヨタ紡織 (Toyota Bōshoku) 日本冷蔵 (Nippon Reizō) → ニチレイ (Nichirei) 能率風呂工業 (Nōritsu Furo Kōgyō) → ノーリツ (Nōritsu) From kanji to Roman alphabet: 伊那製陶 (Ina Seitō) → INAX 東陶器機 (Tōtō Kiki) → TOTO From kanji to katakana, and then to Roman alphabet: 飯山電機 (Iiyama Denki) → イーヤマ (Iiyama) → iiyama

Deliberate unconventional use of script identified in naming cities and companies shows that the choice of scripts critically voices the language user’s stance and vision. It shows that scripts can serve as spaces for translanguaging. In summary, the inventory of Japanese vocabulary words has been heavily influenced by language contact. The Japanese recognizes three major vocabulary classes: wago, kango and gairaigo (non-Chinese foreign loans). They can appear in the same sentence and can be mixed through morphological processes to create konshugo (hybrid words). (See Section 6.1 for more about konshugo.) Words from different backgrounds are graphically and phonologically distinct, and their differences evoke different perceptions, which in turn produce different sensory semiotics depending on the type of the script they are written with. The current mixed writing method in Japanese allows language users to creatively or critically choose script types based on phonological, semantic, pragmatic, sociocultural and/or aesthetic factors. 2.5 Furigana

Furigana (振り仮名) is small kana placed above or next to kanji to indicate how the kanji should be read in Japanese. Furigana is provided above kanji in horizontally written texts and on the right-side of kanji in vertically written texts as shown in Figure 2.2:

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Figure 2.2  Furigana in a horizontally written text (left) and in a vertically written text (right)

Furigana is helpful for young school children and L2 learners of Japanese with underdeveloped skills in reading kanji. However, furigana is also helpful for adult L1 users of Japanese because how to read kanji often depends on the context. Furigana is even necessary for appropriately reading personal names written in kanji because personal names may have unique pronunciation that cannot be predictable from regular pronunciation of commonly used kanji. In addition, personal names are often written using uncommonly used kanji. Accordingly, most application forms for business and administration in Japan have a narrow space where applicants are asked to write furigana for their names. Newspapers, magazines and literary texts use furigana wherever they seem to be helpful for average Japanese readers. Most manga comic books generously provide furigana, which is particularly helpful for L2 Japanese learners who like to read manga. The history of furigana can be traced back to kunten (訓点, annotation) used for kanbun-kundoku (漢文訓読) discussed in Section 2.1. Prototypical furigana were used as a part of kunten in Nihon Shoki (日本 書紀, The Chronicles of Japan), which was completed in 720 CE (Konno, 2009: 68). The kun’yomi of a Chinese character needed for kanbun-kundoku was rarely singular and was almost always context sensitive. This is not surprising because word meanings always emerge from the context of their use and words that have emerged are used in multiple contexts, only to feed more meanings to them. This is as if we are rolling a snowball on the ground covered with fresh snow, only to make the snowball bigger and bigger. Chinese characters are meaningful units and thus their situation is just like the one for words. Their meanings constantly develop as they are used. This explains exactly why one kanji character may have multiple kun’yomi readings in Japanese and why furigana has been indispensable in Japan’s literacy practices.

52  Translanguaging in Translation

Furigana has been creatively used (Wilkerson & Wilkerson, 2000) to express double meanings. This section examines how furigana has been used in translated texts and considers the role of furigana for facilitating translanguaging in translation. 2.5.1 Refining meanings

During the process of modernizing Japan in the Meiji Period (1868– 1912), many texts from the West had to be translated into Japanese. Many literary texts from the West were also introduced to Japan through translation in this period. Shakespeare’s play, Romeo and Juliet, was first translated into Japanese by Keizō Kawashima in 1886 and has been translated into Japanese again and again by more than a dozen translators. A notable writer, Shōyō Tsubouchi, is one of them. In Tsubouchi’s translation published in 1910 and 1933, we can see how furigana was used to refine word meanings based on the context. For example, the word kiss appears several times in Romeo and Juliet. Tsubouchi represents kiss differently depending on the context (Sato, 2018b). When it is a part of ‘tender kiss’ or ‘holy palmers’ kiss’ that Romeo and Juliet mention, kiss is rendered as 接觸 (‘contact’ + ‘touch’) and 接吻禮 (‘contact’ + ‘lips’ + ‘ritual’), respectively, and both of them are accompanied by transliterated English word kiss written in katakana as キツス (kissu) and placed as furigana. Their first ‘kiss’ in the script direction is also rendered as 接吻 (‘contact’ + ‘lips’) with キツス (kissu) in furigana. By contrast, the furigana for 接吻 appears with a kango-style furigana based on the kanji’s on’yomi, せっぷん (seppun), when kissing is contextually connected to life or death, such as when Juliet kisses Romeo to bring him back from death in his dream, when Romeo kisses Juliet before he takes a poison to kill himself, and when Juliet kisses him before she stabs herself to death. The kango-style pronunciation, せっぷん (seppun), sounds more serious than English-based pronunciation, キツス (kissu). This contextual and sensory difference is expressed by furigana by Tsubouchi, in both versions of his translation. Tsubouchi’s translation takes a translanguaging approach using kanji and furigana, where the phonological features of English and the graphosemantic features of kango are combined. When needed for expressing subtle pragmatic nuances, furigana is changed from transliterated English to kango and from kango to transliterated English. Tsubouchi’s translation also takes advantage of furigana for filling the pragmatic gap between the culture of the source language and the culture of the target language. In Act II, Scene 4, Benvolio and Mercutio are talking about Tybalt, Juliet’s cousin. Benvolio asks Mercutio what kind of man Tybalt is. Mercutio responds to him by saying, ‘More than prince of cats, I can tell you’. Tybalt sounds like Tibert, which is the ‘Prince of Cats’ in Reynard the Fox. That is why Mercutio said ‘more than Prince of Cats’ to

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be playful. However, Mercutio’s playfulness cannot be understood by the readers of the Japanese translation because this pragmatic information is not accessible to them. To show that the name also belongs to Tibert, the prince of cats, furigana チッバルト (Chibbaruto) is added to a kanji ­compound 猫王 (cat-prince) in Tsubouchi’s translation. Tsubouchi’s translation takes advantage of furigana for filling the pragmatic gap between the culture of the source language and the culture of the target language. 2.5.2 Supporting neo-loanwords

The katakanago (gairaigo) キス (kisu) or キッス (kissu) has been used as a fully established loanword in Japanese at least in the past several decades. However, during the Meiji Period, the word kiss or the concept of kiss in the Western style was not fully established yet in Japan. In the first Japanese translation of Romeo and Juliet by Kawashima published in 1886, kiss is rendered as 口吻. It is a kango that consists of two kanji characters, 口 (mouth) and 吻 (lips), and is accompanied by furigana こうふん (kofun), the on’yomi reading of the two kanji characters. In addition, kiss was also referred to as 吻接 (funsetsu) during or before the Meiji Period (1868–1912). According to the essay entitled 接吻 (seppun) written by Saito Mokichi (1882–1953), the kango 吻接 (funsetsu) appeared in Japanese translations of bibles that may be translated from Chinese (Saito, 2004). Thus, how to refer to kiss was not clear yet during the Meiji Period. The katakanago (gairaigo) キス (kisu) or キッス (kissu) that is currently the most commonly used term was gradually introduced through being first used in furigana, as we can see in Tsubouchi’s translation in 1910 and 1933 as discussed in Section 2.5.1. Thus, it is fair to say that translanguaging practice through furigana has been facilitating the borrowing of English words. Some English words that are transliterated in katakana as a part of furigana for the first time appear as a part of a regular text when they occur later in Tsubouchi’s Japanese translation of Romeo and Juliet. For example, the word ‘Cupid’ appears five times in the ST. The first instance of ‘Cupid’ occurs in Act I, Scene 1. It is rendered as a kanji compound, 戀愛神 (‘romantic love’ + ‘love’ + ‘god’), accompanied by furigana, written in katakana, キ ューピツド (kyūpiddo), which is the transliteration of Cupid in katakana. However, the following four instances of ‘Cupid’ are all rendered just as キ ューピツド (kyūpiddo) in regular katakana without using any kanji characters. It is as if キューピツド was promoted from furigana to a regular text or from a neo-loanword to a regular loanword. This shows that Tsubouchi’s unique and unconventional use of furigana enabled a creation of a fullfledged loanword within the same text. Through his furigana-based translanguaging practice, the Japanese audience could read the unfamiliar loanword in furigana while recognizing its meaning through kanji characters. It shows the translator’s faithfulness to the source text and his intention to gradually introduce English words in Japan.

54  Translanguaging in Translation

The contribution of furigana as a translanguaging space for neo-­ loanwords can be seen in other translated texts. Konno (2009: 198) points out that the novel Sorekara (それから, And then) written by Sōseki Natsume in 1909 and first published in serial form in Asahi Newspaper appeared slightly differently between the newspaper circulated in Tokyo and the one circulated in Osaka: The furigana added to kanji 長椅子 (‘long’ + ‘chair’) was transliteration of sōfa in katakana, which was ソー ファ, in the Tokyo version, whereas it was ながいす (naga-isu), a proper pronunciation of 長椅子written in hiragana, in the Osaka version. In the Meiji Period (1868–1912), many Western concepts and words were brought to Japan. Thus, at the time this novel appeared in the newspaper, the vocabulary choice must have been in the middle of the transition. The reason why some furigana in a novel had to be differentiated between Tokyo and Osaka versions must be related to the difference between Tokyo (Eastern Japan) and Osaka (Western Japan) in terms of the residents’ attitude or readiness toward Westernization. At any rate, it is clear that furigana has been serving as a venue for conveying the writer’s critical view on societal changes. The contribution of furigana as the introducer of neo-loanwords can be found in more recent translations. Breakfast at Tiffany’s written by Truman Capote and first published in 1958 was translated into Japanese by Naotarō Tatsunokuchi in 1968 and by Haruki Murakami in 2008. The comparison between the two shows how gairaigo have developed over time through translanguaging practice (Sato, 2018b). There are some words that were rendered in kanji with katakana-based transliteration as a part of furigana in Tatsunokuchi’s translation published in 1968 but appear as full-fledged gairaigo in Murakami’s translation published 40 years later. For example, ‘delicatessen’ is rendered as 調製食料品店 (prepared food item store) with デリカテ ッセン (derikatessen) in furigana in Tatsunokuchi’s translation, but simply as a loanword written in katakana, デリカテッセン (derikatessen), in Murakami’s translation. The word デリカテッセン (derikatessen) was not an established loanword at the time when Tatsunokuchi’s translation was published in the 1960s, but it was commonly used at the time when Murakami’s translation was published 40 years after. Other such examples are listed in Table 2.4. Because this production sequence from neo-loanword as furigana to full-fledged loanword is a continuous translanguaging practice, we predict that there are some English words that appear as neo-loanwords as furigana only in Murakami’s translation, but not in Tatsunokuchi’s translation. This prediction was born out. For example, ‘to trot’ is rendered as ‘跑をふむ’ (daku o fumu) in Tatsunokuchi’s translation, but as ‘だく足に 移った’ (daku-ashi ni utsutta) with a neo-loanword ‘トロット’ (torotto) in furigana over だく足 in Murakami’s translation. If this novel is translated again after a few decades, トロット (torotto) may be used as a fully-fledged

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Table 2.4  Transition from furigana to full-fledged loanwords in Japanese found in two Japanese translations of Breakfast at Tiffany’s English words

Tatsunokuchi’s translation (1968)

Murakami’s translation (2008)

tabloids

Main text: 小型安（新聞）(kogata-yasu shinbun, small size cheap (newspaper)) Furigana: タブロイド (baburoido, tabloids)

Main text: タブロイド新聞 (taburoido shinbun, tabloid paper)

nightcap

Main text: 寝酒 (nezake, sleep liquor) Furigana: ナイトキャップ (naitokyappu, nightcap)

Main text: ナイトキャップ (naitokyappu, nightcap)

mask

Main text: 仮面 (kamen, temporary face) Furigana: マスク(masuku, mask)

Main text: マスク(masuku, mask)

block

Main text: 街区 (gaiku, town division) Furigana: ブロック (burokku, block)

Main text: ブロック (burokku, block) 

cover girl

Main text: 表紙絵美人 (hyōshi-e-bijin, cover illustration pretty person) Furigana: カバーガール(kabāgāru, cover girl)

Main text: カバーガール(kabāgāru, cover girl)

carnivals

Main text: 謝肉祭 (kanshasai, appreciating meat festival) Furigana: カーニバル(kānibaru, carnivals)

Main text: カーニバル(kānibaru, carnivals)

loanword. These cases show that furigana serve as translanguaging spaces, accommodate neo-loanwords and facilitate the evolution of languages through translation. Similarly, a referring term ‘the kid’ is rendered as あの娘 (ano ko) in Tatsunokuchi’s translation, but as あの子 (ano ko) with キッド (kiddo) in furigana in Murakami’s translation. These words may become full-fledged gairaigo in a few decades. To summarize, furigana has been facilitating translanguaging since the beginning of the Japanese literacy, in particular in translation practices including kanbun-kundoku. Thus, using furigana, linguistic features are deployed across boundaries between named languages. The analyses of Tsubouchi’s translation of Romeo and Juliet published in 1910 and 1933 as well as the two translations of Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Tatsunokuchi, published in 1968, and by Murakami, published in 2008, have revealed that translators strategically manipulate language boundaries through furigana without risking intelligibility. Furigana allows translators to refine word meanings, provides pragmatic information and facilitates the creation of neo-loanwords within translation and indeed

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helps language develop closely reflecting the changes in the society. Furigana can help translators use linguistic features crossing language boundaries without risking intelligibility. Unlike footnotes, furigana provides phonological and visual features that can be instantly perceived when their host characters are being read. Although furigana consists of one word or one short phrase, it can fill the pragmatic gap between the culture of the source text and the culture of the target text. They refine word meanings reflecting contextual information. The study of furigana in translated texts shows that they have been serving as a birthplace of loanwords. Scripts themselves bear socioculturally constructed images and nuances and often show language users’ critical views on the society. 2.6 Conclusion

Scripts are not just coding symbols, but semiotic elements that play important roles in translation and translanguaging. Japanese multi-scripts are extremely versatile translanguaging sites for translators. Kanbunkundoku (the gloss reading of Chinese texts) that emerged in the 6th century in Japan can be viewed as the earliest form of translation in Japan and as the earliest form of translanguaging through scripts in Japan. Kanji characters have been serving as building blocks to create new words, resurface existing Japanese native vocabulary or represent abstract concepts from the West. The two types of phonetic scripts – hiragana and katakana – that emerged from kanji, helped the Japanese write their ideas as they speak, but also created gender-based and power-based social boundaries. Words from different backgrounds are graphically and phonologically distinct, and their differences evoke different images, which in turn produce different sensory semiotics. Furigana have been used to facilitate translanguaging practices in Japanese. They have been serving as a birthplace of loanwords.

3 Names

Are names translatable? What is the difference between names (or proper nouns) and common nouns? Common nouns define and describe a set of individuals or objects such as books, students, dogs, chairs, cities and restaurants. Thus, common nouns can be relatively easily translated as long as there is a similar comparative concept and a word that describes it in the target language (TL). So, the common noun ‘book’ can be translated as hon in Japanese, libre in French and pustak in Hindi. On the other hand, names do not define and describe sets. Unlike a common noun such as chair, a name refers to a unique item such as a person, a place and an entity, for example, Ken Smith, Tokyo and Sony (see Figure 3.1).

Figure 3.1  Common nouns and proper names

Accordingly, should names be immune to translation? Should they freely travel across linguistic borders through transliteration method? Or, should they be translated based on their etymological background or their sociocultural connotations? 57

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Linguists and philosophers have been debating on what names do since the 19th century. Mill (1843/1956: 20) claims that the meaning of a name is its referent and a name has no connotative meaning regardless of the sociocultural and ideological background behind names. Mill’s purely referential theory of names predicts that a name without its bearer is meaningless. By contrast, Frege (1948/1892: 211) argues that the primary semantic value of a name is the sense, whereas its secondary value is its referent. Under Frege’s view, a name can meaningfully refer to an imaginary entity that actually does not exist, and an existing item may meaningfully be referred to by multiple names. Thus, the sentence Santa Claus does not exist is a meaningful statement because the name, Santa Claus, has its sense even though it has no referent. Similarly, the sentence, Superman is Clark Kent, is also meaningful under Frege’s view because the two names have two different senses even though there is only one referent for them. Russell (1905) shares the basic idea of Frege’s notion of sense in names but proposes that the semantic value of an ordinary proper name is its definite description. The latter is a set of properties that can single out the bearer of the name. Russell’s view blurs the boundary between proper nouns/ names and common nouns. However, Strawson (1950) criticizes Russell’s definite description theory of names as it may not be able to single out a referent, which results in producing sentences without a truth value. Similarly, Kripke (1979) argues that descriptions might or might not have been true, and thus he takes Mill’s reference theory of names: A name always rigidly designates its bearer. If the bearer of the name does not exist in a possible world, then the name does not refer to anything at all. If the same object is named more than one way, it is because names are linked to their bearer through causal and historical contexts, as in the case of Istanbul, Byzantium, Stamboul, Tsarigrad and Constantinople, all of which refer to the same place. Searle (1975) takes a somewhat middle ground between Mill’s referential view and Frege’s semantic view, where a name has its referent and also a sense. However, for Searle, the sense is only the collection of the characteristics of the referent that the name is logically connected to rather than the description of the referent (Searle, 1975: 139). Thus, Searle basically views names as referential expressions. Likewise, Sciarone (1967) and Vendler (1975) consider that names have no meaning except their referents and are inherently untranslatable (in the sense of ‘sense’ and not of ‘reference’), which is borne out by the fact that they do not require translation into another language. Phonological and orthographic adjustments as well as equivalent names (e.g. the English name, Vienna, for the German name, Wien) are not translations, but are versions, which can be simply added to the stock of proper names in the given language. Translation scholars take different positions depending on the function of the text and the purpose of translation. Peter Newmark (1981: 70)

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considers that names have no meaning, and thus they are ‘both untranslatable and not to be translated’. However, he relativizes how to render names with connotations depending on whether the translator selects communicative translation or semantic translation. In communicative translation, the name should be translated based on its connotation while preserving the nationality of the name. That is, we should first translate the word that underlies the name into the TL and then naturalize it back to a new source language (SL) name (Newmark, 1981: 71). He respects the meaning behind a literary name but finds importance in preserving the nationality of the name. On the other hand, names should be simply transferred in semantic translation (Newmark, 1981: 151). Pym (2004) considered that names are untranslatable because they do not have to be translated. On the other hand, Aixelá (1996: 61) argues that rendering names unchanged (e.g. Seattle à Seattle), though most ‘respectful’, has the danger of creating a distance between the text and the TL reader because they feel ‘alien’. Tymoczko (1999: 223) considers that names are ‘dense signifiers, signs of essential structures of human societies’ and that they indicate information such as ‘tribal and familial affiliation; gender and class; racial, ethnic, national, and religious identity’. They can bear many connotative meanings that result from their history, ownership, geographic, social affiliations and so forth. She argues, though it is as a part of activism in postcolonial contexts, that names must be translated. Nord (2003: 183) also argues that names are loaded with information, especially in fictional contexts where almost all names bear auctorial meanings, which must be made intelligible and familiarized for the target-culture audience. However, translating names also presents a danger of changing the pragmatic identity of a text. Lyotard (1992) claims that names act as conceptual frames to a text identity. Thus, names serve as a cultural identifier of a text and a ‘rigid designator’ of the textual context, regardless of whether it is about its genre, theme and sociocultural context, as names are not created or learned in isolation, but are embedded in contexts (Lyotard, 1992: 319). Cultural adaptation of names often has some consequences. The following excerpt from Adams (1973) shows the sentiment for the fate of names in target texts (TTs): Paris cannot be London or New York, it must be Paris; our hero must be Pierre, not Peter; he must drink an aperitif, not a cocktail; smoke Gauloises, not Kents; and walk down the rue du Bac, not Back Street. (Adams, 1973: 12, cited in Bassnett, 1980/2002: 123)

There are many factors that affect how names should be rendered: phonological, orthographical, morphosemantic and pragmatic idiosyncrasies; the recognizability, memorizability and preference for the target audience

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(Timoczko, 1999: 225); and socioeconomic and sociopolitical factors such as publishers’ reception and manipulation (Venuti, 1995, 1998). As Nord (2003: 182) states, ‘translators do all sorts of things with proper names’ especially in literary translation, where fictional names can allude to the hidden theme and existing names can function symbolically or metaphorically. In this chapter, I will examine problems of translating and substituting names in literary translation. 3.1 Phonological Rendering of Names

One of the most commonly adopted methods for rendering names in a translated text is transliteration. Unlike translation, which conveys the meaning of words, transliteration conveys the pronunciation of words. Unlike transcribing, which uses phonetic symbols such as the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA), transliteration uses orthographical characters used in the culture of the TL. Transliterating names is relatively straightforward if the SL and the TL share the same type of orthographic scripts and have a similar inventory of phonemes. If not, transliteration can be quite complicated. Romanization of Asian names is an instance of transliteration. Some Romanization methods are more accessible to the speakers of the TL than others. If a Romanization method deploys diacritics, the TL speakers would need to encode them before they can pronounce the word. For example, the capital city of Japan can be Romanized as Tokyo, Toukyou, Tookyoo, Tōkyō or Tôkyô, where letters with a macron or double letters represent long vowels, which exist in Japanese, but not in English. On the contrary, English words written in Roman letters are transliterated into Japanese using katakana syllabary. As each katakana letter represents a syllable, transliterating English words using katakana involves automatic vowel epenthesis. For example, Boston is transliterated as ボストン, which is pronounced as Bosuton, with the epenthetic vowel /u/ after the consonant s. On the other hand, transliterating names involve automatic addition of meanings in Chinese because Chinese characters are logographic. For example, Boston is transliterated in Chinese as 波士顿, which is the combination of characters that mean ‘wave’ (波, bō), ‘officer’ (士, shì) and ‘pause’ (顿, dùn). 3.1.1 Fictional place name

Transliteration can be problematic when a name in the SL can be transliterated in multiple ways. The novel Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (銀河 鉄道の夜 Night of the Milky Way Railway) written by Kenji Miyazawa (1896–1933) includes a fictional place name written in katakana as バルド ラ, which is encoded to ‘barudora’ in the Hepburn Romanization system.

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The latter is perceived as a non-Japanese non-Chinese name because it is written in katakana. It cannot easily be associated with any particular regions or cultures. Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Night of the Galactic Railway) was written around 1927 by Kenji Miyazawa and was discovered and posthumously published in 1934, one year after his death. Miyazawa was born in Hamamaki Town in Iwate Prefecture, a northern area of Japan, where people were mostly poor farmers due to the harsh climate and uneven economic development in Japan at the time. However, Miyazawa’s family was extremely wealthy, running a successful pawnbroking business. As a devout Buddhist, he refused to engage in his family’s business but dedicated his life to helping the poor, working as a teacher (agronomy) and an activist for utopia. Besides being a poet and novelist, Miyazawa was a dedicated scientist (agronomy, biology, geology and astronomy) and artist (painter, cellist and composer, loving opera and classical music), and studied English, German and Esperanto. The protagonist ジョバンニ (Jobanni, Giovanni) is a schoolboy from a poor family, having multiple part-time jobs such as delivering newspapers in the morning and working at a print shop after school. His schoolmates often ridiculed him, but one of them, カムパネルラ (Kamupanerura, Campanella), never did. The story is about Giovanni’s surreal train trip through the stars on one summer night, after which Giovanni hears about Campanella’s drowning in the river. Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Night of the Galactic Railway) includes proper names in a unique way. First, no Japanese place names appear in the novel although the story appears to be based on a Japanese context. Second, existing real place names such as コロラド (Kororado, Colorado) and fictional place names such as バルドラ (Barudora) are mixed in this novel and appear randomly. Third, the characters who appear to be Japanese have Western names such as ジョバンニ (Jobanni, Giovanni) and those who appear to be Westerners have Japanese names such as かお る (Kaoru). In addition, a dog has an unusual name ザウエル (Zaueru), written in katakana. The name of an obviously traditional Japanese festival is given the name of a constellation, ケンタウル祭 (Kentauru-sai), which seems to mean the Centaurus Festival. Thus, the novel has no Japanese names but has existing Western names and non-existing nonJapanese names whose nationality is unclear. According to Pulvers (2013), this novel attempts to create universal and cosmic contexts by crossing cultural, racial and religious boundaries. バル ドラ (Barudora) sounds like an exotic name to Japanese ears. Because this novel was discovered posthumously, there is no way to clarify which place the author was trying to refer to by バルドラ (Barudora). This place name appears in the novel when the protagonist and a few other passengers in a train see the fire of a scorpion in the distance in the night sky, and the Christian girl from the shipwreck, かおる (Kaoru) starts talking about the story of a scorpion that she heard from her father in the past. The name

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バルドラ (Barudora) appears within the following quoted speech of かおる (Kaoru): Source text written by Miyazawa むかしのバルドラの野原に一ぴきの蠍がいて小さな虫やなんか殺して たべて生きていたんですって。 (Miyazawa, 1969/1991) Romanization Mukashi no Barudora no nohara ni ip-piki no sasori ga ite chīisa na mushi ya nanka koroshite tabete ikite itandesutte. Verbatim Translation I heard that, long ago in a field of [Barudora], there was a scorpion that lived by killing and eating small bugs.

According to what she heard from her father, a scorpion in the field of バ ルドラ (Barudora) was living by killing and eating small insects. One day, it fell into a well when it ran away from the weasel that tried to eat it. When it was about to drown in the well, the scorpion became remorseful because its body would be wasted instead of being consumed by another creature to live. Feeling emptiness, the scorpion begged the god to use its body for others next time. Then, the scorpion’s body turned into a beautiful flame, and it is still burning now, lighting up the darkness of the night sky. Sadakata (2012) considers that the place name バルドラ (Barudora) was created by Miyazawa based on the Baltoro Glacier in the Karakoram mountain range in Pakistan, but the story seems to be rooted in Yakuōbosatsu, a Buddhist saint who burned his own body to light the world. On the other hand, one of the translators of this novel, Sarah Strong, argues that the story created by Miyazawa has the tone and texture of a Jataka tale (Miyazawa, 1991: 114): the Jataka tales are ancient Indian legends that recount the heroic past lives of the Buddha before he was born into the world as Sakyamuni, and they show that the Buddha is often an animal, such as an elephant, a monkey or other beast, and often sacrifices his life for the good of others. E. Sato (2016) examines how バルドラ is rendered in six published English translations of Gingatetsudo no Yoru. How to transliterate バルドラ is not as simple as it appears to be because the phoneme inventory in English is different from that in Japanese, and one-to-one matching between phonemes in the two languages is not always possible. The two bilabial consonants /v/ and /b/ and the two liquid consonants /l/ and /r/ are independent phonemes in English that can contrast meanings, but not in Japanese. The sentence that includes バルドラ and its translations are as follows: Translation by John Bester: Long ago, in a certain vale, there was a scorpion that lived by eating small insects and so on. (Miyazawa, 1987)

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Translation by Shelley Marshall: L ong ago, a scorpion that lived on the Baldora Field killed and ate small insects to survive. (Marshall, 2014) Translation by Julianne Neville: A long time ago in a field there lived a scorpion that ate other bugs by using its tail to catch them. (Neville, 2014) Translation by Roger Pulvers: My father told me that a long long time ago Scorpio lived in Valdola Vale and he survived by killing teeny bugs and eating them up. (Miyazawa, 1996/2009) Translation by Paul Quirk: Long, long ago, there was a scorpion that lived in the fields of Badrah, who killed and ate all kinds of small bugs and insects. (Quirk, 2013) Translation by J. Sigrist and D.M. Stroud (1) and (2): Long ago in a field in India there was a scorpion, and he lived by killing little insects and things and eating them. (Sigrist & Stroud, 1996, 2009) Translation by Sarah Strong: L ong ago on the plains of Bardora there lived a scorpion who got along from day to day by killing and eating small insects and the like. (Miyazawa, 1991)

As you can see, Strong’s spelling Bardora is the closest to the Romanization of バルドラ, Barudora, where the epenthetic vowel /u/ is removed. Pulvers’ transliteration Valdora is just like Strong’s Bardora, except that alternative consonant choices, /v/ instead of /b/, and /l/ instead of /r/, were taken. Marshall’s rendering, Baldora, and Quark’s rendering, Badrah, are also quite close to Barudora. By contrast, Bester and Neville omit this place name and use a common noun, vale and field, respectively. Sigrist and Stroud (Miyazawa, 1996, 2009) render it as field, but also add an existing country’s name, India, as in in a field in India. Some of them tried to preserve the sound, while others abandoned it. It is possible that the latter strategy lost the author’s expressive effort utilizing the perception of the sound to create exotic nuance that is sensed by Japanese readers of the source text (ST). The addition of a concrete existing place name such as India will introduce a new and

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cultural identifier of the text, which may be what the author wanted to avoid as described by Pulvers (2013). This case shows the difficulty of transliterating place names when the languages have different phoneme inventories. It also shows the negative consequence of introducing a new name in translation and the loss of sound effects when names are omitted in translation. 3.1.2 Fictional personal name

Kenji Miyazawa wrote a short story, セロ弾きのゴーシュ (Sero-hiki no Gōshu), which was published posthumously in 1934. The protagonist of this story is a cellist, sero-hiki in Japanese. His name is ゴーシュ, written in katakana; its Romanization is Gōshu. He starts as the worst performer in his orchestra and is repeatedly scolded by the conductor in front of other orchestra members. However, anthropomorphized animals visit him one by one every night when he is practicing cello over the course of several days. Before he knows it, he gradually gains insight into music as he interacts with them. How should we render the protagonist’s name in English? His name is written in katakana (ゴーシュ), and thus, it is immediately perceived as a non-Japanese name. However, it is difficult to associate this name with any particular nationality, ethnic variety, culture or region. Just as in the other Miyazawa story discussed in Section 3.1.1 (Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Night of the Milky Way Railway), Miyazawa must have wanted to create ‘universal and cosmic context’ (Pulvers, 2013). Nonetheless, it is still unclear how Miyazawa created this name. According to Umezu (2005), there are four theories of the origin of the name ゴーシュ (Gōshu): (i) the Japanese onomatopoeia that depict the deep sound of the cello (gōgō) and the occasional scratchy sound (shu); (ii) the French word ‘gauche’, which means ‘left’; (iii) the surname of Aurobindo Ghosh, an Indian philosopher, yogi, guru and nationalist (1872–1950) and (iv) the classical southern German word ‘Gäuche’, which means ‘cuckoo bird’. Four English translations of this story were identified. They render ゴ ーシュ either as Gorsch or Gauche: Translation by John Bester (Miyazawa, 1972/2001): Gorsch the Cellist Translation by Yoko Matsuka (Matsuka, 2005): Gorsch the Cellist Translation by Anne McNulty and Eriko Sato (McNulty & Sato, 2018): Gauche the Cellist Translation by Roger Pulvers (Pulvers, 1998): Gauche the Cellist

Today, Gorsch is a surname mainly found in the United States. However, in this story, it is not clear whether ゴーシュ is used as the protagonist’s surname or given name. Thus, Gorsch can be compatible with the ST.

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On the other hand, gauche is a French word that means ‘left’. It can also mean ‘awkward’, ‘distorted’ or ‘clumsy’. Additionally, the word gauche is used in English to mean ‘lacking social experience or grace’, ‘not tactful’ or ‘crude’ according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary. These meanings in French and English describe the character of the protagonist very well. However, substituting ゴーシュ with Gorsch or Gauche necessarily ties the context of the story to a specific European context. For example, Gorsch is associated with English speaking contexts, and Gauche is associated with either French- or English-speaking contexts. This ruins the universalism that the ST author Miyazawa desired to achieve as we discussed earlier. To summarize, rendering proper names is not as simple as we may expect regardless of whether they have any connotative meanings or not. Names define the context of a text and limit the interpretation of stories, ideas and concepts. 3.2 Grapho-Semantic Rendering of Names

Names may bear semantic meanings carried by orthographic scripts. This section focuses on the implication of names written in Chinese characters, which are logographic in nature, to translation. Place names are often derived from the geographic or sociohistorical characteristics of the places that they stand for. For example, Tokyo is written with two kanji characters, as 東京, in Japanese. The first character 東 (tō) means east and the second character 京 (kyō) means capital. Its etymological meaning is a capital established in the eastern region of Japan. Similarly, personal names are often derived from tribal or clan names, place names, occupations, titles, personal traits, family structures, calendar months, religious figures and parental wishes. For example, a Japanese given name Yōko can be written as 陽子, using a part of the word 太陽 (taiyō, the sun), or as 洋子, using a part of the word 海洋 (kaiyō, ocean). Baby name trends change across generations, and thus, they may give some indication to people’s approximate age. For example, someone named Yōko may be speculated to be a middle-aged woman because the popularity of women’s names ending in 子 (ko) rose after World War II but significantly declined in the 21st century. Thus, names that end in 子 (ko) tend to be associated with women from that generation. Therefore, names can have not only semantic meanings but also pragmatic meanings that are constructed in the societal context that surrounds them. Orthographic characters permeate the linguistic boundary between Chinese and Japanese when they are used to refer to places and people. Almost all Japanese place names are written in kanji, for example, 東京 (Tokyo), 大阪 (Osaka), 横浜 (Yokohama), 名古屋 (Nagoya) and 京都 (Kyoto). When a Japanese text is translated into Chinese, place names are represented with the same Chinese characters, except that different regions in Chinese speaking societies use slightly different versions of Chinese

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characters. Although the orthographic characters in Japanese place names are shared in Chinese, their pronunciations are not shared. The pronunciations of some Japanese place names in Chinese are completely different from the ones in Japanese to the extent that their referents cannot be detected by the Japanese. For example, Tokyo, which is written as 東京, is orthographically rendered as 東京 or its simplified version 东京 in Chinese, but Tokyo is pronounced as Dōngjīng based on the Chinese pronunciation of each of the two characters. Table 3.1 shows how some major Japanese cities are written and pronounced in Japanese and in Chinese. Table 3.1  Names of some major Japanese cities in Japanese and Chinese English

Japanese

Chinese

Tokyo

東京 Tōkyō

东京 /東京 Dōngjīng

Osaka

大阪 Ōsaka

大阪 Dàbǎn

Yokohama

横浜 Yokohama

横滨/橫濱 Hèngbīn

Nagoya

名古屋 Nagoya

名古屋 Mínggǔwū

Kyoto

京都 Kyōto

京都 Jīngdū

We can see a significant difference between the Japanese and Chinese pronunciations for each of the places listed in the above table. The same phenomena can be found with personal names. For example, Momoe Yamaguchi, a Japanese actress/singer who was extremely popular in the 1970s in Japan, was also very popular in China. Her name is written in four kanji characters, 山口百恵. She was called Yamaguchi Momoe in Japan but was called Shānkǒu Bǎihuì in China. While her written name used the exact same characters, the vocal reading of her name is completely different and unrecognizable from either language’s perspective. No Japanese person can understand who it is by hearing Shānkǒu Bǎihuì. Table 3.2 lists the names of some Japanese actors and actresses who were popular in China in the 1970s and 1980s: Table 3.2  Names of some well-known Japanese actors and actresses in Japanese and Chinese English

Japanese

Chinese

Ken Takakura

高倉健 Takakura Ken

高仓健/高倉健 Gāocāng Jiàn

Komaki Kurihara

栗原小巻 Kurihara Komaki

栗原小巻 Lìyuán Xiǎomù

Momoe Yamaguchi

山口百恵 Yamaguchi Momoe

山口百惠 Shānkǒu Bǎihuì

Tomokazu Miura

三浦友和 Miura Tomokazu

三浦友和 Sānpǔ Yǒuhé

Yuko Tanaka

田中裕子 Tanaka Yūko

田中裕子 Tiánzhōng Yùzi

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Evidently, the Chinese pronunciation of a Japanese person’s name is completely different. This is a side effect of sharing written characters for names between Japanese and Chinese languages. Similarly, Chinese speakers do not have any idea when Japanese speakers orally refer to a Chinese person or place using the Japanese way of pronouncing it. For example, the founding father of the People’s Republic of China, Máo Zédōng, is called Mō Takutō in Japan, based on the Japanese on’yomi-reading of the Chinese characters (毛沢東) (see Section 2.1 about on’yomi-reading). Similarly, Guìlín, a popular sightseeing spot in southern China, is called Keirin in Japan based on the Japanese on’yomi-reading of the Chinese characters (桂林). The Japanese have been continuously using Chinese characters since they were adapted to Japan. Chinese characters remain as shared resources between Chinese and Japanese even though their phonological features are different. However, some names retain not only their orthographic characters but also their sounds. For example, Hong Kong is written as 香港 and read as hon kon in Japanese rather than the on’yomi-reading of the characters (kōkō). Shanghai is written as 上海 and read as shanhai rather than its Japanese on’yomi-reading (jōkai). Non-Chinese, non-Japanese names are transliterated using katakana in Japanese, but using Chinese characters in Chinese. For example, 加拿 大 Jiānádà is a conventionalized transliteration of Canada in Chinese. 加 means ‘to add’, 拿 means ‘to hold’ and 大 means ‘big’, but the meanings of these characters are disregarded and only their sounds are used to represent Canada. The following are additional examples of transliterated place names in Chinese: India: 印度 yìn-dù (印 means ‘print’ and 度 means ‘degree’) Italy: 意大利 yì-dà-lì (意 means ‘intention’, 大 means ‘big’ and 利 means ‘profit’) Mexico: 墨西哥 mò-xī-gē (墨 means ‘ink’, 西 means ‘west’ and 哥 means ‘brother’)

However, names may undergo phono-semantic hybrid rendering in Chinese. For example, 英国 yīngguó is composed of 英 (yīng) and 国 (guó). 英 (yīng) represents the initial sound of England although its meaning has no relevance to England. 国 (guó) means ‘country’ although its sound is not relevant to England. The following are additional examples of such phono-semantic hybrid method used in Chinese: France: 法国 fà-guó (法 means ‘law’ and 国 means ‘country’) America: 美国 měi-guó (美 means ‘beautiful’ and 国 means ‘country’)

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Germany: 德国 dé-guó (德 means ‘morality’ and 国 means ‘country’) Thailand: 泰国 tài-guó (泰 means ‘peace’ and 国 means ‘country’)

However, names may be rendered fully semantically in Chinese without respecting any of their phonological features. Long Island in New York State is rendered as 长岛 (長島) Zhǎngdǎo. The first character 长 (長) means long, and the second character 岛(島) means island. Together, the name means long island. This section evaluates orthographic and semantic rendering of names in translated texts and considers the benefit and danger of translating names. 3.2.1 Etymological factors

Sato (2016) examines how a place name is rendered in English translations of the poem ‘Chidori to Asobu Chieko’ (Chieko Playing with Plovers) written by Kōtarō Takamura (1883–1956). Takamura is one of the most widely read poets in Japan; his poems are found in most Japanese textbooks. He is also one of the pioneers of modern Japanese poetry written in free verse in the vernacular. He wrote a collection of poems about his wife, Chieko, and published them in 1941, as Chiyokosho (Chieko Poems). (See Section 4.3 for more about Takamura.) The poem ‘Chidori to Asobu Chieko’ in this collection depicts how Chieko, who was suffering from mental illness, frolicked childishly with a flock of plovers in a completely deserted beach named Kujukuri. Kujukuri Beach is a long sandy beach in Chiba Prefecture in Japan. The poem starts with a sentence that includes Kujukuri Beach: 人つ子ひとり居ない九十九 里の砂浜の砂にすわつて智恵子は遊ぶ Hitokko hitori inai Kujūkuri no sunahama no suna ni suwatte Chieko wa asobu (Literal meaning: Chieko plays as she sits on the sand of Kujūkuri beach, where there is not a single person). The name of the beach, 九十九里 kujūkuri, is a combination of four kanji characters: 九 (ku, nine), 十 (jū, ten), 九 (ku, nine) and 里 (ri). The last character (里) is an archaic unit of distance, which has etymological roots in the Chinese 里 (li). One theory of the origin of its name is that Minamoto Yoritomo (1147–1199) ordered his men to stick one arrow for every 里 along the coastline of this beach soon after the Battle of Ishibashiyama that took place in 1180. It has been said that 99 arrows were needed for this task, which resulted in the name 九十九里 kujūkuri, literally ninety-nine ri. The length of 里 (ri) differs depending on the place and time period of its use. At the time when Minamoto Yoritomo ordered his men to stick arrows along this beach in Japan, one 里 was about 654 meters (0.4

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miles). Thus, 99 ri at that time corresponds to 64.7 kilometers (39.6 miles). In the Edo Period (1603–1867), 里 (ri) was redefined as 3.9 kilometers (2.4 miles). However, the Japanese adopted the metric system during the Meiji Period (1868–1912), and 里 (ri) has not been used since then. Today, the Japanese would only hear 里 (ri) in proverbs such as the following: 千里の道も一歩から (Sen-ri no michi mo ippo kara) Even a journey of a thousand ri begins with a single step. 虎は千里行って千里かえる (Tora wa sen-ri itte sen-ri kaeru) A tiger can go a thousand ri and also come back. 昔千里も今一里 (Mukashi sen ri mo ima ichiri) Even those who could go a thousand ri long time ago can now go only one ri.

Let us examine how 九十九里 (kujūkuri) is rendered in English translations of Takamura’s poem, ‘Chidori to Asobu Chieko’ (Chieko Playing with Plovers). Four of the published English translations render 九十九里 (Kujūkuri) in very different ways. John Peters and Hiroaki Sato transliterate the place name phonologically. Sato’s transliteration uses a macron above the u (Kujūkuri) (Takamura, 1980), and so does Peters’ transliteration (Kujūkuri) (Takamura, 2007). On the other hand, Paul Archer and Soichi Furuta semantically translate the place name. Archer’s semantic translation spells out the number (Ninety-Nine Mile Beach) (Takamura, 2012), whereas Furuta’s semantic translation uses Arabic numerals (the 99 Mile Beach) (Takamura, 1978). Seeing the number 99 gives quite a different impression and image of the place for current Japanese speakers because neither the quantity nor the length of Kujūkuri is usually sensed by them. Kujūkuri is a fully established name, and its etymological meaning is not sensed by current Japanese speakers. Furthermore, the measurement unit, 里 ri, is replaced by mile, in their semantic translation (the 99 Mile Beach and Ninety-Nine Mile Beach). Seeing the imperial measurement ‘mile’ makes the readers sense that the place is not in Japan, but in a Western country such as the United States. As argued by Lyotard (1992), units of measurement function as rigid cultural designators. Thus, the use of mile shifts the cultural identity of the poem from Japan to America. So, this creates an adaptive translation that presents the text based on American contexts. This is a common way to present a translation. Yet, the Japanese name of a person in the poem, Chieko, remains unchanged. Use of the name Chieko helps the translation retain its Japaneseness but is contradicted by the use of mile, which is used in the American context. The inconsistency of cultural context within the

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poem ruins the cohesiveness of the text in Furuta and Archer’s translations. Does the semantic translation of 里 (ri) in Furuta and Archer’s translations help the readers of translation understand the meaning of the name of the beach and comprehend the length of the beach? Not really. As mentioned earlier, this beach is about 99 里 (ri), which is 39.6 miles (99 × 0.4 miles). Thus, by stating the 99 Mile Beach (as in Furuta’s translation) or Ninety-Nine Mile Beach (as in Archer’s translation), the actual length is significantly exaggerated. Readers may assume the beach is 2.5 times longer than it actually is. Accordingly, we cannot find any value in the use of mile in terms of precision. What do we gain from semantically rendering Japanese place names? Semantically translated names sound familiar to the TL audience and are more accessible to them. They do not have to stumble on foreign-sounding names in translation. However, evidently, the adverse effect of this smoothness is a shifted cultural identity of the text. The end result is a lack of consistency, misleading representation of sociohistorical facts and the marginalization of the culture of the ST. 3.2.2 Hidden meanings

Wagahai wa Neko de Aru (吾輩は猫である I Am a Cat) is a satirical novel written by Natsume Sōseki in 1905–1906. In this novel, a nameless cat serves as the protagonist and the narrator. The cat addresses himself with the old fashion first-person pronoun, wagahai (吾輩). This pronoun makes the cat sound haughty and intelligent. The cat observes human beings around him and describes them humorously, which results in sharp and witty insights into the Japanese society during the Meiji Period (1868–1912). This novel includes non-fictional names in Japan. For example, it includes names of towns in Tokyo, such as 根津 (Nezu), 上野 (Ueno), 池 の端 (Ikenohata) and 神田 (Kanda), and names of historically prominent individuals, such as 安井息軒 (Yasui Sokken) (1799–1876) and 坂 本龍馬 (Sakamoto Ryōma) (1839–1867). In Ito and Wilson’s English translation, these non-fictional names are phonologically rendered as Nezu (根津), Ueno (上野), Ikenohata (池の端), Kanda (神田), Yasui Sokuken (安井息軒) and Sakamoto Ryoma (坂本龍馬) (Ito & Wilson, 1972/2002). The novel also includes fictional names that are humorous given to human characters. For example, the name of the cat owner is Chinno Kushami (珍野苦沙弥), where Chinno (珍野) is the surname and Kushami (苦沙弥) is the given name of this character. The surname Chinno sounds normal, but it is extremely strange and even comical once we look at the first kanji character 珍 (chin) in this name: 珍 literally means ‘rare’ and ‘strange’. However, this name somehow sounds normal because it is

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followed by 野 (no), which literally means field and is a common ending of Japanese surnames, as in the following: 今野 Konno 近野 Konno 菅野 Kanno 関野 Sekino 河野 Kōno 大野 Ōno 小野 Ono

Thus, 珍野 (Chinno) is phonologically and orthographically ‘proper’, but the specific character used (珍) prompts readers to do a double-take, realizing that it means ‘strange’. The given name 苦沙弥 appears very classical, serious and even religious because the first character 苦 means ‘suffering’ and the rest 沙弥 means male Buddhist novice. Just by looking at the kanji characters used in this given name, readers naturally guess that the connotative meaning of this name is a young male who aspires to go through harsh training to become a true Buddhist. However, once readers pronounce this name, they immediately notice that this name is funny: its pronunciation is kushami, which is commonly understood to mean ‘sneeze’. This word, kushami, was derived from an onomatopoeia that imitates the sound of a sneeze and is usually written in hiragana or katakana. Since the cat owner’s given name is written in kanji characters with a serious meaning, readers encounter an unexpected mismatch between the meaning based on the pronunciation of the name and the meaning based on the kanji characters of the name. Thus, Chinno Kushami is a comical name. In the English translation by Aiko Ito and Graeme Wilson (Ito & Wilson, 1972/2002), Chinno Kushami is rendered as Mr Sneaze or Dr Sneaze. That is, the first name is treated as a family name, and the spelling of ‘sneeze’ is slightly altered. There is an entrepreneur in Mr Chinno’s neighborhood in this novel. His surname is 金田 (Kaneda). The first kanji character (金) means ‘money’, ‘gold’ or ‘metal’. Mr Chinno hates the Kaneda family as they show off their socioeconomically high status. Mr Kaneda’s wife has an unusually big nose for a Japanese person and also behaves snobbishly. The cat decides to refer to her as Kaneda Hanako. Hanako is a common given name for women in Japan at the time the novel was written, but the choice of kanji character is, again, unusual. Instead of the typical kanji used in this name, 花 (hana) with the meaning ‘flower’, the kanji 鼻 (hana) with the meaning ‘nose’ is used. Thus, 金田鼻子 (Kaneda Hanako) ‘sounds’ like a normal and common name, but it semantically means ‘money-fieldnose-child’. Again, this mismatch between the sound and the meaning of the name is unexpected and comical for the readers of the novel. Ito and

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Wilson semantically render the Kaneda family as ‘the Goldfields’ and creatively render Mrs Hanako Kaneda as ‘Madam Conk’. The cat owner’s former student’s surname is Kangetsu (寒月). This name is also semantically rendered as ‘Coldmoon’ based on the meaning of the two kanji characters (寒 ‘cold’ and 月 ‘the moon’) in Ito and Wilson’s English translation. Kangetsu is not particularly humorous and does not require a semantic rendering like Mr Sneaze and Madam Conk. However, it seems like Ito and Wilson semantically rendered Kangetsu to Coldmoon intentionally to maintain continuity and consistency in naming convention. In this case, if names such as 珍野苦沙弥 (Chinno Kushami) and 金田 花子 (Kaneda Hanako) are phonologically rendered in English translations as Kushami Chinno and Hanako Kaneda, readers of the TT will miss the great humor surreptitiously present in this novel. We cannot apply Mill’s theory of names, where the meaning of a name is purely its referent, to a fictional context. 3.2.3 Sociopolitical factors

A large number of vocabulary words in Korean are Sino-Korean words that were originally written in Chinese characters although they are mostly written in hangul (Korean phonetic syllabary) now. Korean maps of the Korean peninsula mostly specify place names in hangul now. However, Japanese maps of the Korean peninsula mostly specify place names in Chinese characters and occasionally add hangul and/or katakana-transliteration. Accordingly, Korean place names written hangul are often written in Chinese characters in Japanese or Chinese translated texts. However, it is unclear if such a practice is appropriate. Let us look at the place name 북간도 (Buggando) that appears in the poem ‘Byeol Heneun Bam’ (별 헤는 밤, Star-Counting Night) written in 1941 by Yun Dong-Ju (1917–1945). This place name is written in hangul as 북간도 in the ST, as shown in the following excerpt: Source text written by Dong-Ju Yun: 어머님, 그리고 당신은 멀리 북간도에 계십니다 (Lee, 2014) Romanization: Eomeonim, Geuligo dangsin-eun meolli Bukkando-e gyesibnida Verbatim translation: Mother, And you are far away, in Bukkando.

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However, the three published Japanese translations identified (Translation by Go Ibuki (Yun, 1984/2002: 42), translation by Yun Dong-Ju Poetry Monument Establishment Committee (Yun Donju Shihi Konryū Iinkai, 1997: 30) and translation by Japan Christian Organization Publisher (Yun, 1995/2008: 33)) all render it in Chinese characters as 北間 島 and add プッカンド, the katakana-transliteration of Korean pronunciation based on 북간도, only as furigana (see Section 2.5 for furigana). The first character 北 in 北間島 means north, the second character 間 means in-between and the third character 島 means island. The combination of the last two characters, 間島, refers to the area called Gando, which is the piece of terrain located in the northern bank of the Yalu River and the Tumen River. The part of Gando that is the north of the Yalu River is called western Gando, whereas the part of Gando that is the north of the Tumen River is called northern Gando, or Buggando, which was written in hangul by the author Yun as 북간도. Buggando could have been just transliterated in katakana as プッカンド in the three Japanese translations if we consider the sociopolitical context of the poem. There was no need to use Chinese characters because the original Korean ST did not use any Chinese characters. Yun Dong-Ju is a renowned Korean poet who wrote resistance poems during Japan’s colonization of Korea (1910–1945). The collection of his poems, Haneulwa Balamwa Byeolgwa Si (하늘과 바람과 별과 시, Sky, Wind, Star, and Poem), was posthumously published in 1948, and subsequent editions included additional works by Yun Dong-Ju. The poem ‘Byeol Heneun Bam’ (별 헤는 밤, Star-Counting Night) is a part of this collection. Importantly, the poems in this collection were all written in vernacular Korean in hangul. Writing poems in Korean using hangul was quite risk-taking during Yun’s time, when the use of Korean was discouraged and eventually banned under Japanese rule. The place where Yun Dong-Ju was born and raised is very relevant to his literary activities. He was born in 1917 in a Christian family in Myeongdong village in Buggando. In 1932, Yun and his family moved to Longjing city, which is in the north of Myeongdong, but still within Buggando. Gando, which include Buggando, is historically a border area between Chinese Manchuria and the Korean peninsula and has been heavily populated by ethnic Koreans. How far Korean cultural history can date back in this area is not fully agreed (Do, 2011). A large population of Koreans migrated to this area between the 1880s and the 1920s (Lankov, 2007) to cultivate fields or to escape Japanese rule after 1910. It was the place where Korean anti-colonialism and Korean ethnic nationalism quietly grew around the time when Yun Dong-Ju was born. However, Gando became a part of Manchukuo (満州国), a puppet state of the Empire of Japan that existed from 1932 until 1945. After World War II, Gando was placed in China’s territory, when the division between China and Korea

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was made by the Tumen River and the Yalu River. Now, Gando is currently called Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture within Jilin Province (吉林省) in China and shares a border with North Korea and Russia. However, the inclusion of Gando in China is still sociopolitically controversial (Do, 2011). Yun Dong-Ju wrote the poem ‘Byeol Heneun Bam’ on 5 November 1941, when he was at Yonhi College (currently Yonsei University, located in Seoul), where he majored in literature. According to Ida (2011), it was the time he made up his mind to move to Japan to study after finishing his study at Yonhi College. He graduated from Yonhi College on 27 December 1941. Going to Japan was the only way for Koreans to pursue graduate studies at the time and also required them to change their Korean names to Japanese names. The name-changing ordinance called sōshi-kaimei (創氏改名, creation of a family name and change of one’s given name) was issued by the chief administrator of the Japanese colonial government in Korea in 1940 (Chou, 1996: 60). Thus, Yun Dong-Ju wrote the poem ‘Byeol Heneun Bam’ thinking of his mother in 북간도 Buggando, which is 1000 km (about 621 miles) away from where he was (Yonhi College), thinking of his upcoming reality after crossing the sea, being placed in Japan bearing a Japanese name (平沼東柱) (Ida, 2011). Gando was filled with Korean nationalism at the time the poem was written, and it is the place where the author Yun was born and grew up and where his mother was living when he was writing this poem in vernacular Korean in hangul. The author Yun dared not use Chinese characters even though he could read and write them. Furthermore, inclusion of Gando in China’s territory can be disputable as it has been historically Korean (Do, 2011). According to Park (1999), the name Gando is generally accepted by Koreans as originating from the term ‘GamTu (감 터)’ which means ‘Korean’s first country birthplace’ (cited in Do, 2011). Why did Chinese characters have to be added in the Japanese translation? Would it erase the author’s wish to refer to this place only in hangul? Interestingly, Kyung-Nyun Kim Richards and Steffen F. Richards, who co-translated this poem, replace 북간도 with ‘Northern Manchuria’ (Yun, 2003: 83). Manchuria can be understood in multiple different ways, but it encompasses a much wider area than Gando. Manchuria is usually understood to include three provinces in China: Heilongjiang, Jilin and Liaoning, whereas Gando is only the southern part of Jilin Province. Thus, Gando is not precisely ‘northern Manchuria’, but rather southern Manchuria. Furthermore, ‘northern Manchuria’ in Richards and Richards’ translation erases the Koreanness that existed in Gando when the poem was written and when the territorial border was still vague. In addition, it disregards the reason why Yun wrote his

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poems in hangul when the use of Korean was banned by Japanese colonizers. In sum, this section has considered the motivations, benefits and risks of rendering place names and personal names using logographic characters in translation. 3.3 Pragmatic Rendering of Names

Names are not always directly rendered. They are sometimes modified, omitted or substituted by translators for various pragmatic reasons. Bilingual readers who discover radical changes in proper names are often shocked and feel deceived by translators, whereas monolingual readers of translated texts are more likely to be satisfied with translation as long as they can understand the content easily. This section analyzes a few cases where names are omitted, modified, or substituted, and examine their causes and implications. 3.3.1 Omission

Proper names are often eliminated in literary texts. For example, consider Ezra Pound’s English translation of the Chinese poem, 黃鶴樓送孟 浩然之廣陵 (Huánghèlóu sòng Mèng Hàorán zhī Guǎnglíng) written by Li Bai in 730: Source text written by Li Bai 黃鶴樓送孟浩然之廣陵 故人西辭黃鶴樓、 煙花三月下揚州。 孤帆遠影碧空盡、 唯見長江天際流。 (Pound et al., 2019: 220) Romanization Huánghèlóu sòng Mèng Hàorán zhī Guǎnglíng Gùrén xī cí huáng hè lóu, Yānhuā sān yuè xià yángzhōu. Gū fān yuǎn yǐng bìkōng jǐn, Wéi jiàn chángjiāng tiānjì liú. Verbatim translation At Huánghè Lóu, Sending off Mèng Hàorán to Guǎnglíng Old friend leaves Huánghè Lóu in the west, Going to Yangzhōu in March when flowers appear like mist. The reflection of a single sail is farther away and disappears in the blue sky, I see only the Chángjiāng that flows towards the edge of the sky.

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This poem has five proper names. 孟浩然 (Mèng Hàorán): A major Tang Dynasty poet, who was born and raised in the province of Hubei 黃鶴樓 (Huánghèlóu): The name of a traditional tower located in Wuhan, on the banks of the Yangtze River. Its original form was built in AD 223 during the Three Kingdoms Period (AD 220–280). There are multiple legends and theories for the etymology of the name. 廣陵 (Guǎnglíng): A district in 揚州 Yangzhōu 揚州 (Yangzhōu): A prefecture-level area located in the center of the province of Jiāngsū (江苏) 長江 (Chángjiāng): The name of a river in China, commonly known as the Yangtze River

These names are not found in the English translation by Ezra Pound published in 1915, except that the name of the tower (黃鶴樓 Huánghèlóu) appears as ‘Ko-kaku-ro’ and the name of the (長江 Chángjiāng) river appears twice, as ‘the River Kiang’ in the title and ‘the long Kiang’ in the last line (Pound et al., 2019: 49). Bilingual Chinese–English readers of Pound’s translation would be puzzled to see 黃鶴樓 (Huánghèlóu) rendered as Ko-kaku-ro, since it is not a recognized word or proper name in either Chinese or English. Ko-kaku-ro is the Japanese on’yomi-reading of 黄鶴樓 (Huánghèlóu). It is well known that Ezra Pound did not know how to speak or read Chinese but translated Chinese poems based on the word-for-word annotated translations and line-by-line notes left by Ernest Fenollosa (1853–1908), an American art historian of Japanese art and professor of philosophy and political economy at Tokyo Imperial University. However, Fenollosa studied Li Bai’s poems in Japan, where Chinese poems were read either in kanbun-ondoku (sound reading of Chinese texts) or kanbun-kundoku (gloss reading of Chinese texts). As discussed in Section 2.1, Kanbunondoku is a second language reading of the original Chinese text, and the pronunciation of Chinese characters are necessarily filtered by the Japanese phonological rules. Thus, 黄鶴樓 (Huánghèlóu) is read as Kōkakurō in on’yomi-reading in Japanese. This explains why 黄鶴樓 is rendered as ‘Ko-kaku-ro’ in Pound’s translation. Kiang was probably the alternative pronunciation of 江 (jiāng) in Chinese in Fenollosa’s note, which was wrongly understood by Pound as the name ‘of’ the river instead of the word ‘for’ rivers in general. Accordingly, cháng (長) in chángjiāng (長江) was wrongly understood as a descriptive adjective for the river instead of an inherent part of the name of the river Chángjiāng (長江). This made Pound render Chángjiāng (長 江) as ‘the River Kiang’ in the title and as ‘the long Kiang’ in the last line, perplexing Chinese-English bilingual readers. In addition to deleting and altering proper names, Pound has created a proper name while translating this poem. 故人 (gùrén), which means

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old friend, is rendered as a proper name ‘KO-JIN’ in the first line of this poem. This name was mistakenly created based on the Japanese on’yomi-reading of 故人 (kojin), which was interpreted as a proper name, as we can see by the syntactic structure Pound used in the poem, “KO-JIN goes west from Ko-kaku-ro” (Pound et al., 2019: 49). Unlike in English, where the definiteness of a noun phrase is marked by grammatical elements such as the and a/an, noun phrases do not have to be marked for their definiteness or number in Chinese. Thus, 故人 can be an old friend, old friends or my old friend in Chinese. 故人 in Li Bai’s poem is contextually understood as my old friend, who is also understood as a specific individual that he was very close to, namely 孟浩然 (Mèng Hàorán), as in the ST. Coincidentally, Pound’s rendering of a noun phrase 故人 as a proper name ‘KO-JIN’ is consistent with the fact that this individual actually existed. That is, a common noun was converted to a proper name that specifically refers to someone. The creation of a proper name may have been done erroneously by Pound, but its result is not necessarily negative. His introduction of a proper name compensates for the loss of the proper name 孟浩然 (Mèng Hàorán) in the title (“Separation on the River Kiang”) and makes the audience gain a sharper image of the context of the parting. This newly created name ‘KO-JIN’ may be singularly interpreted as a proper name, but those readers who also know Japanese may see it to have dual functions: as a proper name as well as a common noun phrase (old friend). Thus, errors in translation may unintentionally create new meaning (Derrida, 1982) and a sharper insight to the poem. Unlike Pound, Zong-qi Cai includes all names that appear in the ST in his English translation of this poem (Cai, 2008: 216), but in varied methods. 黃鶴樓 (Huánghèlóu) was semantically translated (Yellow Crane Tower). This preserves the color (yellow) and bird (crane) in the poem, which could impart metaphoric meaning to readers of the translation. 孟浩然 (Mèng Hàorán), 廣陵 (Guǎnglíng) and 揚州 (Yangzhōu) are all transliterated, as Meng Haoran, Guanling and Yangzhou, respectively. 長江 Chángjiāng, which literally means ‘long river’, is replaced with Yangtze River, the commonly used name for the same river outside of China. Cai preserves the time reference (the third month) indicated in the ST although it was omitted by Pound. Cai also preserves the direction of the journey (from west to east) in the ST, which was rendered in the opposite direction by Pound (from east to west). Accordingly, Cai represents referential information more accurately than Pound. However, unlike Pound, the concept of ‘long’ was eliminated in Cai’s translation because he replaced 長江 (Chángjiāng, literally, long river) with the Yangtze River. ‘Longness’ is a part of the theme of this poem as the author was sensing the length of his friend’s journey in terms of distance and in terms of time, and the river he is traveling through is the

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‘longest’ river in Asia. An alternative translation that takes the best of both Pound’s and Cai’s solutions may be to translate 長江 (Chángjiāng) as ‘the long Yangtze River’. Table 3.3 summarizes the proper names that appear in this poem and how they are rendered in Pound’s and Cai’s translations: Table 3.3  Proper names in two English translations of ‘Huánghèlóu sòng Mèng Hàorán zhī Guǎnglíng’ Translation by Ezra Pound

Translation by Zong-Qi Cai

孟浩然 Mèng Hàorán

(Omitted)

Meng Haoran (Transliteration)

黃鶴樓 Huánghèlóu

Ko-kaku-ro (Creation of Japanese on’yomi-readingbased transliteration)

Yellow Crane Tower (Translation)

廣陵 Guǎnglíng

(Omitted)

Guangling (Transliteration)

揚州 Yangzhōu

(Omitted)

Yangzhou (Transliteration)

長江 Chángjiāng

the River Kiang, the long Kiang (Translation and transliteration based on Japanese on’yomi-reading)

the Yangtze River (a version of the name commonly used in the West)

Although Cai’s translation is more faithful to the ST, Pound’s translation focuses on the prosodic and rhythmic characteristics of the ST. In addition, Pound’s translation intensifies the emotions of the author, represented by the continued gazing of the author’s friend’s ship that is disappearing into the horizon on the surface of the long river (“His lone sail blots the far sky. And now I see only the river, The long Kiang, reaching heaven”). In other words, Pound’s translation intensifies the author’s internal feeling, transcending the spatial, temporal and personal specificities, by removing most referential specificities. 3.3.2 Creation

Tsubouchi’s translation takes advantage of furigana for culturally sensitive language play based on proper names in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare, 1933/1990: 692). When Peter talks with three musicians in Act IV, Scene 5, the three musicians’ names – Simon Catling, Hugh Rebeck and James Soundpost – are actually comically improvised with double meanings. First, ‘Catling’ is the surname of Simon Catling but can also refer to the material of violin strings made of catgut. Second, ‘rebeck’ in Hugh Rebeck can refer to the ancient English fiddle with three strings. Third, ‘soundpost’ in James Soundpost may refer to the small cylindrical piece that functions as the pole placed between the front surface and the back surface of a string instrument. The second meanings of

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these names are rendered as Japanese names written in kanji and are accompanied by the transliteration of the English names in furigana: Simon Catling: 猫腸絃子 with サイモン・キャトリング Saimon Kyatoringu in furigana Hugh Rebeck: 三絃胡弓子 with ヒュー・レベック Hyū Rebekku in furigana James Soundpost: 提琴柱子 with ヂェームズ・サウンドポスト Jēmusu Saundoposuto in furigana

All names end in the kanji 子, which is the ending of a name. Until the end of the 8th century, the kanji character 子 was used as the ending of a person’s name regardless of the gender. In the Meiji Period (1868–1912), it was used as the ending of a female name or a respectful title used after a female’s name. Currently, it is used as the ending of a common female’s name. The meaning of the character 子 is currently child. Let us look at the first name: 猫腸絃子. 猫 (neko), 腸 (chō) and 絃 (gen) mean cat, intestine and strings, respectively. On the surface, 猫腸絃 子 appears to be a proper name as it is written in four kanji characters, but the combined meaning of the kanji characters is comical. The surname would be read as ‘Cat-gut’, and the given name would be read as ‘Strings’. The second name is 三絃胡弓子. 三絃 (sangen) literally means ‘three-string’ and also refers to an ancient three-stringed instrument. 胡 弓 (kokyū) is another ancient string instrument. Thus, this name is a combination of two kinds of classical Japanese string instruments. The third name is 提琴柱子. 提琴 (teikin) refers to a traditional four-stringed instrument, and 柱 (hashira/chū) means ‘pole’. The creative combination of furigana and kanji allows for the expression of comical meanings hidden in the names of the three musicians. In this case, furigana provides transliteration of three English names, whereas the kanji characters logographically provide the hidden meanings in the form of proper names. 3.3.3 Adaptation/domestication of names

Hervey and Higgins (2002: 29–30) define cultural transplantation as ‘the process where SL names are replaced by indigenous TL names that are not their literal equivalents but have similar cultural connotations’. According to them, cultural transplantation is ‘the extreme degree of cultural transposition’ and its effect could lead to the creation of an incongruous text. Aoyama (1996: 37–38) observes that the name of a well-known Japanese actress, Ruriko Asaoka, which appears in the novel 69 (Shikkusutinain, Sixty-nine) written and published by Ryū Murakami in 1987, was substituted by the name of a well-known French actress, Brigitte Bardot, in its English translation published in 1993. Ruriko Asaoka and

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Brigitte Bardot are about the same age: Asaoka was born in 1940, and Bardot was born in 1934. The setting of this novel is in 1969 at a high school in Kyushu in Japan, where a few students wildly attempt to organize something outrageous. The novel is filled with proper names of singers, actors, activists, politicians, songs, plays, books, schools and places mostly from Western culture, but some from Japanese culture. In the scene where the protagonist and his schoolmates decide to make a film, featuring one of the girls in their high school as the main character, someone says that they have to make her look more beautiful than Ruriko Asaoka and use Yujiro Ishihara’s song as the theme music. Yujiro Ishihara was the actor who regularly worked as her partner. Aoyama (1996) considers the substitution of Ruriko Asaoka with Brigitte Bardot as fair but is not appropriate because only Ruriko Asaoka’s name was substituted and the name of her partner, Yujiro Ishihara, was not. This is clearly the type of incongruous case that Hervey and Higgins (1992) warn us about. Aoyama (1996: 39–40) also reports that this novel has two versions of English translations by the same translator: The first was published in 1991 targeting bilingual readers in Japan; the second was published in 1993 targeting audiences overseas. Interestingly, the abovementioned substitution is found only in the 1993 version for the overseas audiences, but not in the version for Japanese audiences (1996: 39–40). This shows that the cultural transplantation observed here is socioeconomically motivated, as the publisher’s strategy to serve different readerships. Japanese– English bilingual readers in Japan would notice the translator’s replacement of Ruriko Asaoka with Brigitte Bardot, but English readers who do not speak Japanese would not recognize the replacement and may simply assume that Bardot and Ishihara literally worked together, or they may get confused. E. Sato (2016) examines a case where the name of a college town in Japan, 鶴巻町 (Tsurumaki-chō, Tsurumaki Town), is replaced with the name of an entertainment city in America, Times Square, in one of the translations of the poem ‘Hito ni’ (人に, To a Person) written by Kōtarō Takamura (1883–1956). (See Section 3.2.1 and Section 4.3 for more about Takamura.) To evaluate this case, we need to understand the significance of Tsurumaki Town in this poem. In December 1911, the author, Kōtarō Takamura, met Chieko Naganuma (1886–1938), the daughter of a sake brewer in Fukushima. Chieko had attended the Japan Women’s University in Tokyo and was a painter and a member of Seitosha, a group for women’s liberation. In the summer of 1912, Chieko received a marriage offer in her hometown. On this occasion, Kōtarō Takamura wrote the poem originally titled ‘--N joshi ni’ (--To Miss N) showing his opposition to Chieko’s arranged marriage recommended by her parents. Shortly after, Kōtarō and Chieko got engaged in 1913 and got married in December 1914, although their marriage was officially

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registered much later, in 1933. This poem was first published in Takamura’s first poetry collection, Doutei, in 1914, and was later revised and published with the title ‘Hito ni’ in Chiyokoshō in 1941. The poem “Hito ni” depicts the idea of her marriage with the analogy “It is as if the painting of Titian is going to shopping to Tsurumaki Town” in the middle of the fourth stanza (まるでさう チシアンの画いた絵が鶴巻 町へ買物に出るのです Marude sau Chishian no kaita e ga Tsurumakichō e kaimono ni deru-no-desu). When the poem was written, Tsurumaki Town was a common ordinary town developed around a university, current Waseda University. Thus, there were boarding houses and restaurants for students in this town. In addition, Tsurumaki Town was a very familiar place to Kōtarō Takamura since his childhood: He used to walk in this neighborhood with Chieko Naganuma.1 Let us see how the proper name Tsurumaki-chō is rendered in four of the existing English translations of this poem. Tsurumaki-chō is directly rendered as “Tsurumaki chō” and “Tsurumaki Chô” in the translations by Hiroaki Sato (Takamura, 1980: 93) and John Peters (Takamura, 2007: 47), respectively. On the other hand, it is converted to a common noun “a flea market” in Paul Archer’s translation (Takamura, 2012) and another proper name “Times Square” in Soichi Furuta’s translation (Takamura, 1978: 1). Furuta’s adaptation approach can avoid the extra burden for the readers of the TT who are unfamiliar with the locations in the culture of the ST. However, the burden for understanding the connotation of Tsurumakichō is also imposed on the Japanese readers of the ST because Tsurumakichō is not a commonly known place name even among the Japanese. Both towns are located within a big city: Tsurumaki-chō is located within Tokyo, and Times Square is located within New York. However, unlike locations like Shibuya and Shinjuku, Tsurumaki-chō has not been a location that vividly renders a specific clear picture for most Japanese people. Thus, it is not easy even for the readers of the ST to make an instant association. Tsurumaki-chō was an ordinary Japanese neighborhood with a shrine and a temple as well as a students’ town, where Waseda University has been located, when the poem was written and even now. Thus, Tsurumakichō could be more comparable to Washington Square in Manhattan. By contrast, Times Square was globally known as a crowded and busy area when the ST was published and has been a center of entertainment and self-indulgence in New York in the past half a century. It cannot be perceived as a college town in America. Accordingly, replacing Tsurumakichō with Times Square will introduce additional specific pragmatic nuances to the TT and significantly change the pragmatic background of the poem. Place names are anchors or clues that reveal the space frame of

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a poem or a story. They bear a bundle of pragmatic details of a poem and contextualize emotional experiences of the poet. Thus, adaptation of place names instantly changes the text’s cultural identity and can change the authorial meaning. Names seem to undergo domestication or modification especially when the target audience is young children. Alvstad (2003: 272), who conducted a corpus study of translated and untranslated children’s books published in Argentina in 1997, shows that only domestic names are used for most books for children up to the age of seven. Some foreign names may have the same pronunciation as some domestic words with negative meanings that need to be avoided. Some foreign names may simply be too long or too complex for children to remember. On the other hand, when visual elements such as pictures and videos are present, changing characters’ names across linguistic and cultural boundaries yield incongruent effects. Adaptive rendering of names seems to be common in dominant cultures. Yamazaki (2002) reports that replacing characters’ names in children’s books is very common when the TL is English or German: I also noticed that basic attitudes to translation differ from culture to culture and that it is especially obvious between Japanese and English/ German translations. This difference has a political implication, for translation is never a purely linguistic matter. The attitude toward and practice of translation reflect intercultural power balances. Translated texts not only reveal what kind of relationship the target culture (to which the translation is aimed) has with the source culture (where the texts come from), but also affect that relationship by presenting a certain image of the source culture. ……….. I was shocked and became indignant at this change of names. I felt that I had been cheated by the German translation. For me it was a matter of credibility, and it was my first lesson on how arbitrary a translation can be. (Yamazaki, 2002: 53–54)

Many culture-specific words are substituted with similar items in the culture of the TT readers. However, doing so with names can be sensed deceptive as Yamazaki describes by her word ‘cheated’ even though it is for fictional names in literary texts rather than non-fictional existing names in informational texts. Domestication of names is not limited to dominant cultures. It may be motivated as a form of resistance to former colonizers. Naming characters and places is extremely sociopolitically sensitive. Sung et al. (2016) have studied Korean parents’ preferences for Korean, Japanese and English names used for characters in children’s books. They found that the Korean parents preferred the use of Korean names instead of foreign names even

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for stories that originated outside of Korea. Sung et al. (2016) show that there is a higher preference for changing Japanese names to Korean names (32%) than changing English names to Korean names (20%) because of their negative view of the Japanese culture, due to Japan’s colonization of Korea in the early 20th century and the continued sociopolitical issues between the two countries. 3.3.4 Reverse-adaptation of names

Domestication of names is common, but there are some cases where adaptation is oriented toward the culture of the ST. This may be called ‘foreignization’ by Venuti, but his concept is quite sociopolitically focused as a form of resistance. Thus, not all forms of inserting SL elements and features are considered ‘foreignization’ (E. Sato, 2019). This section discusses the case where characters’ names that are detached from geographic and cultural context are modified to adapt to the culture of the original author, which is evidenced by one of the English translations of Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Night of the Galactic Railway) written by Kenji Miyazawa (E. Sato, 2016). (See Section 3.1.1 for the background of this novel.) The novel introduces proper names in a unique way. Although the story seems to be based in the author’s hometown, Hamamaki, and the nearby river, the Kitakami River, these names do not appear in the novel. There are no fictional place names that sound Japanese, either. By contrast, it includes non-Japanese place names, both real and fictional. For example: コネティカット州 Konetikatto-shū (Connecticut State) ランカシャイヤ Lankashaiya (Lancashire) コロラド Kororado (Colorado) パシフィック Pashifikku (the Pacific) プリオシン海岸 Purioshin kaigan (the Pliocene Coast) 銀河ステーション Ginga Sutēshon (the Milky Way Station) アルビレオの観測所 Arubireo no kansokusho (the Albireo Observatory) バルドラ Barudora (*Intended English spelling is unknown) (see Section 3.1.1).

There is no specific time reference in this novel, except the appearance of the victims of a shipwreck, which is clearly based on the story of the Titanic that sank in the North Atlantic in 1912. However, the name of the ship ‘Titanic’ is not mentioned in this novel. Most interestingly, the main characters, who are obviously Japanese, have European names. ジョバンニ (Jobanni, Giovanni, the protagonist) カムパネルラ (Kamupanerura, Campanella, the protagonist’s schoolmate)

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ザネリ (Zanneri, Zanelli, the protagonist’s schoolmate who constantly ridicules him) マルソ(Marusō, Marso, the protagonist’s schoolmate)

By contrast, obviously European characters, who are described as Christians and the victims of the shipwreck, have Japanese names: かおる Kaoru タダシ Tadashi

The food items that appear in the protagonist’s household are tomatoes, bread, milk and lump sugar, which were not common Japanese food items when the novel was written. The plants found near the protagonist’s house are asparagus and kale, which were also rare in Japan at that time. Many names of trees, birds, insects, vegetables, gemstones and minerals appear in the story, most of which have non-Japanese names (e.g. ポプラ (popura, poplar); プラタナス (puratanasu, platanus). Some religious icons such as 十字架 (jūjika, the (Christian) cross) and バイブル (baiburu, bible) appear in the novel. The word kimono appears twice in the novel, but it seems to refer to clothing in general rather than the traditional Japanese clothing considering the time the novel was written and the context in the novel where the word was used. This novel was translated into English by multiple translators at different times. Sigrist and Stroud’s 1996 edition alters some of the proper names. E. Sato (2016) and H. Sato (1996) provide a critical review of the change of the proper names found in their 1996 edition. Sigrist and Stroud replace four characters’ names that sound European names to Japanese names in their translation published in 1996: ジョバンニ (Jobanni, Giovanni) カムパネルラ(Kamupanera, Campanella) ザネリ (Zaneri, Zanelli) マルソ (Maruso, Marso)

→ Kenji → Minoru → Akira → Masaru

Accordingly, the protagonist’s name becomes identical to the author’s name, Kenji. This has an immediate consequence: TL readers would think that the protagonist is the author himself. Sigrist and Stroud state in their introduction in the edition published in 1996 that this change of names is to ‘eliminate any confusion caused by Japanese characters in a Japanese setting having European names’. This change of names is extremely interesting because its motivation is the opposite of the commonly practiced cultural transplantation motivated by domestication. It may appear to be an instance of Venutian foreignization, but its purpose is a corrective intervention. However, if this is the case, they should have changed the Japanese names of the obviously European children from the shipwreck, but they did not. The incomplete reverse cultural adaptation causes an incongruous state.

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Almost all literary scholars who studied this novel seem to agree that these mismatching names in the SL text were deliberately done by the author. Sarah Strong states that Miyazawa is cleverly challenging the conventional distinction between familiar and foreign in her reader’s guide in her translation published in 1991. Pulvers (2013) states that it is not only to achieve universalism but also to represent the author’s ‘social model, the kind of ideal society that he envisaged for the human race, where boundaries are not even earthly, but cosmic’. If this is the case, the corrective manipulation of the main characters’ names by Sigrist and Stroud’s edition published in 1996 is erasing the theme of the novel. Trinh (2013) describes her frank perceptions of this version in her book: In the first version I read of his novel Milky Way Railroad, the translators had taken the liberty of changing the characters’ names into Japanese names, under the pretext that it would “eliminate any confusion caused by Japanese characters in a Japanese setting having European names.” Since I usually prefer (at first) to enter a text directly and to follow the writer’s thought process afresh, without the mediation of an introduction, at the end of the book I was deceptively left with a feeling of wonder for what I considered to be a harmlessly charming story of coming to terms with death, a story “typically Japanese,” as my prejudices dictated. It was only a year later, when a Japanese friend offered me another translated version of the novel, Night Train to the Stars, that I realized with awe and utter excitement the scope of Miyazawa’s experimental and cosmopolitan mind. In this translation, not only do the main characters’ names, Giovanni (Jovanni) and Campanella (Kanpanera), appear as originally intended, but a whole complex tapestry of foreign-sounding names of people and places emerges from the story, as if by magic. Suppressed in the first adapted version I read, these Italian, French, English, and American names, coexisting with Japanese names, make all the difference. Here the politics of naming takes on an inventive role of its own. (Trinh, 2013: 7)

The change of these characters’ names is undone in the later edition of Sigrist and Stroud’s English translation published in 2009 while almost all other parts of the text remain the same. 3.3.5 Imitation

In Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru (Night of the Galactic Railway) written by Kenji Miyazawa, Campanella’s family has a dog. As mentioned earlier, its name is written as ザウエルin katakana, which can be represented as Zaueru using a common Romanization method in Japan. Note that romaji does not represent all sounds in English because the inventories of Japanese phonemes and the one in English do not match. For example, two liquid sounds /l/ and /r/ in English are represented only by /r/ in romaji

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because they merge into one phoneme in Japanese. Similarly, two bilabial sounds /b/ and /v/ in English are represented only by /b/ in romaji. Giovanni sees this dog when he delivers newspapers early in the morning when it is still dark outside. Its tail looks like a broom, and it follows him for quite a distance. This dog’s name, ザウエル Zaueru, sounds exotic to Japanese. The impression perceived from this name is not associated with cuteness or smartness, probably due to the voiced obstruent /z/ at the beginning of this name. Voiced obstruents (/b/, /d/, /g/ and /z/) are perceived as marked and unpleasant by Japanese, as evidenced in their phonological rule (Lyman’s Law found in sequential voicing) that limits their occurrence. In addition, voiced obstruents tend to be used for slangs with a negative connotation, as in ブス (busu, ugly face) and ザマ (zama, miserable/helpless state). Voiced obstruents can be easily recognized in hiragana and katakana because a character with a voiced obstruent is marked by the diacritic ゛, placed at its right upper corner, as in ザ in this dog’s name ザウエル. The author’s use of a name that starts with a voiced obstruent (z) for this dog may be due to this dog’s strange behavior, the protagonist’s negative perception of it, and its strange broom-like tail, which can be impressionistically represented by the rustling sound that a broom could make. In fact, this novel heavily uses onomatopoeia, more precisely sound symbolism (see Section 4.6). Japanese has a large inventory of lexicalized sound symbolism, which is commonly thought of as onomatopoeia. Pulvers (2013) claims that Miyazawa is using onomatopoeias as a universal language in this novel: To Kenji, all sound is produced by nature. That is why his use of onomatopoeia is so amazing. This use of onomatopoeia is the most striking symbol of his universal approach to language. Of course he is using the Japanese language. But he is using it out of the context of the Japanese nationality. (Pulvers, 2013)

Miyazawa is known to extensively use onomatopoeia, and even coin new expressions sound-symbolically in his literary works (Liman, 1995; Nicolae, 2014). Consider the following excerpt from Miyazawa’s novel that includes the dog’s name: Source text written by Kenji Miyazawa: ザウエルという犬がいるよ。しっぽがまるで箒のようだ。ぼくが行くと鼻 を鳴らしてついてくるよ。ずうっと町の角までついてくる。もっとついて くることもあるよ。 Verbatim translation: They have a dog named ザウエル (Zaueru). Its tail is just like a broom. When I go there, it follows me whining. It follows me all the way to the edge of town. It sometimes follows me farther.

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The dog’s name is rendered as Sauer, Zoel, Pooch, or Sourer as in: Translation by John Bester: They’ve got a dog called Sauer. His tail’s just like a broom. When I go there, he comes snuffling after me. He comes all the way to the corner of the block, sometimes further. (Miyazawa, 1987: 16) Translation by Shelley Marshall: They have a dog named Sauer. His tail is like a broom. When I leave, he comes with me sniffing all the way to the edge of town. Sometimes, he goes even further. (Marshall, 2014: Loc. 127 ) Translation by Neville: They have a dog called Sauer, who’s got a tail like a broom. Whenever I stop by there, he follows me around, sniffing at me the whole time. Then he follows me all the way down the street, and sometimes even farther than that! (Neville, 2014: 53) Translation by Pulvers: They’ve got a dog named Sauer and he’s got a tail just like a broom. He yelps and sniffs and when I’m there he follows me all the way to the end of the block. Sometimes he even follows me further. (Miyazawa, 1996/2009: 17) Translation by Sigrist and Stroud (1) & (2): They have a dog called Pooch. His tail is just like a broom! When I go, he runs along beside me whining. He goes all the way to the corner in town with me. Sometimes even farther. (Sigrist & Stroud, 1996: 27, 2009: 31) Translation by Quirk: They have a dog named Sour. It’s got a tail like a broom. Whenever I go there it follows me, sniffing the whole time. It follows me all the way to the next street; sometimes even further. (Quirk, 2013: Loc. 235) Translation by Sarah Strong: They have a dog named Zoel. He’s got a tail just like a broom. When I go there, he always follows after me whining. He follows me right to the edge of town, sometimes even farther. (Miyazawa, 1991: 13)

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Some translations approximate the sound of the name, retaining the initial /z/ and the last liquid consonant /l/ or /r/: Strong spells this dog’s name as Zoel; Bester, Marshall, Pulvers and Neville spell it as Sauer, which is pronounced with the sound /z/ at the beginning if it is meant to be a German word that means sour. Quirk spells it as Sour. On the other hand, Sigrist and Stroud substitute the dog’s name with Pooch in both 1996 and 2009 editions. Pooch is a colloquial term for a common noun dog rather than a proper name but is used as a proper name in their translation. However, its sound-based impression is quite different from the original. To summarize, names are manipulated by translators and editors. How names are translated affect the rhetorical effect of the text and the accessibility of the text for the readers of translation; however, substituting names could erase the pragmatic meaning of the text. 3.4 Localization of Names

The advancement of digital technology has significantly facilitated internationalization and globalization. Texts can be electronically circulated, posted on websites and social media and digitally stored in cloud databases. Digital games enable multi-modal real-time experiences with audio-visual tools, crossing national borders. Localization of products and services is imperative for globalized and internationalized capitalism. This section examines how proper names are treated in localization processes. Localization is the multi-semiotic adaption of products and services to the target locale in terms of language use, sociocultural norms, sociohistorical sentiments, political regulations, audio/visual technical constraints, marketability, profitability and corporate management. Localization is a purpose-oriented profit-driven practice. Thus, proper names in business contexts may be considerably manipulated during the process of localization. When Pokémon games were localized, names of Pokémon characters needed to be translated. The newly created names had to conform to the images or connotations of Pokémon. In addition, the names had to be appealing to the new audience in order to make greater profits from selling games and merchandise. Some games and merchandise underwent implicit but creative cultural adaptation. For example, the Japanese Pokémon names エビワラー ebiwarā and サワムラー sawamurā were created based on the famous Japanese boxer Hiroyuki Ebihara and the famous Japanese kickboxer Tadashi Sawamura, respectively. Their English counterparts, Hitmonchan and Hitmonlee, were created based on two famous individuals that most English-speakers know, Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, respectively. Some Pokémon names maintain a hidden language after being localized to another culture. For example, a snake-like pokémon アーボ ābo, which sounds like Arboc, was originally created by reversing the

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English noun ‘cobra’. Its English counterpart is Arbok. Similarly, there is a Pokémon called Ekans, which is the reverse spelling of ‘snake’. Book titles and film titles are proper names as their major function is to refer to a specific book or film, just like personal names. However, they may also have other functions such as providing their storylines, plots, authorial themes and the intentions of the publishers or the producers. However, book and film titles are often rewritten when crossing cultural borders. For example, the literal meaning of the book title, 博 士の愛した数式 Hakase no aishita sūshiki, written by Yoko Ogawa and published in 2003 from Shinchosha, is literally translated as ‘The Professor’s Beloved Mathematical Equation’. However, the title used for its English translation was quite different: ‘The Housekeeper and the Professor’. The story is about a single mother who was dispatched by a housekeeping agency to work for an elderly mathematician who can remember new information only for 80 minutes as the result of a brain injury caused by a traffic accident years ago. He seems to only love mathematics but starts to show sincere warmth to her 10-year-old son, whom he named ‘Root’. The story is not about a romantic relationship between the housekeeper and the professor but is a heart-warming relationship between the elderly man with a memory problem and a boy without a father, contrary to what the English title, The Housekeeper and the Professor, suggests. However, the English title with romantic connotation is more attention-grabbing in Anglophone societies. Thus, the change of this book title seems to be a socioeconomically driven profitoriented activity. Film titles are also heavily localized. Interestingly, Chinese translations of English film titles often vary depending on the region where Chinese is spoken. For example, The Sound of Music (1965) is rendered as 音乐之声, which literally means ‘sound of music’, in mainland China. However, it is rendered based on the themes of the film, as 真善美, which back-translates to ‘Truth, kindness, beauty’, in Taiwan. The same title is rendered even more differently from the original in Hong Kong, where it was translated as 仙樂飄飄處處聞, ‘Heavenly music floated on the winds and could be heard everywhere’. The latter is a part of the poem, 長恨歌 ‘Song of Everlasting Regret’, written by a notable poet, Bai Juyi (白居易, 772–846), during the Tang Dynasty (618–907). The Chinese versions of English film titles tend to diverge more significantly from the English original in Hong Kong than in mainland China and Taiwan. Another example that illustrates the creative translation of film titles in Hong Kong is the pair of two separate films created in India: 3 Idiots and Dangal. 3 Idiots is a 2009 Bollywood film that shows the friendship of three students at an Indian engineering college and comically depicts the Indian education system. ‘Dangal’ is a 2016 Bollywood film loosely based on a true story. It is about a national Indian wrestling champion who is a father that unexpectedly watches his three daughters grow up

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to become national-level wrestlers. 3 Idiots was rendered as 作死不離3 兄弟 in Hong Kong, which back-translates as ‘Three buddies who are inseparable even by death’. Dangal means ‘wrestling competition’ in Hindi, but was rendered as 打死不離3父女 in Hong Kong, which backtranslates as ‘A father’s three daughters who are inseparable even by death’. Although the original titles of these two movies are dissimilar (‘3 Idiots’ and ‘Dangal’), their Chinese renderings in Hong Kong are extremely similar: 作死不離3兄弟 (Three buddies who are inseparable even by death) 打死不離3父女 (A father’s three daughters who are inseparable even by death)

We can infer that making the titles of these two movies similar was useful to promote both films as they appear like a series of movies from India. Like the commercial benefits of releasing a sequel or prequel, the success of one movie can easily spur interest in the other with a similar title. The modification of the film titles is fully justified by Skopos theory that promotes purpose-oriented translation where TTs take priority over STs (Vermeer, 1989/2012). Just like book/film titles, product/brand names significantly affect business success both in the short term and in the long term. Thus, how they are represented in different regions in the world also significantly affects the commercial success in each region. How brand names are localized in Chinese contexts is particularly revealing because of their logographic writing system. The methods of localizing names for commercial purposes can be largely categorized into four groups: Transliteration (phonological rendering) Translation (semantic rendering) Renaming (pragmatic rendering) Direct-literation

Any of them may be combined to yield hybrid rendering. This is schematically represented in Figure 3.2. The last method listed above, which I call ‘direct-literation’, is different from transliteration (phonological rendering). Direct-literation represents the approximation of the original pronunciation of the name using the original script that is not the official script in the target culture. By contrast, plain ‘transliteration’ represents the approximation of the original pronunciation using the script (officially) used in the target culture (see Section 3.1). It brings the name to the new locale and implants it in the new pragmatic context. Names that are direct-literated most faithfully preserve orthographic, semantic, phonological and pragmatic values of the original name. The effect of direct-literation is more visually

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Figure 3.2  Localization of names

significant when different orthographic systems and scripts are used in the SL and the TL cultures. However, the acceptability and the usefulness of direct-literation is contingent upon the target audience’s readiness for different orthographic systems. 3.4.1 Transliteration (phonological rendering)

Transliteration is basically phonological rendering, where the sound of the original name is represented by the orthographic script in the TL. For example, Google is rendered as 谷歌 (gǔgē) in China, where the phonological features of the original name are represented by the sound of two characters 谷歌 (gǔgē), while their meanings, ‘valley’ and ‘song’, are disregarded. Similarly, Yahoo is rendered as 雅虎 (yǎhǔ), which is the transliteration of the original name using the two Chinese characters. However, the back-translation of 雅虎 is ‘elegant tiger’. Although ‘elegant tiger’ is interesting and attention catching, it is difficult to see any semantic or pragmatic connection between ‘elegant tiger’ and ‘Yahoo’. However, we should not dismiss all semantic and pragmatic connections since new pragmatic meanings and sensitivities may arise from ‘elegant

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tiger’ as an image of Yahoo. Other examples of transliterated names include: Adidas: 阿迪达斯 Ādídásī Louis Vuitton: 路易威登 Lùyì Wēidēng Christian Dior: 克里斯汀迪奥 Kèlǐsītīng Dí'ào 3.4.2 Translation (semantic rendering)

Translation of names means semantic rendering of names. Especially in Chinese, brand names may consist of common words. When they do, they can be literally translated based on their semantic meanings. This is one of the most interesting aspects of translation in the Chinese context. For example, Microsoft is called Wēiruǎn and written as 微軟 in China, where the first character 微 means ‘micro’ and the second character 軟 means ‘soft’. Microsoft indeed does not sound like wēiruǎn at all, and no one can easily make a connection between Microsoft and wēiruǎn just by hearing the two words without knowing both Chinese and English. However, once the meaning of wēiruǎn (微軟) is recognized as the morpheme-by-morpheme translation of Microsoft, local Chinese speakers can perceive the name as a meaningful unit and easily retain it. Similarly, General Electric is called Tōngyòng diànqì and written as 通用电气 in China, where the combination of the first two characters (通用) means ‘general purpose’ and the combination of the last two characters (电气) means ‘electricity’. 3.4.3 Renaming (pragmatic rendering)

Product and brand names are also changed, disregarding their sounds and semantic meanings, based on the pragmatic facts that surround them such as their usefulness, perceptions and manufacturer intentions. For example, Clinique, a cosmetic industry brand, is called Qiànbì and written as 倩碧, which back-translates to ‘beautiful green’. It reflects the manufacturer’s wish that their customers feel good when buying their products, which are sold in green packages (Cheang, 2005: 23). Similarly, the snack made of fruit juice, Frutips, is called Néngdélì and written as 能得利 in China, which back-translates to ‘can gain reward’. Although it is hard to associate Frutips with ‘can gain reward’, consumers may be attracted to this snack consciously or unconsciously, thinking they can gain something if they eat this snack called ‘can gain reward’. The motivation for creating such a playful name is certainly to increase sales by giving positive images and feelings to their potential customers, which is fully justified by the Skopos theory (Vermeer, 1989/2012). Some Western brand names used in China have transformed from transliterated names to pragmatically adapted names as the brands are

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recognized by local Chinese speakers. One of them is the US fast-food giant, McDonald’s. McDonald’s has been in China since 1990, and its name was first localized as Màidāngláo (麦当劳) based on its original sound. The meanings of the three characters 麦当劳 are ‘wheat’, ‘serve’ and ‘work’. They have some limited pragmatic relevance to McDonald’s as they ‘work’ to ‘serve’ burgers that are partially made of ‘wheat’. However, Màidāngláo (麦当劳) further localized to Jīngǒngmén, which is written as 金拱門, in 2017. The three characters mean ‘gold’, ‘arch’ and ‘gate’, or roughly ‘golden arches’. According to Shane and Wang (2017), the name change occurred after the US parent firm of McDonald’s sold most of its business in China and Hong Kong to a Chinese consortium for more than $2 billion in 2017, and they were eager to dramatically increase the number of outlets in China, from 2500 to 4500. The name change may be the manifestation of nationalism in China but may also be purely for marketability. The change from 麦当劳 Màidāngláo to 金拱門 Jīngǒngmén may be the sign of transnationalism of a brand. Definitely, Jīngǒngmén (金拱門) is more accessible to Chinese speakers because the sound and semantic meanings jointly represent the restaurant chain. However, some Chinese consumers may prefer the foreign-sounding name (麦当劳 màidāngláo) because the company’s origins are indeed foreign. Jīngǒngmén (金拱門) is definitely ‘renaming’ or purely pragmatic rendering. Another brand name that changed its localized name in China is the German beer brand, Heineken. It was originally Hǎinígēn (海尼根) but is Xǐlì (喜力) now. The former name, Hǎinígēn (海尼根), is the transliteration of the original name Heineken. The meanings of the three characters are ‘ocean’, ‘Buddhist nun’ and ‘root’, which are difficult to make any semantic or pragmatic connections to the brand. However, the new name is written in two characters, 喜 (xǐ) and 力 (lì), which mean ‘delight’ and ‘power/strength’, respectively. The new name is purely pragmatic rendering of Hǎinígēn. These localized brand-name transformations somewhat facilitate readability and visual appeal: 金拱門 (jīngǒngmén) and 喜力 (xǐlì) are visually more appealing to Chinese people than 麦当劳 (màidāngláo) and 海尼根 (hǎinígēn) as they instantly convey positive images because of the semantics of the Chinese characters. However, the cultural identity of these original businesses is erased by pragmatic adaptation. McDonald’s and Heineken turn into a Chinese-looking and Chinese-sounding restaurant chain and beer brand. This transformation is justified on the basis of the economic success of the corporations. 3.4.4 Phonological/pragmatic hybrid rendering

Transliteration of a product name may represent not only the original sound but also its pragmatic information. Such phonological/pragmatic hybrid rendering is extremely effective to increase the sales of a product.

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One of the most well-discussed examples of this approach is Coca-cola. When Coca-cola launched in China in the 1920s, its name underwent direct-literation. That is, it was rendered as Coca-Cola. However, this method was not appealing to Chinese consumers because English was not very commonly known by local consumers in China at the time. So, it was assigned Chinese characters, 可口可楽, in 1928 (Wachtel & Lum, 1991: 288–289). Each character means: 可 kě: to permit, be able, may, can 口 kǒu: mouth, hole, pass, harbor 可 kě: to permit, be able, may, can (repeated) 楽 lè: joy, to rejoice, to laugh, to be happy

The newly created name, 可口可楽, visually conveys the positive image of the product, Permit mouth, permit joy or Make your mouth happy. Furthermore, the first two characters 可口 form a compound word that means delicious, which also conveys the positive image of the product. The name 可口可楽 (kěkǒukělè) allows Chinese speakers easily remember the name because of its newly given meaning and its phonological similarity to the international Coca-Cola brand. If a name is written with Chinese characters instead of the Roman alphabet, they can remember it more easily and retain it longer. This helps the company make the name Coca-Cola known globally. This is a translanguaging practice, where phonological properties in English and semantic meanings in Chinese are simultaneously deployed using orthographic characters as placeholders. For phonological/pragmatic hybrid rendering, the approximation of the original sound may involve some degree of phonological adjustment such as shortening or clipping. Johnson & Johnson is rendered as 强生 (Qiángshēng) ‘healthy/strong life’, which appears to be renamed based on the positive image of the product that they sell. However, it can also be seen as a shortened version of the transliteration of Johnson & Johnson because Qiángshēng sounds close to the single occurrence of Johnson. Shorter names are easier to remember for Chinese speakers. The following are additional examples of pragmatic/phonological hybrid rendering: Airbnb: 爱彼迎 Ài bǐ yíng “welcome each other with love” Bing: 必应 bìyìng “must respond” Best Buy: 百思买 bǎisīmǎi “Think 100 times about buying” Gucci: 古琦 gǔqí “old valuable stone” Mercedes Benz: 奔驰 bēnchí “racing speed” 3.4.5 Phonological/semantic hybrid translation

Some brand names are partially semantically translated and partially phonologically translated. For example, Starbucks is translated as Xīngbākè (星巴克). The first character 星 (xīn) has a semantic

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contribution as it means ‘star’ but has no phonological contribution. On the other hand, the combination of the second and the third characters, 巴 (bā) and 克 (kè) approximate the sound of the second syllable of Starbucks. However, these two characters do not have any semantic contribution. Most Chinese speakers have difficulty to identify the meaning of 巴 (bā) by itself. 克 (kè) is mainly used as a unit of weight (gram). 3.4.6 Semantic/pragmatic hybrid translation

Some names are translated partially based on their semantic meaning and partially based on their pragmatic implication. For example, Marriott Hotels & Resorts is translated as 万豪酒店 (Wànháo jiǔdiàn). The first two characters 万豪 (wànháo) means ‘10,000 magnificence’, which implies unlimited luxury that their hotels and resorts provide. The last two characters, 酒店 (jiǔdiàn), represent the semantic meaning ‘hotel’. Accordingly, this local name back-translates to ‘10,000 magnificence hotel’. 3.4.7 Phonological/semantic/pragmatic hybrid translation

Some localized names were created based on the phonological, semantic and pragmatic properties of the original names. For example, The Body Shop, which is a cosmetic, skincare and perfume company, is translated as Měitǐxiǎopù, written as 美體小鋪. 美 (měi) means ‘beautiful’, 體 (tǐ) means ‘body’, 小 (xiǎo) means ‘small’ and 鋪 (pù) means ‘shop’. 美體 (měitǐ) means ‘beautiful body’. Thus, ‘body’ in The Body Shop is semantically translated. 小鋪 (xiǎopù) means ‘small shop’, and thus ‘shop’ in The Body Shop is also semantically translated. In addition, the pronunciation of 小鋪 (xiǎopù) is very similar to the sound of ‘shop’. This shows that 小 (xiǎo) was added for its phonological contribution. We can also say that 美 (měi) was added to imply that the brand is for our body’s ‘beautification’ purposes. Thus, it also has a pragmatic contribution. It is also possible to say that 體 (tǐ) has a phonological contribution because it sounds like the second syllable of ‘body’. The entire sequence has four characters, just like Chinese idioms that commonly consist of four syllables/characters, making the name prosodically stable in Chinese. We can see that localization of names deploy many types of linguistic resources and mix different translation approaches to create a positive image of the brand and make the name easily remembered and pronounced. This is a very extensive and complex translanguaging practice. 3.4.8 Direct-literation

Cheang (2004: 24) argues that more and more foreign names are directly rendered in Hong Kong. She calls it ‘zero-degree translation’, though this term may be mistakenly understood as ‘non-translation’. The term

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‘non-translation’ has been used as the translation of the Chinese term 不翻 (bùfān) used by Xuan Zang in the 7th century. However, what Xuan Zang meant was transliteration, facilitated by the use of Chinese characters (Cheung, 2014). Thus, I will use the term ‘direct-literation’ to refer to the practice of using the name in the SL as it is, keeping its original orthographic representation along with its original sound and meaning. According to Cheang (2004: 24), the following brand names are used in China as they are, with the original Roman alphabet as opposed to Chinese characters: Armani Bally Benetton Guess Chevignon Diesel Nike Adidas New Balance Levi’s Gap Häagen-Dazs Dreyers Prada Fendi Vivienne Westwood Biotherm La Prairie Starbucks

The last item in the above list ‘Starbucks’ was discussed earlier in this section as an example of phonological/semantic hybrid rendering. However, ‘Starbucks’ can also stand-alone without Chinese characters. According to Cheang (2004: 24), direct use of the original script is increasingly more common especially in Hong Kong because more and more young people code-switch between English and Chinese. Through observing the degree of direct-literation, we can assess the extent of translanguaging practices in a given culture. Even in Japan, where three different types of scripts, hiragana, katakana and kanji, are simultaneously used, Roman letters are still mixed with the three Japanese scripts even within the same sentence, to represent things such as DVD and iPhone. For example, the following is a headline from Asahi Newspaper on 14 September 2019:2 新ｉＰｈｏｎｅどこで買う？　「最大半額」割安感に注意

The above headline literally means, ‘Where shall we buy a new iPhone? Be cautious to “Max. half price” that sounds very cheap’. As you can see,

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‘iPhone’ appears without being followed by its katakana version in a pair of parentheses (アイフォーン). It is not even italicized or quoted. The orthographic property of brand names seems to be able to permeate linguistic boundaries. Direct-literation allows the semantic meaning, phonological properties and pragmatic background of a name to be packaged and wrapped inside of the original script used in the source culture. Thus, direct-­ literation is inherently a subset of phonological, semantic, and pragmatic hybrid rendering. Thus, it is the most extensive form of translanguaging practice. In summary, this section demonstrated how translanguaging practices creatively deploy phonological, semantic, pragmatic, and/or orthographic features of a name when localized, often driven by socioeconomic objectives. 3.5 Conclusion

Whether names should be and can be just transliterated is a difficult question. Transliteration based on the phonological property of a name is not as simple as it appears to be. Transliteration may introduce additional connotative meanings, which could ruin authorial themes or make the context of a story incongruent. On the other hand, semantic translation of names may unnecessarily revive historical events that are not consciously known by the speakers of the SL anymore and it may change the cultural identity of the text. Even more problematic cases are adaptations of names, which changes the text’s cultural identity to the extent that the integrity of the text is ruined. Brand and product names are creatively localized, enabled by ­translanguaging practices that purposely deploy phonological, semantic, pragmatic and/or orthographic features of a name to achieve socioeconomic business success in a given local area. Notes (1) Private communication with Takehiko Oshima. (2) https://www.asahi.com/articles/ASM9F446HM9FULFA00K.html

4 Words

Words denote people, things and concepts. However, words’ meanings are far from complete if they are detached from the context of their use. Words are chosen by language users for communicative interaction, in a given situation, which is surrounded by increasingly wider sociocultural contexts. The Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin (1895–1975) states, each word tastes of the context: All words have the ‘taste’ of a profession, a genre, a tendency, a party, a particular work, a particular person, a generation, an age group, the day and hour. Each word taste of the context and contexts in which it has lived its socially charged life; all words and forms are populated by ­intentions. Contextual overtones (generic, tendentious, individualistic) are inevitable in the word. (Bakhtin, 1981: 293)

However, the taste of a word is usually the first thing that gets lost in translation. Culture-specific words almost always encounter lexical gaps when they need to be translated. Strictly speaking, they are untranslatable, and we just somehow manage to translate the text that includes them. Generalizing them or substituting them in translation practices eliminates or changes the taste of words. Can culture-specific words travel across cultural boundaries? If not, why? This section examines six kinds of words and terms – culture-specific words, society-specific terms, personal pronouns, terms for addressing, units of measurement and mimetic words – and see how they are rendered in translation and shows how a translanguaging approach is actually being used by some translators and how it enables intercultural communication through translated literature. 4.1 Culture-Specific Words

Culture-specific words evoke unique images of landscapes, objects, sounds, emotions and feelings deeply rooted in the given cultural context, but such images may be lost or altered in translation. This section examines English translations of two Chinese classical poems and a modern 98

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Hindi novel as well as the English subtitles of a Japanese anime with focus on culture-specific words. 4.1.1 Word pictures

The poem ‘Jiāng Xuě’ (江雪, River Snow) written by Liu Zongyuan (柳宗元, 773–819) is generally regarded as a prime example of ‘word pictures’ created in Chinese landscape poetry (Zhu, 1999: 168). The following is the poem ‘Jiāng Xuě’ written in the Chinese script and Pinyin along with character-by-character glosses: Source text written by Liu Zongyuan 江雪 千山鳥飛絕、 萬徑人蹤滅。 孤舟簑笠翁、 獨釣寒江雪。 (Gu & Schulte, 2014: 179) Pinyin Jiāng xuě qiān shānniǎo fēi jué, wàn jìng rén zōng miè. Gū zhōu suō lì wēng, dú diào hán jiāng xuě. Character-by-character glosses river | snow thousand | mountain | bird | fly | vanish ten-thousand | path | human | trace | extinct lone | boat | straw-leaved-cape | straw-leaved-hat | old-man alone | fishing | cold | river | snow

When reading the ST, most East Asians who are familiar with Chinese characters would picture deserted mountains, a river with white snow, and an old man on a small wooden boat. They can easily picture the color, shape and texture of objects in this poem, which jointly express the harsh weather and the solitude of the old man. One of the culturespecific words that are difficult to translate into English is suō (簑). It is a primitive sleeveless outer garment made of brownish straw and used to protect the body from rain, snow and cold weather in ancient China. Gary Snyder renders suō (簑) using just one word, ‘coat’ (“A single boat–coat–hat–an old man!”) in his English translation (Weinberger & Williams, 2004: 139). Contrasting with suō (簑), coats today usually have sleeves. They can be made in any color and with any type of fabric

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or material. Thus, ‘coat’ does not depict the texture, color or shape of suō (簑). Coats are currently worn in broader areas including Western nations. Thus, it eliminates the rusty image of the context of Ancient China. The vagueness of Snyder’s translation of suō (簑) relies on the reader’s initial biases to define when and where the poem takes place. Snyder’s translation does not help the reader realize that the setting is in ancient Asia, which could result in readers going as far off course as envisioning the old man in the Alps, wearing a large fur, leather, vinyl or wool coat. Snyder’s translation of suō with ‘coat’ does imitate the use of a one-syllable word, maintaining the simple and crisp rhythm, but the image of the poem was sacrificed, and the reader’s understanding of the time and place is risked. On the other hand, Witter Bynner renders suō as ‘a bamboo cloak’ (“A little boat, a bamboo cloak”) in his translation of this poem (Gu & Schulte, 2014: 180). Bynner’s translation enables readers to picture a sleeveless outer ­garment made of bamboo which may be brown or green in color. It also implies that the garment is primitive in nature and was created in Asia although the image of brownish dried straw is not apparent from the poem. 4.1.2 Sound image

Let us examine another classical Chinese poem, ‘Zhúlǐguǎn’ (竹里館, bamboo-in pavilion) written by Wang Wei (王維, 699–759): Source text written by Wang Wei: 竹里館 獨坐幽篁里， 彈琴復長嘯； 深林人不知， 明月來相照。 (Yu, 1980: 235) Pinyin Zhúlǐ guǎn dú zuò yōu huáng lǐ, tánqín fù chángxiào; shēnlín rén bùzhī, míngyuè lái xiāng zhào. Character-by-character glosses bamboo | in | pavilion alone | sit | remote | bamboo-grove | in pluck | qín | then | long | sing deep | forest | person | not | know bright | moon | come | mutually | shine

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In the above character-by-character glosses of this poem, 琴 is tentatively transliterated as qín using Pinyin. Qín is commonly understood as a large horizontally placed Chinese string instrument as depicted in many classical Chinese paintings. Translating qín in English is challenging because there is no English word that closely represents this instrument in terms of its shape, size, structure and sound. Four of the published English translations have four different solutions for rendering qín. Qín is rendered as ‘lute’ in Gary Synder’s translation (Weinberger & Williams, 2003: 67) and as ‘zither’ in Pauline Yu’s translation (Yu, 1980: 204). The qín (琴) in this poem is currently called gǔqín (古琴). It differs from a lute or zither in terms of size, shape, structure and the sound that they produce. Unlike a lute, a qín is not held in the performer’s arms and upper body. Instead, it is placed horizontally on the floor, on a table, or on the performer’s lap. However, unlike a zither, the body of a qín is not a wood box with a round hole in the middle but is a solid piece of long and narrow wood. Rendering qín as a ‘lute’ or a ‘zither’ provides the image of a Western string instrument and insinuates a different type of sound and cultural association. As a result, translating qín as ‘lute’ or ‘zither’ loses the image of a traditional Asian musical instrument, the sound that it would produce, and the culture associated with it. Qín is simply omitted in the translation by Ezra Pound (1885–1972): Pound renders the second line as “Press stops of long whistle” (Weinberger & Williams, 2003: 67). Pound’s translation reduces the culture-specific features in the ST to make his translation almost universal. Pound omits the title of this poem in his English translation. The reference of bamboo in the first line in Pound’s translation (“Sitting in mystic bamboo grove, back unseen”) is the only hint that this takes place in a non-European setting. The Chineseness of the string instrument qín is erased in Pound’s translation. On the other hand, David Hinton renders qín as as ‘ch’in’: “I play a ch’in, settle into breath chants” (Weinberger & Williams, 2003: 67). Hinton’s ‘ch’in’ is the slightly modified transliteration of qín. The letter ‘q’ used in Pinyin represents an alveo-palatal aspirated affricate sound, which can be more easily recognized by ‘ch’ for English speakers. With the apostrophe in ch’in, he distinguishes it from ‘chin’, the lower part of one’s face, and shows that it is a foreign instrument. It avoids Westernizing the image of the ancient Chinese instrument and brings the readers’ attention to the culture of the ST. Hinton’s approach that avoids acculturation is a translanguaging approach. This is important because many types of art are labeled by Western terminologies across cultures, which disregards the systems and principles of art in marginalized cultures. Even a musical instrument has its own history and sociocultural implications about the time it was created, the type of people who played it, the type of occasions it was played at and the type of music that it produced.

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4.1.3 Material culture

Premchand’s last novel, Godaan, published in Hindi in 1936 describes the lives of poor peasants in India during the British colonial rule. The very first paragraph has a culture specific term lathi (लाठ ी, laathee). The following is the first paragraph of this novel, where the protagonist, Hori, a poor peasant, tells his wife, Dhania, to send their son, Gobar, to hoe sugarcane, because he is leaving to pay a visit to their landlord. Source text written by Premchand ह ोर ीराम ने दोनों बै ल ों को सान ी-पान ी दे कर अपन ी स्त ्री धन िया से कहा गोबर को ऊख गोड़ने भे ज दे ना। मैं न जाने कब लौटू ।ँ जरा मे र ी लाठ ी दे दे। Romanization Horeeraam ne donon bailon ko saanee-paanee de kar apanee stree Dhaniya se kaha – Gobar ko ookh godane bhej dena. Main na jaane kab lautoon. Jara meree laathee de de. Verbatim translation A fter giving the two bullocks food and water, Hori tells his wife Dhanya, ‘Send Gobar to hoe sugarcane. I don’t know when I will return. Just give me my lathi’. The word lathi (laathee) is not commonly known by English speakers outside of the Indian context or without Indian heritage or affiliation. According to Merriam-Webster dictionary, lathi is ‘a heavy stick often of bamboo bound with iron used in India as a weapon especially by police (as in dispersing a crowd or quelling a riot)’. However, lathi is also commonly used as a stick to assist walking. In some of the photos of M.K. Gandhi, who advocated for non-violence, we can see him standing or walking with lathi. As Gandhi was the advocate for non-violence, it is obvious that he did not intend to use lathi as a weapon although he was holding it when walking. The following four published English translations of Godaan were identified: Translation (abridged) by Anupa Lal published in India in 2000; Translation by Jai Ratan (1912–2012) and P. Lal (1929–2010) published in India in 1957; Translation by Gordon C. Roadarmel (1932–1972) published in London and in the United States in 1968; Translation by Anurag Yadav published in India in 2009.

Anupa Lal renders lathi as ‘cudgel’: Translation by Anupa Lal: Hori Ram fed his two bullocks and then said to his wife Dhaniya, ‘Send Gobar to hoe the sugarcane. I am not sure when I will be back. Just hand me my cudgel’. (Premchand, 2000: 9)

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Cudgel is not quite equivalent to lathi in terms of its function and size: A cudgel is solely used as a weapon and not as a walking support, and it is much shorter and heavier than lathi. Jai Ratan and P. Lal render lathi as ‘staff’: Translation by Jay Ratan and P. Lal: A fter serving the two bullocks with feed and water Hori Ram said to his wife, Dhania, “Send Gobar to hoe the sugar cane. I am going out and may return late. Hand me the staff.” (Premchand, 1957/2008: 1)

Staff may be closer to lathi in terms of shape, size and use than cudgel is, but a staff has a very different character than lathi: A staff symbolizes a specific rank/position with a specific design like Bishop’s staff and its image is far from a simple bamboo-made stick that peasants in India carry with them daily as they walk. On the other hand, Gordon C. Roadarmel renders lathi as ‘stick’: Translation by Gordon C. Roadarmel: Hori Ram finished feeding his two bullocks and then turned to his wife Dhaniya. “Send Gobar to hoe the sugar cane. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Just get me my stick.” (Premchand, 1968/2002: 15)

Stick is a hypernym of lathi. The use of a hypernym expands the semantic coverage of the word, and thus, it is useful for escaping from any semantic conflict such as those that cudgel and staff encounter as a translation of lathi. Generalizing a term is always safe and risk free. However, it loses the word’s specific pragmatic meanings constructed in the sociocultural context where it was created. Anurag Yadav uses the SL word lathi in his English translation: Translation by Anurag Yadav: As he finished tending the bulls-giving them their feed, Horiram turned to his wife Dhania, “Send Gobar to cut the sugarcane as I don’t know when I’ll be back... Pass me my lathi.” (Premchand, 2009: 5)

The presence of an SL word, lathi, in the very first paragraph of Yadav’s translation disrupts the flow of English very early and makes the readers of the TT wonder what it means and places them right in the culture of the ST as if a foreign language learner is suddenly placed in the culture of the target language and obliged to guess the meaning of a word that they encounter in the context. That is, the presence of the SL word lathi

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in the midst of an English text ‘moves the reader’ toward the culture of the ST, if we use Schleiermacher’s well-known phrase (Schleiermacher, 1813/2012: 49). The question is how English-speaking readers can understand the meaning of lathi. In Yadav’s translation, lathi appears 17 times: (1) As he finished tending the bulls-giving them their feed, Horiram turned to his wife Dhania, ‘Send Gobar to cut the sugarcane as I don’t know when I’ll be back... Pass me my lathi’. (Premchand, 2009: 5) (2) ‘Don’t butt your nose into things you don’t understand. Give me my lathi and just do what you are good at. It is only because I meet and humour him regularly that we still survive …’. (Premchand, 2009: 5) (3) Defeated and angry, she collected the shoes, turban, lathi and the little pouch of tobacco and thrust them in front of Hori. (Premchand, 2009: 6) (4) The momentary joviality in his conversation was scalded by the brutality of stark reality. He gripped the lathi in his hands, mumbling that such a situation will not arise, as he would wind up and depart his world much before he was sixty. (Premchand, 2009: 6) (5) She stood at the door, staring vacantly at him as he propped the lathi on his shoulders and left. (Premchand, 2009: 6) (6) Hori picked up his lathi and started trudging home. (Premchand, 2009: 16) (7) Without a word Gobar got up, propped his lathi on his shoulders and set off. (Premchand, 2009: 28) (8) Puniya told him he had gone with the rope, a pitcher and his lathi all set for a journey. (Premchand, 2009: 90) (9) Jhuniya’s brothers scoured the village flashing their lathis, looking everywhere for Gobar to teach him a lesson for violating their honour. (Premchand, 2009: 105) (10) He propped himself on a lathi which he used as a crutch, thanks to a debilitating arthritis. (Premchand, 2009: 167) (11) ‘I am in half a mind to pick up a lathi, go across to Datadin, Jhinguri Singh and Pateshwari and beat the hell out of them’. (Premchand, 2009: 194) (12) Hori picked up his lathi from a corner and ran after Gobar. (Premchand, 2009: 198) (13) At another end of the shade sat Matadin, rubbing oil on his lathi. (Premchand, 2009: 232) (14) Datadin stomped his lathi on the ground. (Premchand, 2009: 234) (15) One tore off the Janeyu around his neck before Datadin or Jhinguri Singh could reach for their lathis. (Premchand, 2009: 234) (16) He picked up his lathi and stormed into the orchard and threw a challenge loud enough for everyone to hear, including the target of his ire. (Premchand, 2009: 252)

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(17) Gobar was a dumb rustic; he knew how to wield the lathi but didn’t know how best to prevent others from hitting him back. (Premchand, 2009: 269) As an English speaker reads Yadav’s translation, the image of lathi gradually emerges as a physical object that can be used as a walking stick but can also be propped on one’s shoulders casually. Furthermore, TT readers will naturally know that lathi can be used as a weapon and that one rubs oil on it probably for maintenance. To clarify this context-based emergence of a word meaning that demystifies the nature of lathi, see Figure  4.1, which shows how a lathi is used in each of the above 17 excerpts (left side) and what each of them reveals for an English-speaking reader (right side):

Figure 4.1  Context-based knowledge construction (lathi)

Figure 4.1 can be applied to the process of learning languages, where learners negotiate word meanings as they hear it or use it for communication in a context regardless of whether it is one’s L1 or L2. In addition, this shows that translanguaging in translation does not always cause confusion. With open-mindedness and curiosity, we can understand SL words that are sprinkled in translated texts.

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E. Sato and Sharma (2017) identified 96 italicized SL words, most of which were recurring many times throughout the text, and there were 576 instances of them in total. Furthermore, there are over 30 non-italicized SL terms, most of which are repeated. Some of the examples of SL words in Yadav’s English translation are found in Appendix 2. The SL words in his English translation represent elements of material culture such as foods, garments, tools and household items, and features of the natural world such as plants and birds, as well as culture-specific arts, games/ sports, customs and religious traditions. Although Yadav does not provide any glossary or footnotes, the approximate meaning of SL words such as a type of food or a ritual song can be deduced from the context. The following are some excerpts from Yadav’s translation, each of which has an SL word: bhajans, kabaddi and aarti (see Appendix 2 for their meanings): bhajans: Gobar snapped back, ‘He does all this prayer and devotional stuff at the cost of the farmers and the workers like us. He conducts all this charity and austerity so that he can digest his ill-gotten wealth. That is why he is signing these bhajans. We would love to see him carry on with his spiritual songs, if he were a starving destitute …’ (Premchand, 2009: 20) kabaddi ‘An old man asked him, “What’s the job, sir? What do we have to do?” When Mizra told him, it took everyone by surprise. They were expected to play kabaddi. It was crazy! They had to play a game loved by young lads in villages and be paid for just that? Was he some kind of a madcap? …’ (Premchand, 2009: 123) aarti Hori said, “It seems the holy ceremony is complete. They are offering the final oblations.” Sobha thought so as well and asked if he would also like to go pay his obeisances and take the aarti. (Premchand, 2009: 170)

The SL words you can see in the above excerpts as well as the rest of the SL words in Yadav’s English translation are naturally scaffolded in their respective sentences or paragraphs. Their syntactic categories and functions are identifiable from their position in the sentence, and their semantic meanings are mostly identifiable from verb–object relations, noun-modifier relations and coordinated structures, and their pragmatic meanings can be deduced based on the surrounding context within the text. For example, it is obvious that the word ‘bhajans’ is a noun in the plural form because it follows a determiner ‘these’. It is also clear that ‘bhajans’ are songs because ‘he is singing’ them. It is also obvious that singing them is for religious purposes because they are associated with ‘this prayer and devotional stuff’. Similarly, we will know that kabaddi is a game played by boys as they read ‘a game loved by young lads in

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villages’. From ‘the holy ceremony’, ‘oblations’ and ‘obeisances’, we can deduce that aarti in the last excerpt is a type of religious ritual. By inserting SL words, TT readers can read the story in the context of the ST without distorting the culture of the ST. 4.1.4 Audio-visual subtitling

How to represent culture-specific words is also a challenge when subtitling audio-visual materials such as films and anime. Japanese anime has been gaining global popularity since Tetsuwan Atomu (鉄腕アトム) was exported to the United States as ‘Astro Boy’ in 1963, making it the first anime series viewed overseas (Hanada, 2009). Pokémon was one of the first anime style cartoon series to be played on television in the United States (Schendl, 2016) and was probably the most influential Japanese anime imported to the United States in the early 2000s. Anime is viewed by many children across the globe, and thus their localization process involves strict censorship to remove age-inappropriate scenes. Furthermore, culture-specific objects are also often removed during localization processes because they risk being misunderstood without preexisting knowledge of Japanese culture. For example, the images of some culture-specific Japanese objects in anime were literally repainted and replaced with the images of American objects frame by frame. However, others were left as they were while only localizing their references in subtitles, producing a serious incongruous effect. One of the most notorious cases of incongruous localization is onigiri, a rice ball typically consumed as a picnic food or snack in Japan, in Pokémon anime. While onigiri is held by the characters, it is referred to as common American foods such as sandwiches and donuts, or onigiri is repainted frame by frame and replaced by foods such as ‘donuts’ (Parini, 2012; Schendl, 2016). Because many viewers of anime are children, foreign objects are considered more difficult to be accepted in the target culture. The translators’ intentions were to make a Japanese anime more accessible to American viewers. Furthermore, localization of audio-visuals is more complex than translation of plain texts. It involves many more factors such as foreground and background images, voices, motions, mouth movement, music, camera angles and focus, the space and timing of subtitles, censorship, and social norms and sensitivities. Unlike translation of printed texts, audio-visual translations typically do not have the space for footnotes, explicitation or glossaries. Nonetheless, is comprehensibility the only issue here? Translanguaging a rice ball as ‘onigiri’, or introducing it as ‘rice ball’, is adequately comprehensible because it is obvious even for children that it is food since they see the anime characters eating it. It is the best and ideal context for children to learn a new word and new concept. If they become curious and

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want to learn about the item further, they can just ask their family, friends or teachers, which also create an ideal situation for cultural education. However, in reality, the localization of anime may be a suppressor of the source culture, or non-Western cultures. Parini (2012) reports that in the Italian version of F, a Japanese manga series by Noboru Rokuda about a country boy who fulfills his dream of racing in a Formula One racecar, every scene with Japanese scripts such as newspapers shows blank spaces, and it is almost impossible for the viewers in the TT culture to realize that the characters are Japanese. Is this distortion of culture solely conducted by the dominant culture that imports the Japanese anime? Is Japanese culture also responsible for it? It is well-known that Japanese characters in anime and manga do not look like Japanese people in terms of race. In fact, heroes and protagonists are often portrayed as looking even less Japanese compared to other characters. They almost always have big eyes, long legs, upturned noses with high bridges, varied hair colors and appear rather Caucasian. This makes manga and anime distinct from real-life motion films. In other words, animation and manga creators are partially responsible for erasing the real-life culture of the source language. Like the Japanese author Kenji Miyazawa who attempted to pursue universalism by disregarding the boundaries on the earth according to Pulvers (2013) (see Section 3.1.1 and Section 3.3.4), they may be aiming to create a culture-neutral fantasy world. Iwabuchi (2004: 64) explains how American media companies are Japanized and then Japanese media products are Americanized and claims that Japanese media products cannot compete globally without Western partners. Thus, Japanese media companies are Americanizing characters in anime during production, and American media companies are removing remaining cultural flavors, which Iwabuchi calls ‘cultural odor’ (Iwabuchi, 2004: 67). However, poor localization that carelessly represents an obvious self-contradiction may insult non-Western cultures. It results from socioeconomically driven translation and localization practices that undermine the value of intercultural communication. In sum, use of culture-specific SL words in translation does not necessarily disrupt the comprehension of the text because readers have the ability to narrow down the word meanings. By mixing SL words, TT readers can experience the culture and the society of the ST. This will promote a better understanding of different cultures and can relax the monolinguistic ideology prevalent in Anglophone societies. 4.2 Society-Specific Terms

Just like culture-specific words, society-specific words in Asian contexts may not have suitable English equivalents. They represent highly

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contextualized social classes, ranks, titles, organizations, regulations, practices and even units of measurements. To communicate the uncompromised and undistorted meaning of the ST with the readers of the TT, direct use of SL words is often the must. This section continues to examine Premchand’s Hindi novel Godaan discussed in the Section 4.1 regarding the culture specific word lathi expanding the preliminary analyses provided by E. Sato and Sharma (2017). Premchand critically describes village and city life in India in the early 20th century. The protagonist, Hori, constantly struggles to feed his family no matter how hard he works, no matter how much he tries to save and no matter how deceptive he tries to be, because the sociohistorical and socioeconomic codes are set up in such a way that the only thing a poor peasant like him can accumulate is debt. The novel captures the serious problems of the village life, gender inequality, marriage expenses, caste system, justice system corruption, colonial taxation and rapid Western industrialization in cities in India during the decolonization period. Each of the three English translations listed below includes over 100 SL terms, most of which repeatedly appear throughout the text: Translation by Jay Ratan and P. Lal Translation by Gordon C. Roadarmel Translation by Anurag Yadav

This section considers a professional title, some terms for the caste system and a slogan used during the time when the novel was written. 4.2.1 Professional title

Let us consider the word ‘zamindar’. This word repeatedly appears in each of the three translations: 48 times in Ratan and Lal’s translation, 55 times in Roadarmel’s translation and 29 times in Yadav’s translation. In Ratan and Lal’s translation, the SL word zamindar first appears in the very first page without being italicized. In their translation, the protagonist Hori, a poor peasant, is about to pay a visit to his zamindar to please and flatter him. He addresses this zamindar as ‘Master’. Hori’s wife, Dhania, questions why her husband has to keep making an extra effort to please him. The following excerpt is the paragraph that includes the first instance of the SL word zamindar in the first page of Ratan and Lal’s English translation: Translation by Jay Ratan and P. Lal: But Dhania was not so well up in worldly matters. She thought that at the most what the Zamindar could claim was the rent in exchange for tilling his land. Then why play the sycophant? Why should one touch the soles of a Zamindar’s feet? To be sure, during the twenty years of her married life she had fully realized that even if she lived a

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niggardly life stinted on foot and clothes, scraped together every elusive anna, it was difficult to liquidate the rent of the Zamindar. (Premchand, 1957/2008: 1)

In the above excerpt, the meaning of zamindar can be contextually deduced as someone who claims rent in exchange for letting others till his land. In Roadarmel’s translation, the SL word zamindar first appears in the paragraph that also includes the English word ‘landlord’: Translation by Gordon C. Roadarmel: Dhaniya was less sophisticated in these matters. They ploughed the land of the zamindar, so all he should care about was the rent. True, these twenty years of married life had taught her that however much she cut corners, skimped on food and clothes, and clung to every cowrie, it was still hard to pay the rent. But why should they have to flatter the landlord or lick his feet? She argued the question daily with her husband, refusing to admit defeat. (Premchand, 1968/2002: 15)

Roadarmel includes the glossary for SL words. The first and the only footnote in his translation is on zamindar, which states, ‘Hindi terms are only given in italics the first time they occur and are all explained in the Glossary at the end of this book’. According to Roadarmel’s glossary, zamindar is ‘a large landowner given an estate by the British government in exchange for fixed annual revenues’ (Premchand, 1968/2002: 442). In Anurag Yadav’s English translation, the word ‘landlord’ is used instead of zamindar in the corresponding part in his translation. However, zamindar first appears in Chapter 3 and repeatedly occurs in the rest of his translation. In this section, Dhania argues against her husband, Hori, because he does not want to share their hay with their neighbor while he gives their hay to zamindar. The following are a part of Hori and Dhania’s conversation, where the SL word zamindaar first appears in Yadav’s translation. Translation by Anurag Yadav: ‘Generosity has its limits. It does not imply you gift away your dwelling’. ‘If the zamindaar’s man were to knock, you will gladly load the hay on your head and carry it there. And while at it, you would have also cut a few mounds of firewood for him’. ‘The zamindaar is a different issue’. ‘Yes, because he gets things done forcefully with his clout’. ‘We till fields that belong to him. Don’t we?’ ‘If we till his fields, we pay him the rent for it’. (Premchand, 2009: 22)

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The SL word zamindaar is italicized in Yadav’s translation. Its meaning is retrievable from the context, as the above dialog shows that zamindaars own fields and peasants rent and till their fields. Zamindaar can be rendered as landlords, but by using the SL word ‘zamindar’, the exploitation of peasants like the protagonist of the novel, which was systematically implemented in Indian societies during British colonization, can be understood and picturized by English-speaking readers. 4.2.2 Social class

The novel Godaan convincingly criticizes the social systems that craftly combine the caste system, religious customs and the British rule, which naturally make farmers and laborers in colonial India to remain exploited. Following excerpt from Roadarmel’s English translation includes three SL terms for social class in Hindu India, chamar, brahman and thakur: Translation by Gordon C. Roadarmel: Matadin took on a chamar girl and no one did anything about that. His father Datadin ground his teeth for a while but he finally calmed down. Of course Matadin did the necessary things to preserve his religion. He still wouldn’t take a drink of water until he’d had a bath and said his prayers. He even cooked his meals separately at first, though he no longer did that now, and father and son sat down and ate together again,... And then there was Jhinguri Singh. He took on a brahman girl, and who did anything about that? He was still as respected as ever – in fact more so. He was always hunting around for a job before. Now, with her money, he had become a moneylender. Of course he’d always had prestige as a thakur, but now he had the added prestige of being a moneylender as well.... (Premchand, 1968/2002: 64-65)

Roadarmel defines the three SL words in Glossary as follows: brahman – the highest of the four main subdivisions of Hindu society; originally composed of priests and teachers chamar – until recently an untouchable caste, traditionally leather workers thakur – a man of the Kshatriya class, second to the Brahmans in the traditional Hindu social hierarchy; traditionally devoted especially to military and ruling activities

The use of SL words helps the readers of the TT to sense the caste system in India from the sound of the words. If TL words such as ‘leather-­ workers’ and ‘priests’ are used instead, TT readers would not be able to perceive them as historically developed social classes justified by religion

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in India. The novel describes how marrying across classes affected one’s lives in India when it was written by Premchand, and TT readers can put themselves in the context to feel the emotional implication of the caste system a hundred years ago. 4.2.3 Slogan

Another interesting SL word used in two of the three English translations of Godan is Swadesh. It was derived from Sanskrit and literally means ‘own country’. The word was used as a slogan for India’s independence, more specifically, India’s economic independence, more practically, through boycotting British products and growing domestic products. This word is used once in Ratan and Lal’s translation and Yadav’s translation, in the quoted speech of the Rai Saheb (a zamindar), when he was criticizing a newspaper editor, Onkarnath as he tried to write how he was squeezing fine from poor peasants on his daily newspaper: Translation by Jay Ratan and P. Lal: ‘... If you can shout Swadesh and quietly accept advertisements of foreign goods and medicines, why should I be so sanctimonious about accepting fines from my tenants?’ (Premchand, 1957/2008: 156) Translation by Gordon C. Roadarmel: ‘...And if you’re not ashamed to print advertisements of foreign medicines and things while you keep shouting “Buy local products”, then why should I be ashamed about imposing punishments, penalties and fines on my tenants? Don’t try to tell me that you’re the only one taking up the sword on behalf of the peasants’. (Premchand, 1968/2002: 214) Translation by Anurag Yadav: ‘... If you have no qualms in printing advertisements of foreign medicines and goods in your paper, despite crying yourself hoarse in the name of swadeshi, why should I flinch in twisting it a bit to garner fines, taxes, damages and rents from my constituents? …’ (Premchand, 2009: 157)

Swadesh serves as the name of a propaganda that existed in India at a specific time for a specific purpose in a specific sociopolitical and sociohistorical environment for decolonizing India. If it is rendered as ‘buy local products’ as in Roadarmel’s translation, it becomes a general propaganda for the economy of a given country. On the other hand, the other two translations deploy the SL word Swadesh and succeed to present the

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essence of the movement contextualized in India during the British colonization. This is particularly important because the theme of the novel is about the society of India under British rule. To summarize, use of SL words in translation for representing the concepts that are specific to a given society at a given time viewed from a given perspective in the ST is essential for representing the social reality featured by the original text, and merely translating them using the words in the culture of the TT could erase the gravity of the essential concepts in the ST. 4.3 Unit of Measurement

Discussions about almost anything from our daily lives describe some type of quantity, amount, price, time, distance, size, temperature or score. Thus, units of measurement such as piece, pound, gram, dollar, hour, mile, meter and point are essential for the advancement of civilization, technology and industry. Simple essential daily activities such as purchasing ingredients and cooking meals cannot be performed without using units of measurement. However, units of measurement are ­society-specific. Temperature is commonly measured in either units of degrees Celsius or degrees Fahrenheit. When translating texts, should we change the unit of measurement to the one used in the culture of the TT and mathematically convert the amount? Depending on the purpose, simple mathematical conversion may not be enough. What if a recipe for a cupcake asks for baking at 350°F in the United States? Should the Japanese translation of this recipe ask for 176.7°C? Or, should it simplify by rounding? If so, should it be rounded to the ones (177°C) or tens digit (180°C)? Is the translator expected to conduct an experiment to check if the cupcake comes out as intended when baked at 177°C vs. 180°C? In literary translation, the numbers may not have to be so precise as we are not baking cupcakes or conducting chemistry experiments. However, units of measurement are essential to describe and understand the extent of any state and event, which can then justify the emotions, hardships and feelings depicted in literary texts. The problem is that units of measurement differ not only depending on the place but also depending on the time. Different currency units are used in different countries and regions. However, different currency units are used at different time periods in history even in the same country or region. Furthermore, even if the same currency unit is used in the same country for a long period of time, its consumer value changes over time due to inflation and deflation. One dollar now and one dollar 100 years ago have very different values. Thus, just like proper names, units of measurement serve as a rigid designator of the pragmatic context of a text, and translating a text with units of measurement may not be a simple task.

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If units of measurement in the ST need to be replaced by those in the culture of the TT, the context of the text will be obscured. Prices, amounts, quantities and values will all have to be adjusted and relativized based on other values such as commodity prices and average salaries in the culture of the TT. At the same time, the translator would need to consider the difference in time periods in order to fully convey the socioeconomic situation described in the ST. In his poem ‘Bansan’ (晩餐, Dinner) written in April 1914, Kōtarō Takamura (高村光太郎, 1883–1956) describes the dinner that he had one evening with his wife, Chieko. Foods they bought are listed with their quantity/amount and price first, and how they are prepared and consumed are vividly described in this poem. Although the title of the poem ‘Bansan’ means a luxurious dinner, the ending line of this poem is ‘mazushii warera no bansan ha kore da’, which means ‘This is the dinner for poor people like us’. This poem was a part of Chieko-shō (智恵子抄), which is a collection of poems written by Takamura about his wife, Chieko. It was published in 1941. (See Section 3.2.1 and Section 3.3.3 for other poems in Chieko-shō written by Takamura.) Takamura was one of the pioneers of modern Japanese poetry written in free verse in the vernacular and is one of the most widely read poets in Japan. He was born as the eldest son of a Japanese sculptor. He graduated from the Tokyo School of Fine Arts in 1902, where he studied sculpture and oil painting, and then studied in New York, London, and in Paris from 1906 to Japan in 1909. Chieko Naganuma (1886–1938) was the eldest daughter of a rice wine brewer in Fukushima. She graduated from the Japan Women’s University in 1907. She was a painter and an activist for women’s liberation at that time. She got married to Takamura in 1914. Takamura refused to take a job with a guaranteed income and was reluctant to make sculptures for sale to adhere to his artistic integrity, and he was, from time to time, forced to borrow substantial sums of money from his father (H. Sato, 1992: xxi). Takamura’s poems in Chieko-sho reflect his own life experiences with Chieko from their courtship, marriage and separation by Chieko’s death including Chikeko’s mental breakdown during the last several years of her life. The following excerpt is the beginning part of the first stanzas of Takamura’s poem ‘Bansan’ written in 1914 during the initial months of their marriage: Source text written by Kōtarō Takamura: 暴風をくらつた土砂ぶりの中を ぬれ鼠になつて 買つた米が一升 二十四銭五厘だ (Takamura, 2007: 110)

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Romanization Shike-o kuratta doshaburi-no naka-o Nure-nezumi-ni natte Katta kome-ga is-shō Nijū-yon-sen go-rin da Verbatim translation In gusty downpour Becoming a soaked rat One shō of rice (I) bought (was) for 24 sen and 5 rin

Shō (升) is an archaic unit of volume typically used for rice and sake in Japan. The exact amount of shō was different depending on the region in Japan but was unified as 1.8 liter in 1891. 1.8 liter is about 3.8 pints or 1.9 quarts in the United States. In this context, shō is used for measuring the amount of rice. Sen (銭) and rin (厘) are archaic units of currency. They were introduced in Japan in the Meiji Period (1869–1912) as 1/100 Japanese yen and 1/1000 Japanese yen, respectively. This excerpt shows that the price of rice bought was 24 sen 5 rin (0.245 Japanese yen) for one shō (3.8 pints). The appearance of sen and rin in this poem shows that the time frame of this poem is after the Meiji Restoration. 5 sen, 10 sen, 20 sen and 50 sen silver coins and 1 rin, ½ sen, 1 sen and 2 sen copper coins were introduced in the early 1870s. However, they underwent some modifications and coins in denominations of less than 1 yen finally became invalid in 1953. The price of one shō of rice (0.245 Japanese yen) shows that the time frame of this poem is the early 1900s. Evidently, these monetary units and the price of rice actually show the time and space frame of the poem clearly. Let us examine the following four translations of this poem: Translation by Shoichi Furuta published in 1978 (Takamura, 1978) Translation by Hiroaki Sato published in 1980 (Takamura, 1980) Translation by John Peters published in 2007 (Takamura, 2007) Translation by Paul Archer published online in 2012 (Takamura, 2012)

John Peters’ translation is most faithful to the original but includes some footnotes: Translation by John Peter: Out in a downpour like a soaked rat I buy one shô* of rice, twenty-four sen five rin.**

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* One shô is about 2 quarts. ** It is impossible to give an exact translation of how much money 24 sen 5 rin would be equivalent to today. Literally, a sen is 1/100 of a yen; a rin is 1/10 of a sen. This is a very small amount of money and emphasizes their poverty. (Takamura, 2007: 111)

In Peters’ translation, three SL units of measurement, shō for volume as well as sen and rin for currency are directly used with footnotes. He states that one shō, which he represents with shô, is about 2 quarts and indicates that the value of 0.245 Japanese yen at that time cannot be represented precisely but is a small amount of money, which shows that the couple was poor. On the other hand, Furuta’s translation takes adaptation approach: Translation by Shoichi Furuta: drenched in a heavy downpour driven by storm I bought a pound of rice that cost me 24-1/2 cents (Takamura, 1978: 19)

Furuta uses ‘pound’, which is a unit of weight rather than a unit of volume. Furuta might have done so because it is the custom in the United States to use the unit of weight rather than the unit of volume when selling rice. One shō of rice weighs about 1.5 kg before being cooked. 1.5 kg is about 3.3 pounds rather than 1 pound. Thus, there is a considerable semantic discrepancy in terms of the amount of rice bought, although the simple number ‘one’ is maintained in Furuta’s translation. Furthermore, 24 sen 5 rin (0.245 yen) changed to 24-½ cents. This changes the cultural designation of the text from Japan to the United States. Furthermore, the archaic feeling produced by the sen and rin in the ST is also lost in Furuta’s translation. The readers of his translation may easily associate ‘pound’ and ‘cent’ to the current time in the United States. Thus, it loses the opportunity to convey the time and space frame of this poem, the expected outcome of total adaptation. Hiroaki Sato and Paul Archer make the amount of rice accessible to English speakers but keep the archaic Japanese units of currency: Translation by Hiroaki Sato: Go out in gust-thrashed downpour like a drowned rat buy three pints of rice for 24 sen and 5 rin (Takamura, 1980: 106)

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Translation by Paul Archer: In the storm lashed rain Like a drowned rat Bought some rice For 24 sen and 5 rin (Takamura, 2012)

Both translations are quite accessible for the readers of the TT because culture-specific foods are generalized, but the archaic Japanese monetary units are retained with the precise numbers. This maintains the time and the space frame of the text and avoids providing precise value of rice in relation to the commodity price and the couple’s financial state when the poem was written. To summarize, units of measurement naturally designate the spatial and temporal contexts of a text. Direct use of SL units of measurement is practiced in literary translation. Consideration of amount and quantity is one thing, but translators must consider the Skopos of the text and the pragmatic meaning of the text carefully. 4.4 Personal Pronouns

Personal pronouns that are syntactically required at certain positions in a sentence in languages such as English and Chinese may be optional in languages such as Japanese and Korean. On the other hand, in languages such as Japanese and Korean, personal pronouns convey not only grammatical person, gender, number and case but also the person’s social class, age and attitude toward his conversational partners. That is, the social/ personal as well as dynamic/permanent identity of a person (Tracy, 2002; Young, 2017) can be expressed by the choice of pronouns that a given language user makes. Accordingly, when the language of the ST and the language of the TT have different pronoun systems, translators must consider what pragmatic information is gained or lost through translation. This section examines some of the problems associated with personal pronouns in translation. 4.4.1 First-person pronouns and societally constructed pragmatic information

The first-person pronoun is represented only by ‘I’ in English. However, it has multiple options in Japanese, as in: watashi (私): Most commonly used by female regardless of the formality of the communicative context; may be frequently used by male in formal contexts watakushi (私): A formal version of watashi

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atashi (あたし): A colloquial version of watashi, but almost always used by girls atai (あたい): A vulgar version of watashi used by female boku (僕): Commonly used by male ore (俺): Commonly used by male in informal contexts ora (おら): Used by both male and female, but only in rural areas washi (わし): Commonly used by elderly male jibun (自分): A reflexive pronoun; may be used as the first-person pronoun by young male

As you can see, the first-person pronouns in Japanese implicitly express the speaker’s social identity and pragmatic information such as the psychological distance and hierarchical order between people. However, apparent misuse of the pronouns can construct a new identity in fictional characters. Nishida (2011) discusses interesting fictional characters, boku-girl (boku-shoujo), a girl character who addresses herself with boku, a first-person masculine pronoun, and ore-girl (orekko), a girl character who addresses herself with ore, a blunt version of boku, as a part of his study of ‘role languages’ (yakuwari-go) pioneered by Kinsui (2003). Role languages are language varieties assigned to certain types of fictional characters in anime, comic books, games and light novels. Each of them has a distinct set of linguistic features such as sentence final particles, choice of personal pronouns, choice of vocabulary words, pronunciation and intonation. According to Nishida (2011), boku-girls do not use a stereotypical female speech style. Instead, their speech is quite gender-neutral except for the use of boku, and they do not give any violent impressions. On the other hand, ore-girls speak vulgarly and are often self-centered and aggressive (Nishida, 2011). This shows that a unique speech style and its associated group identity can be constructed by manipulating the gender-based linguistic boundaries. Producers of anime, games and even foreign films with Japanese dubbings are extremely sensitive to subtle differences in characters’ behaviors, appearances (e.g. hairstyle, clothing and body size), personalities and biographic background. They instruct their voice talents to deploy specific linguistic elements to form a unique speech style suitable for each character. If a specific style is repeatedly used for a certain type of characters, we expect it to become a well-recognized language variety. The fictional characters boku-girls and ore-girls were evidently constructed through intralingual translanguaging, by manipulating the boundary between gender-sensitive pronouns and shaping their idealized group identity with specific sets of linguistic features (E. Sato, 2018a). Whether girls who actually address themselves with boku or ore exist in reality is a next natural question. Miyazaki (2004) studies the use of first-person pronouns by students in a junior high school in Japan and reports that the first-person pronoun ore was used by a group of female

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students in the school. This group had ‘a distinctive subculture and language that both its members and other students considered gehin “vulgar”’ (Miyazaki, 2004: 262). They invented dances to express their disdain for the uniforms that they were required to wear. The students in this group obviously did not behave or speak like typical traditional female students. Their intralingual translanguaging in terms of the choice of gender-sensitive personal-pronoun was their tool to redefine their unique identity: The use of ore helped them shift their identities so they could free themselves from their society’s expectation on how girls should behave (E. Sato, 2018a). When English texts are translated into languages such as Japanese and Korean, the choice of the first-person pronoun needs to be made carefully in order to appropriately represent the social/personal as well as dynamic/ permanent identity of the person. For example, let us consider J.K. Rowling’s fantasy novel Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Wood (2009) and McNulty (2017) report that the first-person pronoun ‘I’ in the ST was translated differently depending on the character’s personality and gender in Yuko Matsuoka’s Japanese translation. They report that boku (僕) is used by Ron, Harry and the other male students attending school at Hogwarts. This is a natural and appropriate strategy because they are young men. The pronoun washi (わし) is used by characters like Dumbledore, Ollivander and Mad-Eye Moody, which precisely conveys the fact that they are older men. The pronoun ore is used by Hagrid, Fred Weasley and George Weasley because their personalities are considered more masculine and rebellious than the other characters. Voldemort uses the pronoun oresama. It is the combination of ore (俺), the vulgar firstperson pronoun, and sama (様), the suffix to show the highest respect to someone else. This seemingly incompatible combination of a pronoun and a suffix makes the person sound arrogant and serves to show how he thinks he is above everyone else. However, it is interesting to note that when Tom Riddle speaks in flashbacks, which was Voldemort’s name before he became the evil Dark Lord, he uses boku like most of the other boys at the school. This creates a sharp contrast between the seemingly normal student he was and the terrible figure he became. Professor Snape uses the pronoun wagahai, which is an archaic pronoun used by scholars. Among the women in Harry Potter, the pronoun watakushi is used by Professor McGonagall, which sounds very formal, and is fitting of her uptight and strict personality. The plain pronoun watashi is used by Hermione and most of the other women. And while Ginny Weasley does also use watashi, she uses the pronoun atashi more than any of the other women, which is more informal and feminine sounding than the plain pronoun watashi. Thus, the inventory of firstperson pronouns in Japanese is effectively utilized in Matsuoka’s Japanese translation.

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4.4.2 First-person pronouns and dynamic gender-identity

The use of first-person pronouns is even more complex for LGBT people. Abe (2004) conducts research at lesbian bars in Tokyo to examine the relationship between gender-identity and language use. She recognized three types of people at lesbian bars: transsexuals, lesbians and onabe (literally, ‘pan’). Transsexuals in this context are female-to-male transsexual/transgender people. Lesbians are women who feel comfortable with their biologically female sex and choose a woman as a partner, but unlike straight women, their female identity is constructed through a relationship with another woman. Onabes are women who love women and choose a woman as a partner, but their social and emotional identity is male. Abe (2004: 213) observed the use of first-person pronouns found in a magazine transcript of a panel discussion among two transsexuals, two lesbians and two onabes. She found that the transsexuals used boku, the lesbians used watashi and the onabes used jibun, to address ­themselves, almost uniformly. This shows that intralingual translanguaging facilitates the shift of their non-biological master identity (E. Sato, 2018a). However, Abe (2004: 214) finds that the choice of pronouns also varies depending on the situational context even with the same person. For example, a 20-year-old employee at a lesbian bar was constantly addressing herself using jibun (self) when speaking with her female supervisor, coworkers and customers. She stated that she did not want to sound too feminine by using watashi or atashi and did not want to sound too masculine by using washi, the latter of which was used by her boss. Thus, jibun was the least gender-explicit option for her. However, she suddenly started to use ore, a first-person masculine pronoun, when her female customer telephoned her. This customer of hers caused an enormous problem and pain to her on the previous night at the bar. In this case, the employee’s shift from jibun (self) to ore (first-person masculine pronoun) was triggered by her emotion: She was angry at her customer for her misbehavior the previous night. It is possible that the shift of the pronoun from jibun to ore occurred because she failed to maintain her genderneutral stance due to her anger. As a result, her interactional identity as an employee who serves her customer at the lesbian bar was suddenly interrupted and her semi-permanent relational identity as a subordinate to her customer became void. Abe (2004) reports another case of the change of a first-person pronoun. A lesbian speaker who usually addresses herself with atashi confessed that she uses boku when she makes a false show of power, for example, when she confronts her male boss, who may suspect that she is a lesbian, at work. According to her, this helps her ‘situate herself at the boss’s level’ (Abe, 2004: 215). The shift from atashi to boku in this case was deliberately made based on her belief that maleness implies power and

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strength. The shift facilitated the temporary construction of her new relational identity, where power imbalance between her and her male boss was eliminated and her and his levels were equalized. This also shows a fluid language use disregarding the boundary between two gendered language varieties in Japanese, a case of intralingual translanguaging, which can effectively and momentarily construct, shift, or adjust one’s identity (E. Sato, 2018a). However, pronouns in a Japanese text cause problem when translated into English in a complex context, as in the one found in the animated movie Kimi No Na Wa (君の名は). In this film, a female student in a high school and a male student in a different high school wake up one day to find that they have switched bodies. One of the first struggles they found was referring to themselves in a socially appropriate manner. Baseel (2017) and McNulty (2017) describe how the female student, who is now in a male’s body, refers to herself with watashi, suddenly catching the attention of surrounding male students. To compensate, she tries to fix the way she refers to herself, by using watakushi, which is too formal and sounds even more awkward. Embarrassed, she switches this time to boku, which is appropriate for males, but is still unfit for a high school male who does not want to sound nerdy or weak. Finally, she utters ore, the suitable personal pronoun. English subtitles provided were: I (watashi) I (watakushi) I (boku) I (ore)

What the subtitler did was desperate translanguaging using parentheses. It was necessary to convey the mismatch between the original gender identity of the person and her transformed gender identity in terms of her use of the first-person singular pronoun. However, footnotes are not an option. Thus, the SL words had to be provided right next to the same TL word, ‘I’. Although the SL words in parentheses are not understandable for those who do not know Japanese, they could at least hear these SL words and see the different facial expressions as these Japanese words were pronounced. Accordingly, the English-speaking audience could probably sense that there are different ways of saying ‘I’ in Japanese that carry different connotations. 4.4.3 Second-person pronouns

In English, the second-person pronoun ‘you’ can be repeated in the same sentence without sounding unnatural. One cannot ask a question to someone about him or her without using the pronoun ‘you’. How do we ask someone if they want milk in their coffee without using the pronoun

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‘you’ in English? The question, ‘Do you want milk in your coffee?’ sounds natural. However, the literal Japanese translation of this question is: あなたはあなたのコーヒーにミルクを入れますか。 Anata-wa anata-no kōhī-ni miruku-o iremasu ka? you-TOP you-GEN coffee-in milk-ACC add Q

This sounds very unnatural, like a robotic translation. To make this question natural in Japanese, we must drop anata (you) and anata-no (your), as in: コーヒーにミルクを入れますか。 Kōhī-ni miruku-o iremasu ka? coffee-in milk-ACC add Q

To create a natural and fluent translation, translators must add or delete personal pronouns. The second-person pronoun is represented only by ‘you’ in English. However, it can be tu or vous in French, where the latter is more respectful than the former. Similarly, in Chinese, ‘you’ can be either nǐ (你) or nín (您), where the latter is more respectful than the former. In Nepali, it can be tã (तँ ), timī (तिमी), or tapāī̃ (तपाईं ) depending on the relationship between the first person and the second person in terms of age, social hierarchy, and social distance (Bal, 2004: 352). Even though the secondperson pronoun is usually avoided in Japanese, there are many options for ‘you’ in Japanese. Anata (あなた, 貴方) is a gender-neutral secondperson pronoun. It makes the user of the pronoun sound snobby when used in oral conversations. An additional special use of anata, mostly by middle-aged or older women, is when a wife addresses her husband at home, similar to the English ‘honey’ or ‘darling’. Anata is dominantly used in written forms to address the general public in texts such as advertisements and translated religious texts. Anta (あんた) is a contracted version of anata, but it may be used only in informal contexts. Otherwise, it can sound rude. Omae (お前) is used to refer to a subordinate, but it may sound affectionate or disrespectful depending on the intonation and the tone of the voice. Kimi (君) is used to refer to a subordinate in business contexts and sounds formal. Kisama (きさま) is used to refer to an enemy. It sounds hostile and archaic and is used commonly in samurai films. As you can see, the choice of personal pronoun sensitively depicts the state of the relationship between the first person and the second person in Japanese. Misusing them can cause serious problems in personal relationships. There was a shocking headline on Asahi Newspaper on 11 October 2018: いじめ自殺生徒の父に「お前」、市教育長が辞意

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Ijime jisatsu seito no chichi ni ‘omae’, shi-kyōuikuchō ga jii A school superintendent resigns after addressing the father of the student who had committed suicide with ‘omae’

Mr Ryōichi Yamada, the superintendent of Shibata City schools in Nīgata Prefecture in Japan, was sent to visit the family of a 13-year-old male student who had committed suicide in the previous year. The purpose of his visit was to formally report to his parents that the cause of his suicide might have been his peers’ bullying at school. At some point during their conversation, the superintendent asked the boy’s father if he would like to join the PTA meeting to discuss this matter further. The question was appropriate, but the way it was phrased had a problem. The superintendent used the pronoun ‘omae’ (お前, you) to say, ‘Will you come to the PTA meeting, too?’ The boy’s father criticized superintendent’s use of the second-person pronoun ‘omae’ toward him because he felt that the superintendent was taking his son’s suicide lightly. It turned out that the superintendent was one of the former teachers of the boy’s father in an elementary school decades ago. The superintendent stated that the former teacher–student relationship at the elementary school caused him to use a friendly but disrespectful second-person pronoun ‘omae’. However, this pronoun is certainly inappropriate for him to use for the father of his student who had committed a suicide. Within a week after this incident, the superintendent resigned from his position. This case shows that some seemingly stable social relationships may change over time or due to a sudden shift in the permanent (stable) social relationship caused by a dramatic incident, which crucially affects language use in terms of personal pronouns. 4.4.4 Third-person pronouns

Third-person singular pronouns in English convey the gender of the referent: male (e.g. he, him) or female (e.g. she, her). However, languages differ in terms of what information a pronoun conveys. The mismatch between languages in terms of the properties of pronouns causes a problem for translators (McNulty & E. Sato, 2018: 82). In Chinese, the third-person pronoun does not convey gender: the same form, tā, is used for both genders in Chinese. This pronoun was originally written as 他 (with the ‘human’ radical). However, through translating Western texts in the 20th century, many notable intellectuals including Liu Bannong (劉半農, 1891–1934) and Lu Xun (魯迅, 1881– 1936) advocated the usefulness of a newly created character 她 tā (with the ‘female’ radical) for the third-person feminine pronoun (Chen, 2016; Miyajima, 2014). This is an interesting case that shows how translation practices affect the norms of written language, even if the pronunciation is maintained.

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In Japanese, third-person pronouns kare (彼, he/him) and kanojo (彼女, she/her) emerged only in the modern era. Kare had existed in classical Japanese with the meaning of ‘that’, ‘that thing’ or ‘that person’, but it acquired the meaning ‘he/him’ due to the influence of European languages, and then the term kanojo started to be used as the counterpart of kare in the Meiji Period (1968–1912) (Miura, 1979; Yanabu, 1982/2015). Kare and kanojo are rarely used in oral conversations among middle-class Japanese speakers in Japan. The use of these pronouns is perceived as showing off knowledge of Western languages and cultures. However, it may not be used to intentionally show off in the case of Japanese Americans who grew up as bilinguals because the features of gendered third-person pronouns are frequently activated in their linguistic repertoire. Kare and kanojo may appear in Japanese translations of Western texts, but most Japanese writers do not use these pronouns. Translating Japanese texts into English can be difficult when gendered pronouns are absent, and the gender of a character is not clarified. In the novel Oborekaketa Kyodai (溺れかけた兄弟, The Siblings Who Almost Drowned) written by Takeo Arishima (1878–1923) and published in 1921, the gender of one of the characters, who is referred to as M, is not indicated by any linguistic elements such as pronouns and gendered kinship terms. The protagonist of this story is a 13-year-old boy. The setting is a deserted beach in September. Despite the warning of his grandmother about strong waves that are common at the end of summer, the protagonist decides to swim one more time in the ocean with his 11-year-old little sister and his 14-year-old friend, M. Soon, they get caught in a big wave and brought into the open sea. They struggle to stay afloat and swim toward the coast. M is the best swimmer among the three and reaches the beach first. When the protagonist reaches the beach next, M brings a passerby adult and asks him to help the protagonist’s little sister. The novel describes the frightening experience and the protagonist’s guilt for swimming back to the coast, leaving his little sister behind. In this story, no proper name is used. The protagonist refers to his sister and his grandmother with gender-sensitive kin terms: imōto (younger sister) and obāsama (grandmother). The protagonist’s sister addresses her brother with a gender-sensitive kin term nīsan (older brother). The young man is referred to as wakai otoko (young man) and then wakamono (young person). However, the protagonist’s friend is referred to only as M. There is no pronoun except for the first-person singular (watashi) and its plural counterpart (watashit-achi). The question is which pronoun, ‘he’ or ‘she’, should be used for M in the English translation of this story. In fact, some English speakers might assume that M is a girl when they read this story. By contrast, Japanese speakers tend to assume that M is a boy because M was the quickest in swimming back to shore and heroically enlisted an adult who eventually saved the protagonist’s drowning sister. In the

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Japanese culture, especially at the time when this novel was written, such a physically taxing action is naturally perceived as a man’s performance. In the English translation of this story found in McNulty and E. Sato (2018), the masculine pronoun ‘he/him’ is used to refer to M, as in the following excerpt: Source text written by Takeo Arishima: 泳ぎの上手なＭも少し気味悪そうに陸の方を向いていくらかでも浅い 所まで遁げようとした位でした。 (McNulty & E. Sato, 2018: 67) Translation by McNulty and E. Sato: Even M, who was good at swimming, seemed a bit shaken, so he tried to go towards the shore and make his way towards the shallow parts, even if he could go only a little farther. (McNulty & E. Sato, 2018: 66)

Their decision was based on the dominant culture when the ST was written in Japan. However, judging the gender of a character solely based on the culture can also be problematic. The famous Korean poem, ‘Azalea’ (진달래꽃 jindallae kkoch), written by Kim Sowol (김소월, 1902–1934), does not include any gender-revealing pronouns: Source text written by Sowol Kim: 나 보기가 역겨워 가실 때에는 말없이 고이 보내 드리오리다. 영변(寧邊)에 약산(藥山) 진달래꽃 아름 따다 가실 길에 뿌리오리다. 가시는 걸음 걸음 놓인 그 꽃을 사뿐히 즈려 밟고 가시옵소서. 나 보기가 역겨워 가실 때에는 죽어도 아니 눈물 흘리오리다. (Kim, 2018) Romanization: Na bogiga yeoggyeowo gasil ttaeeneun mal-eobs-i goi bonae deuliolida.

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Yeongbyeon(nyeongbyeon)e yagsan(yagsan) jindallaekkoch aleum ttada gasil gil-e ppuliolida. Gasineun geol-eum geol-eum noh-in geu kkoch-eul sappunhi jeulyeo balbgo gasiobsoseo. Na bogiga yeoggyeowo gasil ttaeeneun jug-eodo ani nunmul heulliolida. Verbatim translation (You) are sick of me. When (you) go, (I) will send (you) without a word. Mt. Yak in Yongbyong, Azalea flowers, (I) shall pick armful (of them) and scatter (them) on (your) way. Please go step by step (on) the flowers placed (and) Lightly step on (them) and go. (You) are sick of me, When (you) go, Though (I) die, (I) will not let one tear fall.

Personal pronouns are absent in the original Korean ST, but the first person pronoun “I” and the second person pronoun “you” are added in the English translation by Peter Lee: “You're sick and tired of me” (Lee, 1974: 166). The narrator, referred to by ‘I’, is often understood to be female because in the Korean culture at the time the poem was written, women were subordinate to men, and it was normal for a man to have concubines. If one is leaving the other, the thinking was that it must be the man who is leaving the woman. However, Yun Chung (2013) argues that the one who is leaving in this poem is a woman rather than a man because the Korean word 사뿐히 (sappun) in the SL is the description of light steps of a willowy woman. The sociocultural context of the SL may be misleading when trying to identify the gender of the characters in the poem. Another Korean poem entitled ‘Kkoch’ (꽃, Flower), written by Kim Chun-Soo (김춘수, 1922–2004), also poses a challenge to translators. This poem includes 그 (geu), which can be interpreted as he, she, it or they depending on what directly follows it and depending on what textual or pragmatic context surrounds it. The poem starts with “Until I called his/her/its name, he/she/it was just a gesture; When I called his/her its

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name, he/she/it came to me and became a flower”. Jong-Gil Kim renders 그 (geu) as a masculine pronoun (Kim & Kim, 1998: 74), whereas ChaePyong Song and Anne Rashid render it as a feminine pronoun (Song, 2013). The vagueness of the pronoun 그 (geu) serves as a hole in this poem to be filled by the will of its readers. However, translation unnecessarily fills this hole before readers can even appreciate the opportunity the author presented. Overall, personal pronouns, which may appear to be syntactic elements, are shaped by the sociocultural context of language users. This certainly affects translation of a text when the SL and the TL have different pronoun systems. 4.5 Terms of Address

Terms of address can most clearly express the speaker’s attitude toward the addressee, the kind of social relationship between the speaker and the addressee and the context in which they communicate with each other. Terms of address vary based on social hierarchy, power, solidarity, gender, age, formality, politeness and intimacy. In English-speaking contexts, ‘firstname basis’ means that the speaker feels close to the person, whereas addressing the person with their family name along with a respectful title, such as Mr and Mrs, means that there is a perceived social distance between the speaker and the addressee. This section examines forms of address and their implication to translation. 4.5.1 Kinship terms

Kinship terms are used to address parents and grandparents in English (e.g. Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa). Some languages have more extensively subdivided kinship terms that are used as terms of addressing. For example, grandparents are addressed differently depending on whether they are on the father’s side or mother’s side in Chinese: Grandfather (paternal): Grandfather (maternal): Grandmother (paternal): Grandmother (maternal):

Yéye 爷爷/爺爺 Lǎoyé 姥爷 / Wàigōng 外公 Nǎinai 奶奶 Lǎolao 姥姥 / Wàipó 外婆

Similarly, ‘uncle’ and ‘aunt’ are addressed differently in Chinese depending on the relationship with the speaker. There are at least five terms for uncle and at least seven terms for aunt in Chinese: Uncle (father’s elder brother): Uncle (father’s younger brother): Uncle (father’s sister’s husband):

Bóbo 伯伯 Shūshu 叔叔 Gūfū 姑夫

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Uncle (mother’s brother): Uncle (mother’s sister’s husband:

Jiùjiu 舅舅 Yífū 姨夫

Aunt (father’s older sister): Aunt (father’s younger sister): Aunt (father’s older brother’s wife): Aunt (father’s younger brother’s wife): Aunt (mother’s older sister): Aunt (mother’s younger sister) Aunt (mother’s brother’s wife):

Gūmā 姑妈/ 姑媽 Gūgū 姑姑 Bómǔ 伯母 Shěnshěn 婶婶 Yímā 姨妈/姨媽 Āyí 阿姨 Jiùmā 舅妈/舅媽

Chinese speakers can address their older extended family members just by using kinship terms without using their first names. When they get together among their extended family for celebrations and holidays, having more terms for addressing grandparents, uncles and aunts help disambiguate addressees. If Chinese novels with many terms of address in quoted speeches need to be translated into English, there will be a considerable ‘loss’ in the sense defined by Vinay and Darbelnet (1995) and many ambiguities will arise in English translations. Japanese has fewer kinship terms than Chinese. However, the use of kinship terms for addressing parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents and older siblings is important in Japanese society as addressing them by their first names is not considered polite. Interestingly, the Japanese use kinship terms even to address strangers on the street. For example, onīsan (older brother) can be used not only to address one’s own older brother but also to address or refer to a stranger who is a relatively young-looking man. Onēsan (older sister) can be used to address a stranger who is a relatively young-looking lady. Ojisan (uncle) and obasan (aunt) are used to address a stranger who looks like a middle-aged man or woman. Similarly, ojīsan (grandfather) and obāsan (grandmother) can be used to address a stranger who appears to be an elderly man or woman. These terms show the speaker’s friendly, affectionate and yet respectful attitude when addressing strangers in relatively casual contexts. However, can we maintain that same respectful attitude when a text needs to be translated from Japanese? The following is an excerpt from Ginga Tetsudo no Yoru written by Kenji Miyazawa discussed in Section 3.1.1, Section 3.3.4 and Section 3.3.5: Source text written by Miyazawa: ありがとう おじさん。 Arigatō ojisan. Thank you, Ojisan.

The above excerpt is a quote of a little boy thanking a middle-aged man, after the man sitting in the same train car gave him apples. How

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this quoted speech is rendered in seven English translations is shown below: Translation by John Bester: ‘Thank you, sir’. (Miyazawa, 1987: 63-64) Translation by Shelley Marshall: ‘Thank you, Mister’. (Marshall, 2014: Loc 672–673) Translation by Julianne Neville: ‘Thank you, mister!’ (Neville, 2014: 89) Translation by Roger Pulvers: ‘Thank you, Sir’. (Miyazawa, 1996/2009: 163–165) Translation by Joseph Sigrist and D. M. Stroud (1) and (2): ‘Thank you!’ (Sigrist & Stroud, 1996: 89–90, 2009: 94) Translation by Paul Quirk: ‘Thank you Mister’. (Quirk, 2013: Loc 823–824) Translation by Sarah Strong: ‘Thank you’. (Miyazawa, 1991: 60)

As you can see, ojisan is rendered as ‘sir’ or ‘mister’, or deleted. ‘Sir’ sounds more formal than ‘Mister’, and both do show respect, but the social distance between the speaker and the addressee in the TT is greater than that in the ST. Neither ‘Mister’ nor ‘Sir’ shows affection which is present in the ST. Ojisan shows not only respect but also affection, openness and friendliness. It is culture-specific, and its nuance is lost in translation. However, none of the translators use the SL word ojisan in English translation. Numerous kinship terms in Hindi coexist with those in English in Anurag Yadav’s English translation of the Hindi novel, Godaan, which was discussed in Sections 4.1 and 4.2. The most frequently appearing SL kinship term in this novel is dada (45 times) (E. Sato and Sharma, 2017). Dada

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means ‘father’, but it could also be used to address one’s brother, one’s grandfather, one’s non-blood related friends and acquaintances and even strangers at times (Mehrotra, 1977). Precisely, 21 out of 45 instances of dada function as terms of address, and they all appear in quotation speech (E. Sato and Sharma, 2017). For example, in Page 85, the protagonist Hori’s younger brother says to him, ‘It’s me Dada. I have come to take fire from your kiln’. In Page 86, Hori’s son says to him, ‘Dada, what’s happened to the cow?’ In Page 90, Hori’s wife says to the village Brahmin priest, ‘Dada, trust me, this is his doing. He borrowed that spade to dig out some poison root and fed it to our cow’. The other kinship terms that appear in Yadav’s English translation include amma (mother), bhaiya (brother), bhabhi (sister-in-law), didi (older sister), kaka (paternal uncle) and kaki (paternal aunt). They can be used fluidly to address a wide range of people, just like dada. SL terms of address mixed in Yadav’s English translation represent each character’s attitude in the sociocultural context where Hindi is spoken. Sudden changes in human relationship can also be captured by terms of address, which is successfully captured in Yadav’s translation. For example, Hori usually addresses Dulari, a widowed shopkeeper and moneylender, as bhabhi, as in: Translation by Anurag Yadav: Bhabhi, allow me to cut the crop; I will pay you as much as possible. I won’t run away from the village and I am also not dying tomorrow. I won’t get money unless I cut the stalks.

However, when Hori is offended by Dulari’s unusual coldness one day, he addresses her by her first name in his translation: ‘Dulari, I won’t run away with your money’. Translanguaging terms of address allow the translator to convey ­crucial pragmatic information in each context, including sudden shifts in characters’ emotions and human relationships (E. Sato & Sharma, 2017). One of the kinship terms that are exclusively used by outgroup members in Japanese is botchan. It is used to respectfully address or refer to someone else’s son, usually the son in an upper-class family. Botchan (坊 ちゃん) is used as the title of a masterpiece novel written by Sōseki Natsume (1867–1916), one of the greatest novelists in modern Japanese history. He graduated from Tokyo Imperial University in 1893 and took a job as an English teacher at a middle school in Matsuyama, on the island of Shikoku in 1895. His experience of moving from Tokyo to Matsuyama to work as a teacher inspired him to write this novel, which was published in 1906. The protagonist in Botchan is the youngest son in a middle-/upperclass family in Tokyo. He grew up trying to get attention from his parents

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by rebelling, which never worked because his elder brother received all of his parents’ attention. After his mother’s death, the devoted old female family servant, Kiyo, became the only one who understood his innocent and genuine heart, and she regularly addressed the protagonist as ‘Botchan’. Kiyo continued to address him as ‘Botchan’ even after he graduated from college. Six published English translations of this novel were identified, and all of them use the SL word ‘Botchan’ as the title except the first English translation by Yasotaro Morri, who added ‘Master Darling’ in parentheses after ‘Botchan’: Translation by Yasotaro Morri published in 1918 (Natsume, 1918): Botchan (Master Darling) Translation by Umeji Sasaki published in 1968 (Natsume, 1968/2013): Botchan Translation by Alan Turney published in 1972 (Natsume, 1972): Botchan Translation by Joel Cohn published in 2005 (Natsume, 2005/2012): Botchan Translation by Matt Treyvaud published in 2009 (Natsume, 2009): Botchan Translation by Glenn Anderson published in 2013 (Treyvaud, 2013): Botchan

The word botchan carries with it rich untranslatable nuances such as respect, affection, indulgence and affluence. Botchan is used not only in the title but also in the text. The first instance of ‘Botchan’ in the ST is found at the end of Chapter 1: Source text written by Natsume written in 1906: おれの来たのを見て起き直るが早いか、坊っちゃんいつ家をお持ちな さいますと聞いた。卒業さえすれば金が自然とポッケットの中に湧いて 来ると思っている。そんなにえらい人をつらまえて、まだ坊っちゃんと呼 ぶのはいよいよ馬鹿気ている。 (Natsume, 1992/1998) Romanization: Ore no kita no o mite oki-naoru ga hayai ka, Botchan itsu uchi o omochinasaimasu to kīta. Sotsugyo sae sure ba kane ga shizen to poketto no naka ni waite kuru to omotte iru. Sonna erai hito o tsuramaete, mada Botchan to yobu no wa iyoiyo bakagete iru. Verbatim translation: (Kyoyo) saw me come in. She sat up quickly and asked when Botchan (I) would own a house. She thinks that once someone graduates (from a college), money will naturally come into his pocket. It is ridiculous to call such a great man Botchan.

132  Translanguaging in Translation

The following are the English translations of this excerpt by the six translators: Translation by Glenn Anderson: The moment I walked into the room she sat up and spoke. “Botchan, when will you become a house master?” The poor thing thought money would rain from the sky once I’d graduated. If she thought I was so impressive you’d think she’d stop calling me Botchan. (Natsume, 2013: 18) Translation by Joel Cohn: When she saw me there [...] she sat up and asked when I was going to get a house of my own. She had this idea that all you had to do was graduate and the money would just start sprouting in your pocket. What was even more ridiculous was the way she was still calling me Botchan, even though in her mind I was now a man of substance, not some little boy. (Natsume, 2005/2012: 13) Translation by Yasotaro Morri: [...] on seeing me she got up and immediately inquired; “Master Darling, when do you begin housekeeping?” She evidently thought as soon as a fellow finishes school, money comes to his pocket by itself. But then how absurd to call such a “great man” “Darling.” (Natsume, 1918: 16) Translation by Umeji Sasaki: No sooner had she turned out of her bed on seeing me than she asked me if I was going to have a home pretty soon, still calling me by the fond name of “botchan” (boy-master). She seemed to believe that money would naturally come to one’s pocket so soon as one got a diploma. For all the great things she said of me, she still called me by that name. (Natsume, 1968/2013: 29) Translation by Matt Treyvaud: As soon as she saw me she sprang out of bed and asked, “When are you going to buy your house, sweetie?” Apparently she thought that if you graduated from university, money would suddenly start bubbling out of your pockets. And if I was really such a big shot, this ridiculous “sweetie” business had to stop. (Treyvaud, 2009: Loc 199) Translation by Alan Turney: [...] as soon as she saw me she sat up and asked, “Botchan, when are you going to get your house?” She was under the impression that all

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you had to do was graduate for your pockets to be suddenly filled with money. It really was ridiculous that she should still call someone as eminent as she thought me to be “Botchan.” (Natsume, 1972: 21)

As shown above, ‘Botchan’ uttered by Kiyo to address the protagonist in the ST is rendered as ‘Master Darling’ by Yasutaro Morri and as ‘sweetie’ by Matt Treyvaud. ‘Darling’ and ‘sweetie’ do not have to be used for a specific person with a specific relationship but can be used for anyone in the household or anyone when the speaker wants to make their utterance soft and friendly. Morri’s addition of ‘Master’ before ‘Darling’ is creative and makes it a more specific addressing term than just ‘Darling’. However, it refers to the head of a household, rather than the son of a respectful family. Kiyo wishes the protagonist to be the head of a household, but he has not become one yet. The other translators all use the SL term ‘Botchan’ in the text as well as in the title. It is interesting to note that Joel Cohn’s translation is equipped with natural and implicit scaffolding to help the TT readers understand the sense of ‘Botchan’. The protagonist’s sentiment is rendered as: Translation by Joel Cohn: ‘What was even more ridiculous was the way she was still calling me Botchan, even though in her mind I was now a man of substance, not some little boy’. (Natsume, 2005/2012: 13)

This statement successfully suggests that ‘Botchan’ is supposed to be used for a ‘little boy’ rather than for a ‘man of substance’. It includes adverbs ‘still’ and ‘now’ and shows that ‘Botchan’ was an appropriate term of address for the protagonist in the past when he was younger, but not anymore. Joel Cohn’s translation successfully engages TT readers to intercultural communication so they can find meanings of the SL word as they read the translation. Use of SL terms in translation does not always disrupt comprehension but can be the only way to express contextual meanings. 4.5.2 Professional titles

Professional titles such as President Brown and Professor Smith are commonly used to address others. In Japanese, use of professional titles such as Shachō (社長, President of a company), Kaichō (会長, Chairman), Gakuchō (学長, University president) and Sensei (先生, one’s teacher) are necessary and essential to appropriately maintain human relationships in a given society. The first quotation that appears in the famous Japanese novel Yukiguni (雪国, Snow Country) is a term of address, Ekichō-sān (駅長さあん),

134  Translanguaging in Translation

loudly uttered by a young woman, Yōko. Ekichō means ‘railway station master’ and -sān is the lengthened version of the polite/neutral respectful title -san. Yukiguni was written by 1968 Nobel laureate Yasunari Kawabata (1899–1972). This novel depicts the relationship between a man (Mr Shimamura) in Tokyo and a geisha (Komako) at a remote snowy hot-spring town in the northern part of Japan as well as the life of a young woman, Yōko, in the same town. The novel starts with a scene where Shimamura first sees Yōko, who happened to be on the same train, traveling with a sick young man as their train entered a snowy region at night and stops at a small station. Opening the train car window, Yōko calls the station master, who is walking toward the train with a lantern. The following excerpt is the beginning of this novel and its verbatim translation, where the term of address is underlined: Source text written by Yasunari Kawabata:   国境の長いトンネルを抜けると雪国であった。夜の底が白くなった。 信号所に汽車が止まった。   向側の座席から娘が立って来て、島村の前のガラス窓を落した。雪 の冷気が流れこんだ。娘は窓いっぱいに乗り出して、遠くへ叫ぶよう に、 「駅長さあん、駅長さあん」   明りをさげてゆっくり雪を踏んで来た男は、襟巻で鼻の上まで包 み、耳に帽子の毛皮を垂れていた。   もうそんな寒さかと島村は外を眺めると、鉄道の官舎らしいバラッ クが山裾に寒々と散らばっているだけで、雪の色はそこまで行かぬうち に闇に呑まれていた。 (Murray, 2007: 18) Romanization: Kokkyō-no nagai ton’neru-o nukeruto yukiguni-de atta. Yoru-no soko-ga shiroku natta. Shingōsho ni kisha-ga tomatta. Mukōgawa-no zaseki-kara musume-ga tattekite, Shimamura-no mae-no garasu-mado-o otoshita. Yuki-no reiki-ga nagarekonda. Musume-wa mado ippai-ni noridashite, tōku-e sakebu yōni, ‘Ekichō-sān, Ekichō-sān’ A kari-o sagete yukkuri yuki-o funde kita otoko-wa, erimaki-de hana-no ue-made tsutsumi, mimi-ni bōshi-no kegawa-o tarete ita. Mō sonna samusa-ka-to Shimamura-wa soto-o nagameru-to,  tetsudō-no kansha-rashii barakku-ga yamasuso-ni samuzamu-to chirabatte iru-dake-de, yuki-no iro-wa sokomade ikanu uchi-ni yami-ni nomareteita. Verbatim translation: Once (the train) passed the long tunnel, it was a snow country. The bottom of the night became white. The train stopped at the signal location. A girl stood up and came toward Shimamura from the opposite side of his seat and lowered the glass window in front of him.

Words 135

The snow-cold air flew into (the train). The girl completely leaned out the window and (said) as if she was shouting far away, ‘Mr. Stationmaster, Mr. Stationmaster!’ A man who came (toward her) as slowly and firmly stepping on the snow with a lantern had a scarf wrapped up to the bridge of his nose and the fur flap of his hat hung (to cover) his ears. (Thinking that) it is this cold already, Shimamura gazed outside. Then, what he saw was just the railroad’s barrack housing scattered at the bottom of the mountain, and the color of the snow had been swallowed by the darkness before it reached there.

In Seidensticker’s translation (Kawabata & Seidensticker, 1956/1966), Yoko’s address of the station master is deleted: Translation by Edward G. Seidensticker: T he train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. The earth lay white under the night sky. The train pulled up at a signal stop. A girl who had been sitting on the other side of the car came over and opened the window in front of Shimamura. The snowy cold poured in. Learning far out the window, the girl called to the station master as though he were a great distance away. T he station master walked slowly over the snow, a lantern in his hand. His face was buried to the nose in a muffler, and the flaps of his cap were turned down over his ears. It’s that cold, is it, thought Shimamura. Low, barracklike buildings that might have been railway dormitories were scattered here and there up the frozen slope of the mountain. The white of the snow fell away into the darkness some distance before it reached them. (Kawabata & Seidensticker, 1956/1966: 3)

What was lost in Seidensticker’s translation is the soundscape that pierces the cold world of darkness and white snow. Yōko’s calling of the station master, ‘Ekichō-sān, Ekichō-sān’, sounds clear, strong, resonant and beautiful in the cold and quiet environment where the darkness of the night sky and the whiteness of the snow meet. The relationship between Yōko and the station master is also defined by this term. Addressing him as Ekichō-sān (station master) shows her amiable and respectful attitude toward him. In his abridged English translation, Giles Murray preserves her first quote: Translation by Giles Murray: T hey emerged from the long border tunnel into the snow country. The night was carpeted with white. The train halted at a signal box. R ising from the seat across the aisle, a young girl came over and opened the window in front of Shimamura. The snow-chilled air

136  Translanguaging in Translation

flooded in. The girl leaned far out of the window and shouted as though to someone far away: ‘Stationmaster! Stationmaster!’ T he man who came tramping slowly over through the snow held a lantern. He was wrapped in a scarf to the bridge of his nose and the fur flaps of his hat hung down over his ears. So cold already, though Shimamura. He gazed out at the sheds--probably housing for railroad workers--that straggled desolately across the lower slopes of the mountain. The white of the snow was swallowed up in darkness before it reached them. ... (Murray, 2007: 18)

The problem is that ‘stationmaster’ is not a commonly used term of address in English, and thus, its use makes the translation unnatural and non-fluent. On the other hand, it also invites the readers of translation to a society that is different from theirs, especially because what they are reading is a quoted utterance that has an auditory effect. 4.5.3 Life-time relationship

Some professional titles continue to be used to address someone even after the professional relationship ceases. One of them is ‘sensei’ in Japanese. Once one functions as a teacher, master, instructor, mentor or medical doctor for someone, he or she continues to be called ‘sensei’ by that person forever even after the professional relationship ceases. Thus, the president of a top corporation would still call a retired teacher who taught him when he was an elementary school student ‘sensei’. The term embodies the speaker’s unwavering respect and loyalty unless something drastic changes their relationship (see Section 4.4.3 for the use of the pronoun ‘omae’). However, translating ‘sensei’ to English is very difficult. The very first sentence in Kokoro, another masterpiece novel written by Natsume Sōseki, the author of Botchan discussed earlier in Section 4.5.1, includes ‘sensei’. Kokoro was published in 1914 right after the Meiji Era (1867–1912) ended. The story is about the relationship between the protagonist, a young man and an enigmatic older man that he encountered at a beach, who he calls ‘sensei’ with the expectation to learn about life from him. The protagonist seeks more chances to have conversations with Sensei although Sensei’s attitude is always cold. Sensei was living a quiet antisocial life with his wife, as if a melancholy cloud permanently hung over them. Through persistently visiting Sensei, the protagonist gradually gains trust from him. However, when the protagonist visits his hometown, he receives a letter from Sensei, written right before Sensei committed suicide. In his letter, Sensei revealed his terrible secret and his

Words 137

lifelong guilt of betraying his best friend, K, for a woman (Sensei’s future wife), which caused K to commit suicide. The novel starts with the following paragraph: Source text written by Sōseki Natsume in 1914: 私はその人を常に先生と呼んでいた。だからここでもただ先生と書く だけで本名は打ち明けない。これは世間を憚かる遠慮というよりも、 その方が私にとって自然だからである。私はその人の記憶を呼び起す ごとに、すぐ「先生」といいたくなる。筆を執っても心持は同じ事であ る。よそよそしい頭文字などはとても使う気にならない。 (Natsume, 1991/1996) Romanization: Watashi-wa sono hito-o tsune-ni sensei-to yondeita. Dakara kokodemo tada sensei-to kaku-dake-de honmyō-wa uchiakenai. Kore-wa seken-o habakaru enryo-to iu yori-mo, sono hōga watashi-ni totte shizen dakara-de aru. Watashi-wa sono hito-no kioku-o yobiokosu-goto-ni, sugu “Sensei” -to iitaku naru. Fude-o tottemo kokoromochi-wa onaji koto-de aru. Yosoyososhii kashira-moji nado-wa totemo tsukau ki-ni naranai. Verbatim translation: I always called that person Sensei. Therefore, I will just write Sensei here and will not reveal his real name. This is not because of my reservation due to the social concern, but because it is natural for me. Every time I evoke my memory of this person, I become urged to say “Sensei (Professor).” Even when I am writing, I have the same feeling. I do not feel like using initials, which sound distant.

How should translators render the Japanese term sensei in this novel? As described earlier, once a Japanese person addresses someone with sensei, this form of addressing is often maintained throughout his or her entire life even if the person ceases to be their student. This does not mean that the Japanese feel any less close to their current or former teachers and professors. By continuing to address someone with sensei, the Japanese express their unwavering respect and their willingness to maintain their relationship with them and proves that the feeling has not changed and will not change. In this novel, the protagonist started to address the older man as sensei as he wanted to learn life lessons from him and get to know more about him. He wanted to show that his respect and admiration toward Sensei did not change even after he learned about his shocking secret and the reason why he always appeared bitter. It is possible that the protagonist felt that he learned the meaning of a human life through the death of sensei and reaffirmed his admiration toward him. Reaffirming the continual use of Sensei at the very beginning of the ST is thus essential.

138  Translanguaging in Translation

Three published English translations of Kokoro were identified: Translation by Ineko Kondo published in 1941 (Natsume, 1941) Translation by Edwin McClellan published in 1957 (Natsume, 1957/2000) Translation by Meredith McKinney published in 2010 (Natsume, 2010)

In Kondo and McClellan’s translations, sensei is directly rendered with a footnote: Translation by Ineko Kondo: I never called him anything else, so I will write about him here only as the sensei without mentioning his name, not because of any hesitation in doing so, but simply because the sensei comes naturally to my mind when I think of him. As for his initial I could never bring myself to resort to such an unfeeling manner of designating him. Note: A Japanese word for teacher. But even the professors of a university are called sensei by the students. (Natsume, 1941) Translation by Edwin McClellan: I always called him “Sensei.” I shall therefore refer to him simply as “Sensei,” and not by his real name. It is not because I consider it more discreet, but it is because I find it more natural that I do so. Whenever the memory of him comes back to me now, I find that I think of him as “Sensei” still. And with pen in hand, I cannot bring myself to write of him in any other way. Note: The English word “teacher” which comes closest in meaning to the Japanese word sensei is not satisfactory here. The French word maître would express better what is meant by sensei. (Natsume, 1957/2000)

On the other hand, McKinney’s translation does not provide any footnote: Translation by Meredith McKinney: I always called him Sensei, and so I shall do in these pages, rather than reveal his name. It is not that I wish to shield him from public scrutiny – simply that it feels more natural. “Sensei” springs to my lips whenever I summon memories of this man, and I write of him now with the same reverence and respect. It would also feel wrong to use some conventional initial to substitute for his name and thereby distance him. (Natsume & McKinney, 2010)

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McKinney’s translation is the newest, published in 2010 when the word sensei was already familiar to English speakers because of the established popularity of Japanese martial arts such as karate and kendo. If it were translated as ‘Professor’, for example, the focus would have been narrowed to a professional relationship, which is not necessarily lifelong. Sensei used as a form of address is essential to ensure the unwavering respect and trust, which is a part of the theme of the novel. 4.5.4 Morpheme-level translanguaging

English has short abbreviations such as Mr and Mrs, which can be used with a person’s name when addressing him or her. Some languages have morphemes that can be attached to a person’s name to express the speaker’s attitude, usually positive attitude, toward the addressee. How such morphemes are rendered in translated texts is an interesting question. Hindi has a morpheme -ji, which can be attached at the end of a person’s name when addressing him or her in a polite/neutral context. Three English translations of the Hindi novel Gōdān discussed in Sections 4.1.3 and 4.2 occasionally use this SL morpheme ji within otherwise English context. For example, in Yadav’s translation, Doctor Mehta, who is a professor of philosophy in this story is addressed as ‘Mr Mehta’, ‘Mehta’, ‘Brother Mehta’ or ‘Mehtaji’. He is addressed as ‘Mr Mehta’ by Rai Sahib, a landowner, by Miss Malti, a physician trained in England, and by Pandit Onkarnath, the editor of Lighting. He is addressed as ‘Mehta’ or ‘Brother Mehta’ by Mizura Khurshed, a Muslim businessman, when they are discussing about their society, business, and lives at Rai Sahib’s residence. However, he is addressed as ‘Mehataji’ by Mrs Govindi Khanna, the wife of a bank manager, when they talk at a park in the early evening. In this scene, Govindi tells Mehta that she feels herself worthless as her husband loves another woman and she is just a mother and a wife without a professional career. Then, Mehta convinces her that she is an ideal and admirable woman because she is a devoted mother and wife and takes care of her family. During their conversation, Mehta confesses to her that he himself had a problem with alcohol in the past. The suffix ji used in this scene can represent the relationship between the two better than ‘Mr’ even within an English context. This is a translanguaging practice for expressing a subtle pragmatic meaning. Interestingly, Yadav’s translation also combines the SL morpheme ji with an English common word, ‘editor’, as in ‘Editorji’. Such intra-word morpheme-level translanguaging is undoubtedly a product of bilingual competence. Translators are all bilinguals who use two or more languages. A similar translanguaging practice can be found with a Japanese morpheme used to address people. Like ji in Hindi, the morpheme san can be attached to the end of someone’s name. For young children, chan is used instead. In Wagahai wa Neko de Aru (吾輩は猫である, I Am a Cat), a satirical novel written in 1905 and 1906 by Sōseki Natsume (1867–1916),

140  Translanguaging in Translation

there is a scene where a geisha addresses one of the male characters with Gen-chan (源ちゃん). Gen is his given name or a part of his given name. Chan should not be used for adults but is often used by geisha ladies to address their clients, whom they host and entertain, as it can show their affection, friendliness and playfulness. This norm-violating use of chan is very context-specific. In Ito and Wilson’s English translation of Wagahai wa Neko de Aru, Gen-chan is directly rendered along with this morpheme, as ‘Gen-chan’ (Ito & Wilson, 1972/2002: 25). A unique culturespecific human relationship in the specific context of adult entertainment cannot be conveyed if chan is deleted in this scene. Monolingual readers of their English translation might think that chan is a part of the man’s first name unless they pay special attention to the hyphen before chan. However, they can at least sense the auditory effect. To summarize, this section examined a variety of terms of address that are essential to convey the attitude of the speaker and the nature of human relationships, and some of them are directly used in translated texts. 4.6 Mimetics

Mimetics are sound-symbolic expressions. They can be categorized into phonomimes, phenomimes and psychomimes. Phonomimes approximate actual sounds. Phenomimes sound-symbolically represent manners and physical states. Psychomimes sound-symbolically represent psychological states. Phonomimes are more commonly called onomatopoeia, and other mimetics are called ideophones. As being sound-symbolic expressions, they are the only exceptions for Saussurean sound-meaning arbitrariness. This makes us predict that mimetics are the top candidates of translanguaging in translation. Does this prediction hold or not? 4.6.1 Japanese mimetics

Unlike in English where mimetics are peripheral elements, mimetic are a standard part of vocabulary in languages such as Japanese. First, the inventory of Japanese mimetics is extremely large. Japanese Onomatopoeia Dictionary (Nihongo Onomatope Jiten) compiled by Masahiro Ono lists 4500 mimetics (Ono, 2007). Second, Japanese mimetics are morphologically highly constrained. They typically have a base that consists of two light syllables or one heavy syllable with a long vowel or a moraic nasal (N), or a glottal stop (Q),1 and the base is frequently reduplicated, 2 as in: kara-kara kā-kā kaN-kaN kaQ-kaQ

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Some bases can be extended, being followed by the moraic nasal (N), the glottal stop (Q), or the syllable /ri/, or through vowel lengthening, resulting in three-mora length, and they may be reduplicated, as in: goroN-goroN goroQ-goroQ gorori-gorori gōN-gōN

Third, Japanese mimetics can be properly integrated in a sentence through productive morphosyntactic processes. They can be directly followed by the quotation particle to, the adverb formative particle ni, and the genitive particle no, the verb suru (to do), the verb iu (to say), and other elements to form a grammatical sentence. For example: Keshigomu ga koro-koro to korogatta. (My eraser rolled.) Nodo ga kara-kara ni kawaita. (I became very thirsty.) Fuwa-fuwa no taoru o katta. (I bought a fluffy towel.) Te ga beta-beta suru. (My hands are sticky.) Isu ga kī-kī iu. (My chair is squeaking.)

Fourth, Japanese mimetics presents a high level of sound-image correlation. Phonemes in a certain phonological environment within a mimetic word can be associated with specific semantic features to some extent (Hamano, 1998), and their meanings are further conditioned by their communicative contexts. For example, koro-koro may denote the chirping sound of cricket but may also denote the rolling movement of a small object or even a frequently changing someone’s decisions, depending on the context. Thus, Japanese mimetics vividly evoke auditory and imaginary sensations in each given context. They express ‘extremely vague impressions’ which are difficult to convey in ‘purely propositional terms’ (Sasamoto & Jackson, 2016: 17). Fifth, Japanese mimetics are often necessary to convey basic meanings. For example, to express actions such as waddling, trudging, trotting, etc., the Japanese must use a generic verb aruku (歩く, to walk) along with a mimetic word. The following examples are from Tsujimura (2014): To waddle: To trudge: To trot: To lumber: To plod: To stroll: To stagger: To toddle:

choko-choko aruku teku-teku aruku toko-toko aruku doshi-doshi aruku tobo-tobo aruku bura-bura aruku yota-yota aruku yochi-yochi aruku

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4.6.2 Mimetics in translation

Kita (1997: 380) argues that the semantic representation of Japanese mimetics belongs to the ‘affecto-imagistic dimension of meaning’, where languages have ‘direct contact with sensory, motor, and affective information’. However, is such direct contact between phonological features and imaginary sense universal? Can non-Japanese perceive the same image by hearing Japanese mimetics? Ihara and Iwahara (1938) show that sound– meaning relationships are not transparent cross-linguistically when comparing Chinese and Japanese speakers. Frei (1970), cited in Hirose (1981: 28), found that French speakers’ accessibility to Japanese onomatopoeias improves slightly once contexts are given. Iwasaki et al. (2007) show that English speakers’ accessibility to Japanese mimetics describing laughter is better than those describing walking, indicating that onomatopoeias are more easily accessible than ideophones. However, mimetics in Japanese are not likely to be rendered as mimetics in English translations. In an attempt to examine a Japanese text with multiple English translations with a focus on mimetics, E. Sato (2017) studies seven English translations of Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru written by Kenji Miyazawa (1896–1933) (discussed in Section 3.1.1, Section 3.3.4 and Section 4.5.1). Kenji Miyazawa is well-known for his abundant use of mimetics in his literary works. This novel is about a schoolboy (Giovanni) from a poor family and his surreal train trip through the stars on a summer night with his best friend (Campanella), but he does not realize that the train was actually transporting the dead to different destinations in the universe until the very end. The geographic setting is not made explicit. No Japanese proper names appear in the story. Many words related to the universe, nature, geology, agriculture, classical music, religions and myths are scattered throughout the novel. The targeted audience of this novel is school age children and adults judging from the length and the vocabulary level. The following are the seven English translations of this novel that were identified: Translation 1: Translation by John Bester (Miyazawa, 1987) Translation 2: Translation by Sarah Strong (Miyazawa, 1991) Translation 3: Translation by Roger Pulvers (Miyazawa, 1996/2009) Translation 4: Translation by Joseph Sigrist and D. M. Stroud (Sigrist & Stroud, 1996) Translation 5: Translation by Paul Quirk (Quirk, 2013) Translation 6: Translation by Julianne Neville (Neville, 2014) Translation 7: Translation by Shelley Marshall (Marshall, 2014)

The mimetics in the ST were first identified based on Ono’s (2007) dictionary3 and the mimetic renderings of the Japanese mimetics in the seven TTs were identified based on the Onomatopoeia List.4

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Table 4.1  Mimetic renderings of mimetics (E. Sato, 2017: 17) Translation

Renderings by mimetics (out of 258 instances of mimetics in the ST)

Translation 1

40 (15.50%)

Translation 2

42 (16.28%)

Translation 3

55 (21.32%)

Translation 4

40 (15.50%)

Translation 5

44 (17.05%)

Translation 6

24 (9.30%)

Translation 7

37 (14.34%)

Average

(15.61%)

Among the seven English translations, the average rate of the mimetic rendering of Japanese mimetics was 15.61% as shown in Table 4.1. However, some mimetics are difficult to be perceived as mimetics. For example, shikkari (tightly) is listed in Ono’s Onomatopoeia Dictionary but is usually perceived as a regular adjective or lexical word rather than a mimetic expression by native speakers of Japanese. Its mimeticity is not perceived strongly. This word originated as a mimetic word but has been lexicalized due to overuse. As a result, it is used as a lexical word now. E. Sato (2017) defines lexicalized mimetics and non-lexicalized mimetics as follows: If a mimetic word cannot be used as a label for a sound, a manner or a state in a cartoon without being perceived as a one-word sentence or a sentence fragment, it is a lexicalized mimetic word. Otherwise, it is a nonlexicalized mimetic word.

This definition is based on one of the eight criteria for mimeticity proposed by Tamori and Schourup (1999: 200), namely, ‘the ability to be used as a label in comic books’. However, it was made more specific for conducting a quantitative study. The basic assumption is that lexicalized mimetics have established morphosyntactic properties that help them ­connect to other words to form a sentence and thus cannot independently occur as a label in a cartoon unless it is perceived as a one-word sentence or a sentence fragment. This predicts that mimetics such as haQha (laughing), koro-koro (rolling movement), korori (rolling movement) and kusuQ (snickering sound) are non-lexicalized mimetics, whereas mimetics such as shikkari (firmly) and yukkuri (slowly) are lexicalized mimetics because the latter cannot stand by themselves as labels in a cartoon although they can be perceived as a one-word sentence or a sentence fragment. Similarly, it predicts English mimetics such as tick-tock, kaboom and bzzzz are nonlexicalized mimetics, but mimetics such as rustle and whisper are

144  Translanguaging in Translation

lexicalized mimetics because the latter cannot stand by themselves as labels in a cartoon although they can be perceived as a one-word sentence or a sentence fragment. Among all instances of mimetics in the Japanese ST (258 instances, 107 unique items), 29.84% (77 instances, 11 unique items) were lexicalized mimetics and 70.16% (181 instances, 96 unique items) were non-­lexicalized mimetics. Table 4.2 shows that almost no lexicalized mimetics are mimetically rendered, and only about one-fifth of non-lexicalized mimetics were mimetically rendered, most of which were by lexicalized mimetics: What we are interested in is non-lexicalized mimetics. What Table 4.2 shows is that only 2.05% of non-lexicalized mimetics are rendered as nonlexicalized mimetics, and the rest are rendered as lexicalized mimetics if not deleted or explained. The total number of non-lexicalized-to-nonlexicalized (NL-to-NL) rendering was 26, which results from the following six ST items: gīgīfū gīgīfū (sound of a comet’s approaching) goto-goto (goto-goto) (sound of a train’s movement) gyā-gyā (birds’ squawking) haQha (laughing) kachiQ kachiQ (clock’s ticking) patari patari (the sound of a machine’s rotation)

Interestingly, all six of these mimetics are onomatopoeias, and not ideophones. This is fascinating because onomatopoeias constitute only 12.40% of the mimetics in the ST, whereas ideophones constitute 87.60%. Furthermore, all six of these items involve some degree of repetition, suggesting that the mimeticity conveyed by onomatopoeias with repetition is Table 4.2  Mimetic renderings of mimetics (lexicalized/non-lexicalized) (E. Sato, 2017: 17) Lexicalized mimetics in the ST (77 instances)

Non-lexicalized mimetics in the ST (181 instances)

Renderings as lexicalized mimetics

Renderings as lexicalized mimetics

Renderings as non-lexicalized mimetics

Renderings as non-lexicalized mimetics

Translation 1

0 (0.00%)

0 (0.00%)

37 (20.44%)

3 (1.66%)

Translation 2

0 (0.00%)

0 (0.00%)

38 (20.99%)

4 (2.21%)

Translation 3

0 (0.00%)

0 (0.00%)

53 (29.28%)

2 (1.10%)

Translation 4

1 (1.30%)

0 (0.00%)

36 (19.89%)

3 (1.66%)

Translation 5

0 (0.00%)

0 (0.00%)

35 (19.34%)

9 (4.97%)

Translation 6

0 (0.00%)

0 (0.00%)

21 (11.60%)

3 (1.66%)

Translation 7

1 (1.30%)

0 (0.00%)

34 (18.78%)

2 (1.10%)

Average %

(0.37%)

(0.00%)

(20.05%)

(2.05%)

Words 145

less negligible and/or more reproducible by onomatopoeia for translators than the mimeticity conveyed by ideophones. One question is how and why the limited number of NL-to-NL mimetic renderings were realized in the TTs. Another question is whether some of them show any signs of translanguaging in the broader sense. If translanguaging of mimetics occurs in translation at all, NL-to-NL mimetic renderings are the most likely hosts for it because NL-mimetics have no inherent morphosyntactic lexical properties but have feeling-evoking expressiveness that lexicalized mimetics do not have. The following subsections analyze six Japanese NL-mimetics that yielded NL-to-NL mimetic renderings. Gī-gī-fū gī-gī-fū

The protagonist hears a conversation between a little boy and his sister about comets in the train. The following is the quotation of the little boy’s speech, which includes a non-lexicalized (NL) mimetic word created by Miyazawa, gī-gī-fū: 「それから彗星がギーギーフーギーギーフーて云って来たねえ。」 ‘Sorekara hōkiboshi-ga gī-gī-fū gī-gī-fū-Qte itte-kita ne’. Then, a comet came as saying, gī-gī-fū gī-gī-fū.

The following are its renderings in the seven translations: Translation 1.  ‘Then a shooting star came along blowing and wheezing’. Translation 2. ‘And then a comet came by huffing and puffing’. Translation 3. ‘And the comet came whooshing by. Whoosh! Whoosh!’ Translation 4. ‘And along came a shooting star -- woosh! woosh!’ Translation 5.  ‘And the broom star went swoosh-swoosh, swoosh-swoosh’. Translation 6. ‘... and then a comet came buzzing past them! Whoosh!’ Translation 7. ‘And then a comet zooms by’.

This case is unique in that seven out of seven (100%) English renderings are done by mimetics, four of which (57.14%) were done by non-lexicalized mimetics (whoosh, woosh or swoosh). Why is there such a high rate of mimetic rendering and high rate of non-lexicalized to non-lexicalized mimetic rendering (NL-to-NL mimetic rendering)? A possible reason is because this word occurs as a part of a quoted child’s speech. Because it occurs in a child’s quote, the occurrence of a non-lexicalized mimetic word is stylistically unmarked in English and thus, presents little risk for translators. Goto-goto goto-goto

Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru is about the journey through the stars and the protagonist encounters many people and things as the train (steam engine) continues to run. The perpetual motion of the train is expressed by a

146  Translanguaging in Translation

non-lexicalized mimetic word with a reduplicated base goto, four times in this novel, as goto-goto (once) or goto-goto goto-goto (three times). For example, the following excerpt includes, goto-goto goto-goto: ごとごとごとごと、その小さなきれいな汽車は、そらのすすきの風にひるがえ る中を、天の川の水や、三角点の青じろい微光の中を、どこまでもどこまでも と、走って行くのでした。 Goto-goto goto-goto, sono chīsana kireina kisha-wa, sora-no susuki-no kaze-ni hirugaeru naka-o, ten-no kawa-no mizu-ya, sankakuten-no aojiroi bikō-no naka-o, doko-made-mo doko-made-mo, hashitte iku-no-deshita. Goto-goto goto-goto, the small pretty train, inside of pampas grass in the sky as they are swayed by the wind, inside of the water of the Milky Way and the faint lights of the triangle markers, infinitely further, infinitely further, was going.

The following are the seven English translations of this sentence. Translation 1: Clatter-clatter, clatter-clatter, went the pretty little train, through the fluttering of the sky-pampas grass in the breeze, through the pale glimmerings of the markers and the waters of the Milky Way, on and on forever… Translation 2: With a clickety-clack the pretty little train sped on and on through the celestial pampas grass waving in the wind, through the bluish glimmer from the water and the triangular lights. Translation 3: The beautiful little train, chugging and clanking its way through the pampas grass that waved in the sky and through the waters of the Milky Way and the glimmering milky-white lights of triangle and deltas, was running on its endless journey. Translation 4: With a steady chug-chug, the little train went on through the fields of heavenly marsh grass waving in the breeze, on through the faint blue light of the triangular signals, on by the water of the great river, on and on it went. Translation 5: The tiny majestic train traveled on endlessly, chuggachugga, chugga-chugga, through the silver grass in the sky that rippled beneath the wind; passed the water of the Celestial River and the pale-blue whispers of light from the signal markers. Translation 6: The train traveled on and on beside the swaying silver pampas, the clear river water, and the faint lights of the signposts. Translation 7: The splendid little train chugged along to a destination somewhere in the fluttering winds of the silver pampas grass in the sky and in the waters of the Milky Way or in the faint bluish-white lights at the three vertices of some triangle.

Words 147

In this excerpt, not only goto-goto but also doko-made-mo (infinitely further) are repeated, and there are two locative phrases that end in naka-o (inside of …), all in one sentence. Such an extensive repetition of multiple items, mimetic or non-mimetic, within a sentence makes this narrative sound stylistically marked. However, this stylistic markedness has a rhetorical effect of making this narrative sound like a fast-paced realtime reporting from a moving train. In particular, the metronome-like extensive repetition of the non-lexicalized mimetic word is essential for expanding the pragmatic dimension of the text, making the readers feel as though they are in the moving train. 5 None of the translations directly render goto-goto goto-goto, but Translations 1 and 5 employ the marked extensive repetition: clatter-­ clatter, clatter-clatter and chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga. The marked repetition in the ST and the TT vividly evokes continued auditory and imaginary sensations. The rhetorical effect of repetition is significant. Repetition results in a rhythmic pattern and sweeps the readers along (Tanner, 1984). Although phonemes in this mimetic word have not been maintained, its prosodic feature, namely marked repetition, permeates through a linguistic boundary either naturally without resistance or strategically taking the risk of sounding marginal through translation. The prosodic feature of the ST is mapped onto the TTs in this case. Gyā-gyā

The protagonist sees thousands of herons 6 suddenly coming down from the sky like snowflakes and the bird catcher swiftly grabs some of them by their legs and puts them in a cloth sack. Then, their eyes close after glowing for a few seconds in the cloth sack. The rest of the herons descend on the sands near the river, melt down and then evaporate. A part of this scene is described as below: [...]鷺が、まるで雪の降るように、ぎゃあぎゃあ叫びながら、いっぱいに舞い おりて来ました。 sagi-ga marude yuki-no furu-yōni, gyā-gyā sakebi-nagara, ippaini orite kimashita ...herons, just like falling of snow, as crying gyā-gyā, numerous, fell down as dancing.

The following are the seven translations of this line: Translation 1: [a] flock of herons ... came fluttering down like snowflakes, calling as they came. Translation 2: They cried as they came. Translation 3: … a veritable snowfall of herons, squawking and calling, come fluttering down ... Translation 4: They came dancing down in a great cloud like falling snow, calling as they came.

148  Translanguaging in Translation

Translation 5: Just then, a massive flock of herons like ..., descended all at once..., squawking like thunder: gyaah-gyaah gyaah-gyaah. Translation 6: Herons ... began ..., falling downward like snowflakes. Translation 7: ..., many heron, ..., squawking ‘gya gya’ gently landed, falling like snow.

The non-lexicalized mimetic word for the cry of the herons, gyā-gyā, in the ST is directly rendered in Translation 5 and Translation 7, as gyaah-gyaah gyaah-gyaah and gya gya, respectively. Why did they have to use this onomatopoeia? They also use the word squawking, so the meaning is clear. In addition, it is not occurring in a child’s quoted speech, and thus it presents a risk of sounding unnatural in English. Why did they take a risk and directly rendered this onomatopoeia? Is there any benefit? It is possible that the use of a non-lexicalized mimetic word in this context has a significant rhetorical benefit. A major theme of the novel is death as a natural, universal and peaceful transition from life. In this scene, many herons make the sound ‘gyā-gyā’ and then some of them die in the cloth sack while the rest die on the sand by the river. The sound these birds make in this scene is the very last sound they make in their lifetime. Only non-lexicalized mimetics (onomatopoeias), rather than lexicalized mimetics, can directly appeal to the reader’s sensory systems and provoke feelings toward the last moment of the herons’ lives and provide a much-needed sound that most vividly and realistically symbolizes their lives, instantly expanding the pragmatic dimension of the text. HaQha

The bird catcher reports his earlier humorous response to the complaints about the outrageous number of birds, and then laughs. The end of his response and his laugh, haQha, are presented in a quote in the ST, as below: 「...斯う云ってやりましたがね、はっは。」 ‘..., kō itte yarimashita ga ne, haQha’. ‘... (I) said this (to them), Haha’.

The following are the seven translations of this line: Translation 1: Translation 2: Translation 3: Translation 4: Translation 5: Translation 6: Translation 7:

‘... That’s what I told them!’ He laughed. ‘... I told the people, .... Ha, ha!’ ‘...I gave it to ‘em, I did! Ha!’ ‘.... And that’s what I told them!’ ‘Go tell that .... Ha ha ha, Ol’ Scarecrow!’ ‘... That’s what I told them, all right. Ha ha!’ ‘... I ... became .... Ha, ha, ha!’

Words 149

The non-lexicalized mimetic here is a laugh of the bird catcher. It is omitted in Translation 1 and Translation 4 but rendered by a similar non-lexicalized mimetic expression in the rest. The high rate of NL-to-NL mimetic rendering is probably due to the fact that it is a vocative and occurs in a quote. Vocatives are part of sound symbolism and Ono (2007) lists haQhaQ as an onomatopoeia for laughter. HaQha here is just its shortened version. The sound depicted by vocatives is created by a human’s vocal tract and are more transparent across languages. Tic, tic, tic

The protagonist sees a bluish-white clock in front of him when the train stopped at some station. He hears the clock’s pendulum ticking. Then, he gradually starts hearing the faint melody of the New World Symphony. The following is the excerpt that describes the clock’s ticking: [...]その振子は[...]カチッカチッと正しく時を刻んで行くのでした。 [...] sono furiko-wa [...] kachiQ-kachiQ-to tadashiku toki-o kizandeiku nodeshita. … that pendulum precisely etched time kachiQ-kachiQ.

The seven translations of this line are as follows: Translation 1: … and the pendulum marked off the time with a precise tick-tock, tick-tock. Translation 2: … the pendulum went on swinging, tick-tock, tick-tock, precisely counting the time. Translation 3: … and a pendulum ticktocked the time … Translation 4: … as the tick-tock of the pendulum drifted out …, sure and steady, marking out the time. Translation 5: … the clock pendulum carefully etched away time - tick, tick, tick. Translation 6: … and the ticktock of its pendulum swept across the silent fields. Translation 7: … the clock pendulum carefully etched away time - tick, tick, tick In Japanese, there is an established non-lexicalized mimetic word exclusively used for a clock’s ticking, chiku-taku. Ono (2007: 248) claims that chiku-taku was derived from tick-tock in English: He lists chiku-taku and its variation chiQku-taQku and provides attested usage examples from the early 20th century. However, instead of this common mimetic word for a clock’s ticking, kachiQ kachiQ, a mimetic word for a variety of clicking sounds, is used in this context in the ST. Translations 1, 2, 3 and 4 use a common mimetic word for a clock’s ticking in English, tick-tock or its verb version, ticktocked. By contrast, Translations 5 and 7 use tick, tick, tick, which is less typical for a clock’s

150  Translanguaging in Translation

ticking than tick-tock. What is the benefit of using a less typical mimetic for a clock’s ticking in the TT, just as in the ST? In fact, there is a rhetorical benefit for this. The use of a mimetic expression that can apply to a wide range of clicking sounds allows the overlap between the clock’s ticking and the metronome-like introduction of the New World Symphony that immediately follows in this context, providing an auditory anticipatory clue to the readers and enabling a smooth transition from one scene to the other. Overriding the ‘typicality’ to adapt the pragmatically needed phonological feature of mimetics was found in both ST and TT. Batari batari

In the print shop where the protagonist works part-time after school, many rotary presses are turning and making noise. It is described in the ST as below, with a non-lexicalized mimetic word batari batari: [...] たくさんの輪転器がばたりばたりとまわり[...] [...] takusan-no rintenki-ga batari-batari-to mawari [...] ...numerous rotary presses were turning batari-batari, ….

The following are its seven translations: Translation 1: [...] a large number of rotary presses were thudding round and round, [...] Translation 2:  [...] several rotary printing presses were in noisy operation. Translation 3: [...] rotary presses were clacking and clanging away [...] Translation 4: [...] a great number of rotary presses were churning and changing away. Translation 5: [...] there were a dozen or more printing presses going clunk - clunk, as they spun noisily around; [...] Translation 6: [...] the many rotary presses were shaking noisily. Translation 7: [...] the churning of many rotary printing presses and cutters, [...] Clunk-clunk in Translation 5 is the only NL-to-NL mimetic rendering in this context. It is a low-risk choice because clunk-clunk is commonly used in English. As we can see, non-lexicalized mimetics in Japanese in a literary text are rarely rendered as non-lexicalized mimetics in its English translation. The main reason for its limitation is the difference in the norms of the two languages. Non-lexicalized mimetics are unnatural in English. As claimed by Venuti (1995), any signs of unnaturalness or foreignness tend to be frowned in translation practices in Anglo-America. However, the qualitative studies of rare NL-to-NL cases clearly show that the possibility of NL-to-NL rendering is crucially constrained by a general decision-making theory ‘Minimax’ prevalent in translation studies

Words 151

(Levy, 1967/2000). NL-to-NL renderings can expand the pragmatic dimension of the text by providing auditory sensations and provoking feelings. Using them entirely or just using their prosodic features can be extremely beneficial for conveying the pragmatics of the text, as exemplified by Translation 5, for vividly presenting the last cries of numerous birds (gyaah-gyaah gyaah-gyaah), for smoothly transitioning from a mysterious clock’s ticking to orchestrated symphony (tick, tick, tick), and for bringing the readers back to the protagonist’s journey on one evening on a continuously running train (chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga). 4.6.3 Translanguaging and the nature of mimetics

Mimeticity is not binary, but gradual. Words may be strongly mimetic, slightly mimetic or not mimetic, or only lexical. Fully fledged mimetic expressions immediately evoke images of the sound, state, manner or emotion. On the other hand, lexicalized mimetics appear as a full-fledged lexicalized word with proper morphosyntactic features, but still bears the warmth of mimeticity and slightly reminds us of the image of sound, state, manner or emotion. Word properties are, in most part, not binary, but are full of overlaps, ambiguities, delusions, illusions, and vagueness, but they emerge from our senses in a given context as a mimetic or metaphoric expression, develop some forms and meanings, and may become solid lexical item. Newmark (1988: 108) states that metaphors form a spectrum between two poles: ‘original metaphor’ and ‘lexicalized metaphor’. The two poles can be described as ‘live’ and ‘dead’ or ‘warm’ and ‘cold’. This also applies to mimetics. Words do not come into existence overnight. They emerge in contexts: Linguistic features are deployed and cause some chemical reaction in the context of their use. Just like interlingual translanguaging, intralingual translanguaging can capture the nature of the emergence of words, where words evolve from metaphors and mimetics. This translanguaging nature of word emergence explains why it is not always easy to identify mimetic words. The word doN-doN (progressively) and daN-daN (gradually) appear repeatedly in Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru written. These two words are extremely similar. Both are frequently used, indicate a progression and have repetition of a heavy syllable whose onset and coda consonants are /d/ and /N/, respectively. However, only doN-doN is listed in Ono’s (2007) Japanese Onomatopoeia Dictionary: DaN-daN is listed in Ono’s (2007) dictionary only to represent roundness or banging sound, but not to mean gradually. Scholars do not always agree on the status of daN-daN. Mikami (2007) includes daN-daN (gradually) in the discussion of mimetics. Although these words are etymologically different, Japanese speakers usually perceive mimeticity from both words.

152  Translanguaging in Translation

Nonetheless, native-speakers’ perceptions of mimeticity are subject to change over time. Some mimetics are lexicalized with a perceivable mimeticity while others are lexicalized without it. For example, biQkuri and odoroku were derived from mimetics that express a surprise; however, biQkuri is a lexicalized mimetic with some mimeticity whereas odoroku is a lexical word without a perceivable mimeticity according to Kubo (1997: 4). By contrast, some mimetics can be derived from lexical words. For example, the mimetic word ozu-ozu (fearful) was derived from ozu, the archaic conjugated form of the verb ojiru (to fear) according to Ono (2007: 17). Similarly, the mimetic word chuckle in English was derived from the name of a type of laughing (Tamori & Schourup, 1999: 200). These are cases of inverse lexicalization, where a non-mimetic lexical word became a mimetic word. These cases predict that phonological features of full lexical words trigger a birth of new mimetics as a case of congeneric assimilation (Bloomfield, 1895: 410). Such a bidirectional metamorphoses from lexical words to mimetics, and vice versa, discussed above, can repeat cyclically in any direction, making the native speaker’s perception of mimeticity unstable, in the same way word meanings are unstable as viewed by deconstructionists (Derrida, 1982). The bidirectional metamorphoses discussed above also cause an illusion of the association between sounds and meanings in mimetics, especially in ideophones, whose sound-symbolism is more abstract than that of onomatopoeias. However, the illusion of mimeticity is not limited to ideophones, either. Onomatopoeias are in fact societally constructed. This is the very reason why the same breed of dogs barks differently depending on the societally constructed notion of ‘languages’: ruff ruff in English, wan wan in Japanese, mung mung in Korean, and gav gav in Russian, etc. Therefore, mimetics are the products of a societally constructed melting pot of language features. Ono (2007: 512) presents over 200 Japanese mimetics that were creatively derived from Sino-Japanese words, using the phonological or semantic features of Chinese characters. Such mimetics can be written in Chinese characters, but more and more of them are commonly written in kana (Japanese phonetic syllabary symbols), making it difficult even for native speakers of Japanese to perceive their Sino-Japanese roots as discussed in Ono (2007: 512). Three of the Sino-Japanese mimetics listed in Ono (2007) appear in Miyazawa’s novel “Ginga Tetsudō no Yoru” discussed in Section 4.6.2 and they are all written in kana: shiN-shiN (しんしん > 岑岑, smarting pain); saN-saN (さんさん > 燦燦, brilliantly shine); sei-sei (せいせい > 清清, refreshed). In addition, some mimetic words were derived from English. For example, chikutaku (チクタク, a clock’s ticking) was derived from tick-tock and jiguzagu (ジグザク, frequent sharp turns from side to side) was derived from zigzag according to Ono (2007).

Words 153

4.7 Conclusion

Use of SL words and morphemes in translation does not necessarily disrupt the comprehension of the text because contexts in which they are used can serve as scaffolding and provide most of the information that can help the readers of the TT narrow down the meaning of the SL words. This is akin to the immersion method for second language acquisition or even to the process of first language acquisition. In our technologically advanced era, TT readers can also easily check word meanings through internet search. As they search these words, they can learn more about the history, society and the culture of the ST and enhance their appreciation of the ST. Mimetic words in Japanese are mostly rendered by lexical words or deleted in English translations. However, new mimetic words may be formed from lexical word or borrowings, and new lexical words may be formed from mimetic words through intralingual and interlingual translanguaging practices. Notes (1) I will represent moraic nasal with N and a glottal stop with Q only if they are a part of a mimetic word in this section. (2) Reduplicated forms may have a slightly altered syllable as in dogi-magi. (3) The mimetic words obviously created by the author of the novel were counted as mimetics even though they are not listed in Ono’s (2007) dictionary. (4) The Onomatopoeia List (onomatopoeialist.com) lists 997 mimetics in English. (5) See Abdulla (2001) and Dahlgren (2005) for the significance of keeping a reiterative device in translation. (6) Herons are medium to large-sized birds with long legs and necks. They are widespread freshwater and coastal partially migratory birds.

5 Contexts

This chapter examines how translanguaging in translation, both interlingual and intralingual, can contribute to the preservation and manipulation of contextual meanings. In particular, we will examine metaphors, language plays, and heterolingual texts. 5.1 Metaphors

Metaphors pose a challenge to translators because what they mean is not what they literally mean, and what they actually mean cannot be understood without considering the pragmatic context of the text and the sociocultural environment that surrounds it. Thus, metaphors are particularly difficult to translate especially when the metaphor is culturespecific. This section considers the nature of metaphors and how metaphors should be translated. 5.1.1 Metaphorization

In Approaches to Translation, Newmark divides metaphors into three categories: original (creative) metaphors, standard (stock) metaphors and dead (fossilized) metaphors (Newmark, 1981). Similar threefold classifications have been proposed by other scholars of translation studies. Bally (1951) classifies them into metaphors with concrete images, metaphors with affective (or weakened) images and metaphors with dead images (cited in Vinay & Darbelnet, 1995). Van den Broeck (1981) classifies them into private metaphors, conventional metaphors and lexicalized metaphors. These trifold classifications do not provide clear-cut divisions. Metaphors have lives. Some explicit metaphors, or original metaphors, become standard metaphors after overuse, and ultimately lexicalized, creating new words (Newmark, 1988). That is, metaphors emerge and decay during their lifespans, from fully alive (original metaphors), to half-alive (standard metaphors) and then to dead (lexicalized). What makes metaphors interesting is the roles that they play for language evolution. New words and new word meanings are created through metaphorization. Metaphorization is a fundamental cognitive and linguistic action that involves the identification of a similarity, relevance, 154

Contexts 155

association or categorization. Thus, it is the innate cognitive human ability and their inherent behavior that support their translanguaging practices, where linguistic features across languages and semiotic classes are deployed creatively and critically, in a sense described by García and Li (2014) and Lee and Li (2020). Thus, metaphorization in this sense includes not only stereotypical explicit metaphor-making but also sound symbolism and coinage. Sound symbolism is a kind of metaphorization in a sense that it is enabled by the identification of similarities between what we hear and what we associate it with. They are the simplest and more direct metaphorization. The following are onomatopoeia made into stickers sold online1: BANG!

ZAPP! SPLASH! KAPOW! GRRRR! Through overuse, some onomatopoeias develop into lexical words gaining morpho-syntactic features, and then fully function in a sentence as nouns and verbs. For example, BANG can appear in a grammatical sentence as in: There was a loud bang as she slammed the front door. I banged on the window to get his attention. I heard a banging sound from upstairs.

Similarly, ZAPP can also do so: Hundreds of bugs were zapped by these devices last night. I felt a little zap from this toaster.

Through even more overuse, they cease to emit their sound-symbolic features. Words such as shine, rush and laugh were derived from onomatopoeias but do not let us sense much auditory images. As discussed in Section 4.6, there are some lexicalized mimetic words in Japanese, for example, bikkuri-suru and odoroku, both of which mean to be surprised (Kubo, 1997: 4). Japanese speakers can still sense the mimeticity in bikkuri-suru because biku or biku-biku is a mimetic word that represents surprise, shock, nervousness or fear in Japanese. However, they can sense almost no mimeticity with odoroku. Coinage based on names is also a part of metaphorization in a sense that words are created based on an identified relevance. A number of brand names were first used metaphorically as metonyms and became common nouns. For example, Cellophane, Dumpster and Styrofoam were brand names, which are now used as common nouns:

156  Translanguaging in Translation

She wrapped the present in cellophane. We need to rent a dumpster before demolishing the kitchen. Don’t get takeout in styrofoam containers.

Some company names such as Google, Xerox and Federal Express are used as verbs through metaphorization based on the identification of strong relevance: Why don’t you Google him? She vacuumed and Ajaxed the bathroom. The bank FedExed me a letter.

They function as metonyms, but with full morphosyntactic features. Metaphorization also expands word meanings based on identified associations and similarities. Black (1955: 285) argues that metaphors ‘create’ similarities rather than formulate some similarities ‘antecedently existing’ in some cases. Thus, our linguistic creativity is deeply rooted in our metaphorization practices. Lyons (1968: 406) argues that they help us extend word meanings. For example, the word star means a luminous celestial object, but it has gained a meaning, a person who performs brilliantly, as in: Bob is the star in our sales division. It must have started to be used creatively, but after overuse, its meaning ‘a brilliant performer’ has become transparent to the extent that it does not shock us with the image of the luminous star in the sky anymore. It is a well-established part of the meanings of ‘start’ now. Word meanings are not fixed. Word meanings are open. Louw (1995: 358) argues that ‘whenever a word is used, a meaning comes from the usage’. Languages emerge and are shaped through being used. Phrases become idioms through metaphorization and then through overuse. Idioms in a language may be used in another language as calques. The following are examples of calques from Chinese: xǐn nǎo (洗脑/洗腦) → brainwashing cǎo gēn (草根/草根) → grassroots diū liǎn (丢脸/丟臉) → lose face

These calques directly transfer metaphoric language use from one language to the other, preserving their syntactic structures. Then, after overuse, they cease to evoke the images of literal meanings. Without being consciously known by current English speakers, these words bear the history of deploying the linguistic features of other named languages. Our metaphorization practices are not limited to explicit metaphors. We also use implicit metaphors, which are unconsciously used in our daily

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lives. Lakoff and Johnson (1980: 6) claim that ‘human thought processes are largely metaphorical’ and that is the very reason why we can create metaphors as linguistic expressions. Thus, we are surrounded by metaphors as long as we think and speak without realizing, and our metaphorizing activities are shaping how we think, speak and perceive. They discuss implicit metaphors such as structural metaphors, orientational metaphors and ontological metaphors. A structural metaphor forces one concept to structure another. For example, ARGUMENT IS WAR is a structural metaphor, where the concept WAR structures another concept ARGUMENT. This explains why the following sentences include words in italics: Your claims are indefensible. He attacked every weak point in my argument. His criticisms were right on target. I’ve never won an argument with him. If you use that strategy, he’ll wipe you out. He shot down all of my arguments. (Lakoff & Johnson, 1980: 4)

In our mind, argument is war, and we use our language to describe arguments as wars. An orientational metaphor involves spatial orientations such as updown, in-out, front-back, on-off, deep-shallow and central-peripheral and gives ‘a spatial orientation’ to a concept (Lakoff & Johnson, 1980: 14). For example, concepts such as ‘happy,’ ‘conscious,’ ‘health,’ ‘life’ and ‘good’ are UP, but concepts such as ‘sad,’ ‘unconscious,’ ‘sickness,’ ‘death’ and ‘bad’ are DOWN. Thus, the orientational metaphor ‘HAPPY IS UP’ and ‘SAD IS DOWN’ explain why the following sentences include words in italics: I’m feeling up. My spirits rose. You’re in high spirits. Thinking about her always gives me a lift. I’m feeling down. I’m depressed. He’s really low these days. My spirits sank. (Lakoff & Johnson, 1980: 15)

Ontological metaphors define the way we view intangible concepts as entities or substances. Thanks to ontological metaphors, we can refer to intangible concepts, categorize them and qualify them. For example, our experience of rising prices can be referred to by us as we view it

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metaphorically as an entity via the noun inflation. Thus, we can refer to it and talk about it: Inflation is lowering our standard of living. If there’s much more inflation, we’ll never survive. We need to combat inflation. Inflation is backing us into a corner. Inflation makes me sick. If there’s much more inflation, we’ll never survive. (Lakoff & Johnson, 1980: 26)

The idea that inflation is an entity is so fundamental to our thought and language that we do not view it as a metaphor. These examples show that our linguistic activities are deeply rooted in metaphorization. 5.1.2 Translating metaphors

Our language use and our language norms are heavily dependent on metaphorization that includes not only creative associations but also sound symbolism and implicit metaphors that surround our daily lives as discussed in Section 5.1.1. Now, the question is how we should translate metaphors. Van den Broeck (1981) lists three logical possibilities for translating metaphors from a source language (SL) to a target language (TL), which are translation ‘sensu stricto’, substitution, and paraphrase. Adopting the traditional terms ‘tenor’ and ‘vehicle’ in I.A. Richards (1936), Van den Broeck (1981) defines and describes them as below: (i) Translation ‘sensu stricto’: A metaphor is translated ‘sensu stricto’ whenever both SL ‘tenor’ and SL ‘vehicle’ are transferred into the TL. For lexicalized metaphors, this mode of translating may give rise to two different situations depending on whether or not the SL and the TL use corresponding ‘vehicles’: (a) If the ‘vehicles’ in SL and TL correspond, the resulting TL metaphor will be idiomatic. (b) I f the ‘vehicles’ in SL and TL differ, the resulting TL metaphor may be either a semantic anomaly or a daring innovation. (ii) Substitution: This mode applies to those cases where the SL ‘vehicle’ is replaced by a different TL ‘vehicle’ with more or less the same ‘tenor’. Then, the SL and TL ‘vehicles’ may be considered translational equivalents in that they share a common ‘tenor’. (iii) Paraphrase: An SL metaphor is paraphrased whenever it is rendered by a non-metaphorical expression in the TL. In fact, this mode of translating metaphors renders them into ‘plain speech’; the resulting TL expression comes up to the level of a commentary. (Van den Broeck, 1981: 77)

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Toury (1995) warns that we should not ignore the cases where metaphors are simply deleted through translation and that the unit of metaphor is not always straightforward. He claims that the descriptive study of metaphors in translation should proceed not only from the source text (ST) to its target text (TT) but also from the TT because nonmetaphors may become metaphors through translation and metaphors may be created when there is no obvious necessity through translation. Newmark (1988) presents prescriptive account of metaphors in translation. For him, metaphors are the figurative use of linguistic elements, which may consist of just one word, but may extend to a collocation, an idiom, a sentence, a proverb, an allegory or a complete imaginative text. He describes metaphors using the terms, ‘object’, ‘image’ and ‘sense’ among others, where ‘object’ is what is described or qualified by the metaphor, ‘image’ is the picture conjured by the metaphor and ‘sense’ is the resemblance or the semantic area overlapping object and image (Newmark, 1988: 104–106). Newmark believes that the choice of translation method for metaphors depends on the type of the metaphors. He classifies metaphors into six types – original metaphors, recent metaphors, stock/standard metaphors, adapted metaphors, cliché metaphors and dead metaphors – and provides his prescriptive view on how each type of metaphors should be translated (Newmark, 1988: 100–113): (1) Original metaphors: They are explicit metaphors and should be translated literally as much as possible, especially if they appear in expressive texts. (2) Recent metaphors: They are metaphorical neologism, which spread rapidly after being created and may disappear quickly. They should be translated literally if the sense is clear to the readership. (3) Stock or standard metaphors: They are established metaphors, but they have not completely deadened yet by overuse and still have certain emotional warmth. They should be translated with care, respecting their image and cultural differences. (4) Adapted metaphors: They are stock metaphors that have been adapted to the new context, and they should be translated carefully just as stock/standard metaphors. (5) Cliché metaphors: They are metaphors that have temporarily outlived their usefulness but are used as a substitute for clear thought. They should be reduced to sense considering the economy and the nature of the text. (6) Dead metaphors: They are those that hardly evoke images, and they should be translated preserving the sense. Newmark’s classification of metaphors summarized above is constructed based on the life of metaphors, and the life of metaphors is

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assessed by their ability to evoke an image. That is, ‘image’ is the indicator of the life of metaphors. The first type of metaphors (original metaphors) is fully alive as they evoke images. The second type of metaphors (recent metaphors) is also alive, but their lives tend to be sporadic, temporary or short although they receive instant pervasive attention when created. The third type of metaphors (stock or standard metaphors) is usually perceived as dead but is not completely dead as they may still evoke images. Thus, translators must be careful when translating stock/ standard metaphors. The fourth type of metaphors (adapted metaphors) is only the applied versions of the third type, and thus their states are basically the same. The fifth type of metaphors (cliché metaphors) is almost dead as they do not evoke images anymore although they are recognized as outdated metaphors. The last type of metaphors in Newmark’s classification (dead metaphors) is dead as they do not evoke images and are rarely recognized as metaphors. Newmark’s classification of metaphors is not discrete but forms a continuum between fully alive and completely dead, judged by the degree of vividness of the image that they evoke. 5.1.3 Stock metaphor ‘nure-nezumi’

One of the treacherous types of metaphors categorized by Newmark (1988) is stock metaphors, which are mostly dead, but not completely deadened, and their images may or may not be evoked. E. Sato (2015) examines one of the Japanese stock metaphor nure-nezumi (ぬれ鼠), which literally means ‘soaked rat’ but actually refers to the state when one gets soaking wet being caught in the rain. The sentence Takeshi wa nurenezumi ni natta means ‘Takeshi got caught in the rain and got soaking wet’. Should nure-nezumi be rendered according to its sense (got caught in the rain and got wet) or according to its image (soaked rat)? Should it be rendered by equivalent stock metaphor in English such as ‘drowned rats’? The answer depends on if this metaphor is still alive or dead. In other words, if the image is evoked or not. The image may not be evoked if we hear this metaphor, nure-nezumi, by itself. However, the image may be revived in the context it is placed. The stock metaphor nure-nezumi is used in the Japanese poem  ‘Bansan’ (晩餐, dinner), which was discussed in Section 4.3 regarding the units of measurement. This poem was written by Kotaro Takamura (1883–1956) in April in 1914, a few months after he got married to Chieko. It depicts one of the dinners that he had with her. Foods that they bought are listed with price reference, and their sensory/instinctive experience during and after the dinner is vividly described. The poem ends in a statement, ‘This is our dinner, the dinner of the poor’.

Contexts 161

In this poem, eight common Japanese food items appear in the first stanza: #1 Kome (米, rice) #2  Kusaya no himono (くさやの干もの, fermented dried fish): fish brined and fermented in salty and stinky tea-colored thick liquid and then sun-dried #3  Takuan (沢庵, pickled daikon radish): Japanese daikon-radish dried and pickled with rice bran, seaweed and yellow food coloring #4  Shōga no akadzuke (生姜の赤漬: sliced ginger pickled with red food coloring) #5  Tamago (玉子, eggs) #6 Nori (海苔, dried and flattened seaweed) #7  Satsuma-age (薩摩あげ, deep-fried fishcake): deep-fried fishcake, originated in Satsuma (current Kagoshima) in Kyushu in Japan, occasionally include chopped or shredded vegetables #8  Katsuo no shiokara (かつをの塩辛ら, salted and fermented bonito entrails)

All items except rice and eggs are culture-specific Japanese food. These food items represent several different colors: white: red: yellow: brown: peach-brown: black:

rice pickled ginger egg; pickled daikon-radish fermented dried fish; deep-fried fishcake salted and fermented bonito entrails dried seaweed

They also present essential nutrients to sustain our biological life such as: carbohydrates: proteins: minerals: fats: vitamins:

rice egg, fish, fishcake seaweed deep-fried fishcake all of the foods

The colors, shapes, textures and smells as well as the nutrients represented by the eight food items in this poem jointly evoke images of our body and our biological being. For example, they evoke the image of: organ: the color and the shape, texture and smell of fermented fish entrails blood: the red color of pickled ginger hair: the black color and the texture of dried seaweed reproductive system: egg

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flesh: fermented fish and the texture of deep-fried fishcake microorganism: fermented fish and fish entrails

The entire poem represents stages of the cycle of a biological life of animals. The struggle of food acquisition is depicted in the first stanza by the storm (shike 暴風) and the price of foods (see Section 4.3). Consumption of food is depicted in the second stanza as devouring, digesting, satisfying and rejuvenating. Reproduction is depicted in the last stanza as stormy carnal desire (nikuyoku 肉欲) and experience of joy (warera-no gotai-o santan-seshimeru, われらの五体を讃嘆せしめる, to praise our body). Thus, it confirms that the hidden theme of this poem is the celebration of our natural biological life. Cross-culturally, rats and mice are usually associated with concepts such as small mammals, ordinary existence (not particularly beautiful, strong, etc.), food-stealing, persistent survivors and high reproductive rate. This is, for instance, portrayed in the 2007 American film Ratatouille released by Disney. If we extend our analysis of this poem from a sentence/semantic level to a text/pragmatic level, we can identify several elements that repeatedly appear in this poem as being closely associated with the image of nezumi (rats) in the standard metaphor nure-nezumi (soaked rat). Thus, the image of rats coincides with what the entire poem depicts: poverty, persistence, food chain, consumption, rejuvenation, reproduction, joy and survival. That is, the image of rats projects the hidden theme of this poem. In Newmark’s (1988) words, this standard metaphor still has ‘a certain emotional warmth, and which is not deadened by overuse’ (1988: 108). If the metaphor nure-nezumi is reduced into sense by a translator, the image of biological life would be lost. In Newmark’s words, ‘the emotive or pragmatic impact will be impaired or lost’ (1988: 109). Now, let us see how nure-nezumi is rendered in four of the existing English translations of this poem: Translation by Shoichi Furuta (Takamura, 1978) Translation by Hiroaki Sato (Takamura, 1980) Translation by John Peters (Takamura, 2007) Translation by Paul Archer (Takamura, 2012)

Soichi Furuta’s translation eliminates the Japanese stock metaphor and the image of rats completely. The following is the beginning of Furuta’s translation: Translation by Soichi Furuta: drenched in a heavy downpour driven by storm (Takamura, 1978)

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Hiroaki Sato and Paul Archer’s translation replace the stock metaphor in Japanese (nure-nezumi) with a similar stock metaphor in English (drowned rat) as a form of simile: Translation by Hiroaki Sato: Go out in gust-thrashed downpour like a drowned rat (Takamura, 1980) Translation by Paul Archer: In the storm lashed rain Like a drowned rat (Takamura, 2012)

The English stock metaphor ‘drowned rat’ successfully describes a person who is soaking wet. In addition, they also retain the image of a rat. Thus, it appears as a perfect rendering of the Japanese stock metaphor (nurenezumi). However, the English counterpart ‘drowned rat’ also has a sideeffect: The semantics of ‘drowning’ includes the causation of death, which is not present in the Japanese counterpart, nure-nezumi. This difference is a serious problem for the translation of this poem because the image of ‘death’ introduced by ‘drowned rat’ contradicts and damages the theme of the poem, which is the celebration of biological ‘life’. However, John Peters literally translate this Japanese stock metaphor as ‘soaked rat’ and phrases it as a simile: Translation by John Peters: Out in a downpour like a soaked rat (Takamura, 2007)

Peters’ translation shifts a stock metaphor to an original metaphor and maintains and strengthens the image of a rat. That is, the life of a metaphor in the ST has survived and intensified through translation. Its risk may be the impression of calque-like non-fluency very common in translanguaging practices. However, the theme of the poem, the celebration of biological life, is sharpened by the image of a rat. As discussed earlier, the content and the color of the eight food items listed earlier are also crucial for conveying the hidden theme of the ST as they jointly project the image of the cycle of biological life. They do not appear to be metaphors, but at the text level, they are serving as metaphors in the broad sense. The problem is that these food items are quite culture-specific except rice and eggs. How these eight food items are rendered in the four English translations is summarized in Table 5.1.

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Table 5.1  English translations of the food items in Bansan Translation by S. Furuta

Translation by H. Sato

Translation by J. Peters

Translation by P. Archer

Kome 米 (#1)

rice

rice

rice

rice

Kusaya no himono くさやの干もの (#2)

dried mackerel

dried fish

dried mackerel

dried fish

Takuan 沢庵 (#3)

salted radish

pickled radish

pickled daikon* (*A large, cylindrical radish-like vegetable)

pickled radish

Shōga no akadzuke 生姜の赤漬 (#4)

red pickled ginger

red ginger

red ginger

pickled ginger

Tamago 玉子 (#5)

eggs

eggs

eggs

eggs

Nori 海苔 (#6)

dried laver

seaweed

seaweed

nori

Satsuma-age 薩摩あ げ (#7)

fried fish cakes

fried dumplings

fried balls of fish

fried fish balls

Katsuo no shiokara かつおの塩辛 (#8)

soused bonitos

salted bonito guts

salted bonito entrails

salted bonito

Katsuo no shiokara (#8) is particularly challenging for translators as fish guts are rarely consumed by Westerners, but its image is particularly important for evoking the image of biological life in this poem. Translations by H. Sato and Peters include ‘guts’ and ‘entrails,’ respectively, and thus they can help the readers of translation picture fish intestine. However, Furuta’s translation and Archer’s translation render it as ‘soused bonitos’ and ‘salted bonito,’ respectively. As a result, the readers of these translations do not have a chance to associate the food with body parts. Shoga-no akadzuke (#4) is rendered with the word ‘red’ in all translations except the one by Archers, who renders it simply as ‘pickled ginger’. The omission of ‘red’ in his translation impairs the image of ‘blood’ and weakens the metaphorization of the theme of the poem. SL words are used by Peters with a footnote (daikon) and by Archers without a footnote (nori). Nori is becoming more accessible for Westerners due to the global popularity of sushi rolls. To summarize, there is an intriguing parallel between metaphorization and mimeticization. They are both the natural driving force for word creation; they both have a life, which is symbolized by their ability to evoke images; their lives decay as they are lexicalized. Word meanings are not complete if they are detached from the context. Poems themselves are metaphoric entities, and any words in a poem may also be functioning metaphorically. A calque-like translation that is faithful to the ST may be able to capture the hidden theme of a poem more successfully than a fluent translation. What is needed is the open-mindedness of the readers of the TT.

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5.2 Puns

Just like metaphors, puns pose a challenge to translators. Punning does not use only one word for only one meaning at a time but uses a word for multiple meanings or uses multiple words that sound the same or similar for multiple meanings. This makes puns almost untranslatable into other languages unless the SL and the TL are cognate languages and share numerous words that mean and sound similar or the TL is significantly rich in (near-) homonyms as in Mandarin Chinese. This section considers the translatability of puns and provides two case studies. 5.2.1 Translatability of puns

On philosophical grounds, Roman Jakobson considers puns untranslatable for the same reason why poetry is untranslatable. He argues that ‘poetry by definition is untranslatable’ because in poetry any constituents of the verbal code are ‘brought into contiguous relation according to the principle of similarity and contrast and carry their own autonomous signification’ and the same applies to puns as ‘the pun […] reigns over poetic art’ (Jakobson, 1959: 238). However, it is unclear if we can separate linguistic structures and contiguous relations that carry ‘autonomous signification’ from those that do not (E. Sato, 2019). What we say spontaneously in our daily communicative activities may accidentally have poetic quality. By contrast, what is published in a poetry magazine may sound as though a political journal article in a newspaper. Thus, our intentions and our productions may or may not match. They must overlap to some extent. Accordingly, there must be some blurriness between common and playful language use, and untranslatability is also not definite, but must be relative. On descriptive grounds, Díaz-Pérez (2013) provides insight into translating puns. By analyzing translations of Shakespeare’s sexual puns into Galician and Spanish, he shows that many translators determine their strategy toward translating puns based on the principle of relevance (Sperber & Wilson, 1986) and translators judge which is more relevant to the context, either the content or the effect of the pun. On prescriptive grounds, Katharina Reiss marginalizes the importance of translating puns. She claims that in translation ‘puns and other kinds of play with language will have to be ignored to a great extent so as to keep the content invariant’ (Reiss, 1981: 130). Although she is the leading advocate of the text-based translation approach and argues that artistically structured contents in an expressive text must be conveyed, she claims that if the artistic organization ‘might be harmed’ by retaining artistically structured contents, ‘the contents may be changed’ even when translating an expressive text (Reiss, 1981: 130). It seems that Reiss views puns as harmful for translating texts and translating puns is a low priority.

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Peter Newmark also provides a prescriptive guideline toward translating puns. In his book, A Textbook of Translation, Newmark suggests different methods for translating a pun depending on its purpose: (i) the puns for mere humor can be ‘compensated by another pun on a word with a different but associated meaning’; (ii) the puns used for illustrating a language or a slip of the tongue or conveying meanings rather than ‘showing witticism’ must be ‘transferred, translated (in both senses) and usually explained’ (Newmark, 1988: 211). Newmark shows his intention of preserving puns, but only to some degree. In the first case (translation of puns with focus on the playful effect), he does not discuss the degree of association between the meaning of the ST pun and the meaning of the TT pun. Thus, the ST pun can be domesticated or localized to adapt to the culture of the TT as long as there is a playful effect. In the second case (translation of puns with focus on the content), Newmark disregards the importance of preserving the playful effect of the original pun. Thus, he is prescribing retention of either the playfulness or the content rather than both, and only to some degree. 5.2.2 Case study 1: Polysemy

Puns are occasionally injected between scenes in tragic plays. William Shakespeare is well known for his use of puns in his plays such as Romeo and Juliet. One of the puns that appear in Romeo and Juliet is the use of ground in two meanings (physical ground and reason/cause) in the speech of the first watchmen after he saw the staggered bodies of Romeo and Juliet in the churchyard with tombs in the very last scene of the very last act (Scene 3 in Act V): Source text written by William Shakespeare: We see the ground whereon these woes do lie; But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry. (Shakespeare, 1957/1993)

Let us examine how the above excerpt is rendered in eight Japanese translations of Romeo and Juliet: Translation by Shōyō Tsubouchi (1) published in 1910 (Shakespeare, 1910/2011) Translation by Shōyō Tsubouchi (2) published in 1933 (Shakespeare, 1933/1990) Translation by Yoshio Nakano published in 1951 (Shakespeare, 1951/2015) Translation by Tsuneari Fukuda published in 1964 (Shakespeare, 1964/1977)

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Translation by Yūshi Odashima published in 1983 (Shakespeare, 1983/2008) Translation by Masao Hirai published in 1988 (Shakespeare, 1988/1996) Translation by Kazuko Matsuoka published in 1996 (Shakespeare, 1996/2014) Translation by Shōichirō Kawai published in 2005 (Shakespeare, 2005) 5.2.2.1 Omission

Translations by Nakano, Fukuda and Matsuoka dismiss the punning effect. The translation by Yoshio Nakano reduces this pun to a compound noun ari-basho (在り場所, the place of existence) that appears twice with different qualifier phrases. The following is the translation by Nakano: Translation by Yoshio Nakano: 悲しい不幸の数々が横たわっている、その在り場所はこの通り分かっ ているが、さて、こうした痛ましい不幸の本当の原因の在り場所は、もっと 詳しく調べないと、判然しないからな。 (Shakespeare, 1951/2015: 231) Romanization: Kanashii fukō-no kazukazu-ga yokotawatte iru, sono ari-basho-wa kono tōri wakatte iru-ga, sate, kōshita itamashii fukō-no hontō-no gen’in-no ari-basho-wa, motto kuwashiku shirabenai-to, hakkiri shinaikara na. Back-translation: The place of the existence on which the numerous sad misfortunes lie is known (as we can see) like this, but now, as per the place of existence of the real cause of such painful misfortunes cannot be clarified without thorough investigation.

In his translation, Nakano repeats ari-basho (在り場所, the place of existence). Ari-basho is a compound noun made of the stem form of the verb aru (ari) and the noun that means place (basho). Because there is no Japanese word that means both ‘physical ground’ and ‘cause/reason,’ aribasho is used twice with different modifiers. Thus, Nakano’s translation faithfully conveys the propositional meaning of this excerpt but eliminates the effect of pun. Similarly, the translations by Fukuda and Matsuoka also convey the propositional meaning of this excerpt, but the punning effect is completely dismissed. The following are the translations by Fukuda and Matsuoka: Translation by Tsuneari Fukuda: 痛ましい亡骸はよく見えるが、その痛ましい不幸の由来は、詳しく調べ なければ解るまい。 (Shakespeare, 1964/1977: 146)

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Romanization: Itamashii nakigara-wa yoku mieru-ga, sono itamashii fukō-ni itatta shinsō-wa jijō-o shirabenakute-wa miete konai. Back-translation: T he painful corpses can be seen well, but the origin of the painful unhappiness cannot be understood without further investigation. Translation by Kazuko Matsuoka 不幸な亡骸は目の前に見えるがこの不幸に至った真相は事情を調べ なくては見えてこない。 (Shakespeare, 1996/2014: 216) Romanization: Fukōna nakigara-wa me-no mae-ni mieru-ga kono fukō-ni itatta shinsō-wa jijō-o shirabenakute-wa miete konai. Back-translation: T he unhappy corpses are visible in front of my eyes, but the truth behind this unhappiness cannot be seen without investigating the circumstances.

However, all three translations include a word that is repeated twice: ari-basho (在り場所, the place of existence) in Nakano's translation, itamashii (痛ましい, painful) in Fukuda's translation and fukō (不幸, unhappiness) in Matsuoka's translation. The repetition in their translations enhances the rhetorical effect and compensates the loss of the effect of pun. 5.2.2.2 Creative TL pun

The translations by Kawai and Odashima create new TL puns. The following is Kawai’s translation of this excerpt: Translation by Shōichirō Kawai: この悲しみの亡骸を、泣きながら目にしても、痛ましい不幸の原因は見 えてこない。 (Shakespeare, 2005: 233) Romanization: Kono kanashimi-no nakigara-o, naki-nagara me-ni shite-mo, itamashii fukō-no gen’in-wa miete konai. Back-translation: Even if we look at these corpses of sadness while crying, we cannot see the causes of the painful misfortune.

In this translation, nakigara (亡骸, corpse) and naki-nagara (泣きながら, while crying) form a pun, more specifically, a paronymic pun, a type of puns whose components are nearly but not quite identical in spelling and pronunciation as in purse and person (Delabastita, 1993: 79–80).

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Nakigara and naki-nagara are semantically very different although they are phonologically very similar. Thus, the TT has a playfulness although the propositional meaning of this excerpt has changed because of the addition of naki-nagara (泣きながら, while crying). The ST does not say that the watchman was crying although he could be crying in this tragic context. In Odashima’s translation, two pairs of new TL puns are created. The following is the translation by Odashima: Translation by Yūshi Odashima: この不幸な遺骸が大地に横たわるのは見えるが、この意外な不幸の第 一の原因を知るにはくわしい事情を調べたうえでなければならない。 (Shakespeare, 1983/2008: 206) Romanization: Kono fukōna igai-ga daichi-ni yokotawaru-no-wa mieruga, kono igaina fukō-no daiichi-no gen’in-o shiru-ni wa kuwashī jijō-o shirabeta ue-de nakereba naranai. Back-translation: I can see these corpses of misfortune lying on the land, but it is necessary to examine the detailed circumstances to know the first cause of this unexpected misfortune.

In this translation, igai (遺骸, corpse) and and igai (意外, unexpectedness) form a pun. In addition, daichi (大地, (vast) land) and dai-ichi (第一, first) form a paronymic pun. The addition of igai (意外, unexpectedness) does not change the propositional meaning of the excerpt. However, it is not clear the use of Daichi (大地) is suitable in this context. The latter is a huge/spacious/vast land and is usually used for discussing mother nature, landscapes, agricultural fields or powerful and courageous spirits, and thus it is not suitable for referring to a cemetery included in a churchyard. 5.2.2.3 Faithful TL pun

Shōyō Tsubouchi’s first translation published in 1910 uses 地盤 (jiban) twice. The following is the translation by Tsubouchi published in 1910: Translation by Tsubouchi (1): 此不運な人達が臥ておりやる地盤は善う見えるが、此不運の眞の地盤 は、査べて見ぬうちは分らぬわい。 (Shakespeare, 1910: 212) Romanization: Kono fuun-na hitotachi-ga nete ori yaru jiban-wa you mieruga, kono fuun-no hon-no jiban-wa, shirabete minu uchi wa wakaranu wai. Back-translation:

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 e can see very well the ground that these unfortunate people are W lying on, but the true ground of this unfortunateness cannot be understood until it is investigated.

In this translation, ground is rendered as 地盤 (jiban, ground) and appears twice to represent two different meanings. This solution is most comparable with the pun in the ST, where ground is used twice for two different meanings. The second meaning of 地盤 (jiban) used as kono fuun-no hon-no jiban (此不運の眞の地盤, the true ‘jiban’ of this unfortunateness) can be understood as the cause. However, this understanding is made possible only if 地盤 (jiban) is understood as a metaphor. 地盤 (jiban) does not have an established meaning of ‘cause’ although it may emerge in the future. Thus, this approach is successful only if TT readers can understand it as a metaphor. 5.2.2.4 SL-TL pun using furigana

In Tsubouchi’s second translation published in 1933, the two instances of ground are rendered differently. The first instance of ground is rendered as 地盤 (jiban, ground) and the second one is rendered as 原因 (gen’in, cause). However, both of them are accompanied by the katakana transliteration of ground (グラウンド, guraundo) placed right next to these Sino-Japanese words as their furigana. The following is Tsubouchi’s Japanese translation of this excerpt in his 1933 translation: Translation by Shōyō Tsubouchi (2): 不運な人達が臥ておりゃる地盤 (with furigana グラウンド)だけは善う 見えるが、此不運の眞の原因 (グラウンド)は、よう査べて見ぬうちは分ら ぬわい。 (Shakespeare, 1933/1990: 695) Romanization: Fuun na hitotachi-ga nete oryaru jiban (with furigana guraundo) dake wa you mieru-ga, kono fuun-no hon-no gen’in (with furigana guraundo) wa, you shirabete minu uchi-wa wakaranai. Back-translation: I can see just the ground on which these unfortunate people are lying very well, but I would not understand the true ground of these misfortunes unless we investigate it very well.

The rhetorical effect produced by the two instances of ground with two different meanings in the ST is preserved while the propositional meaning of the text is clearly conveyed in Tsubouchi’s translation published in 1933. It shows that a translanguaging approach that uses furigana can facilitate the preservation of puns for both the effect and the content. The translation by Yoshio Hirai takes the same approach taken in Tsubouchi’s translation published in 1933. The only difference between

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them is that Hirai chooses 地面 (jimen, ground) instead of 地盤 (jiban, ground). The following is Hirai’s translation: Translation by Yoshio Hirai: この悲しい遺体が転がっている地面 (with furigana グラウンド) は夜目 にもはっきり分かるが、なぜこういう悲しいことが起こったのか、その原因 (with furigana グラウンド) は、くわしい事情が分からなければ見きわめ がつかない。 (Shakespeare, 1988/1996: 227) Romanization: Kono kanashii itai-ga korogatte iru jimen (with furigana guraundo) wa yome ni mo hakkiri wakaru-ga, naze kō iu kanashii koto-ga okotta no ka, sono gen’in (with furigana guraundo) wa, kuwashii jijō-ga wakaranakereba mikiwame-ga tsukanai. Back-translation: The ground (with furigana guraundo) on which these sad corpses are lying is clearly identified even (in the darkness) at night, but the reason (with furigana guraundo) why such sad things happened cannot be known unless the detailed circumstances are known.

Both 地面 (jimen) island 地盤 (jiban) are Sino-Japanese words (kango) that mean ground; however, the former focuses the surface of the ground whereas the latter focuses on the ground as a foundation. In this context, the corpses are lying on the surface of the ground. Thus, the first instance of ground is better to be rendered as 地面 (jimen) rather than 地盤 (jiban). On the other hand, Hirai choses the same word that Tsubonouchi used in his 1933 translation (原因 gen’in) for rendering the second instance of ground. 5.2.3 Case study 2: Multi-morphemic pun

Translation of puns is more challenging when the target language does not have a convenient escape hatch like furigana. E. Sato (2019) examines six different English translations of a pun in Natsume Soseki’s novel Botchan and shows that one of them creates a heterolingual SL-TL pun. Botchan was discussed in Section 4.5.1 for terms of address. The protagonist in Botchan is the youngest son in a middle-class family in Tokyo. After his father dies, he moves to Matsuyama, a rural town far from Tokyo, to teach math at a boarding middle school. He encounters a noisy landlord, mischievous students and many unpleasant social injustices right after he moves to Matsuyama. The way he describes such problems are direct, simplistic and humorous. The following excerpt is from the scene where the protagonist finds dozens of grasshoppers placed in his futon bedding and asks the suspicious students about them only to be

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answered by ‘What is a grasshopper?’ calmly uttered in the Matsuyama dialect: Source text written by Sōseki Natsume in 1906: おれはバッタの一つを生徒に見せて「バッタたこれだ、大きなずう体を して、バッタを知らないた、何の事だ」と云うと、一番左の方に居た顔の丸 い奴が「そりゃ、イナゴぞな、もし」と生意気におれを遣り込めた。「篦棒 め、イナゴもバッタも同じもんだ。第一先生を捕まえてなもした何だ。菜 飯は田楽の時より外に食うもんじゃない」とあべこべに遣り込めてやった ら「なもしと菜飯とは違うぞな、もし」と云った。いつまで行ってもなもしを 使う奴だ。 (Natsume, 1992/1998) Romanization: Ore wa batta no hitotsu o seito ni misete ‘Batta-ta kore-da, ōkina zūtai o shite, batta o shiranaita, nan no koto da’ to iu to, ichiban hidari no hō ni ita kao no marui yatsu ga ‘Soryā, inago zo na moshi’ to namaiki ni ore o yarikometa. ‘Berabō me, inago mo batta mo onaji mon da. Daiichi sensei o tsukamaete ‘na moshi’ ta nan da. Nameshi wa dengaku no toki yori hoka ni kuu mon ja nai’ to abekobe ni yarikomete yattara, ‘na moshi to nameshi to wa chigau zo na moshi’ to itta. Itsu made itte mo na moshi o tsukau yatsu da. Verbatim translation: I showed one of the grasshoppers to the students and said, ‘A thing called grasshopper is this, you guys have [grown to have] big bodies, but do not know what a grasshopper is? What is the matter [with you]?’ Then the guy with a round face who was [standing] at the leftmost position [in the line] saucily talked down [on me], by saying, ‘That’s a locust, namoshi’ ‘Absurd! Locusts and grasshoppers are the same. First of all, what [do you mean] by facing your teacher and [saying] “namoshi”? We don’t eat nameshi other than the time [we eat] dengaku,’ I talked down [to him] inversely, and then [he] said, ‘Namoshi and nameshi are different, namoshi.’ These guys keep using namoshi no matter how much time passes.

This excerpt includes na moshi and nameshi. They are phonologically similar and semantically different, and form a paronymic pun, where its components are nearly but not quite identical in spelling and pronunciation as in purse and person (Delabastita, 1993: 79–80). Na moshi is a multi-morphemic sentence-ending in Matsuyama dialect, where na is a bound morpheme that is a variant of the copula da (is, are) and moshi is a conditional adverb that means by any chance. The combination of the two, namoshi, functions as a hedge and lessens the assertiveness of the statement, just like I suppose added at the end of a sentence in English does. Because na moshi is not a self-standing word and is used at the end of a sentence to mitigate the assertiveness of the statement, it is pronounced slowly with reduced stress and falling

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intonation. On the other hand, nameshi is a noun that represents a traditional Japanese rice dish cooked with chopped vegetables. Nameshi is typically served with dengaku, which is also a traditional Japanese dish, where ingredients such as tofu, konjac and eggplant are skewered, glazed with specially flavored soybean paste and grilled. The protagonist is obviously annoyed by the repeated use of namoshi at the end of each utterance made by his students, who are playing dumb and who sound calm and polite due to the slow-paced Matsuyama dialect and the sentence ending, namoshi, which sounds strange and wordy for the protagonist who speaks fast-paced Tokyo dialect. The pun in this excerpt foregrounds the dialectal and cultural differences between Matsuyama and Tokyo as well as the protagonist’s frustration and anger. As evident from this literal translation, this excerpt also includes a punoid, a pseudo-wordplay such as repetition (Delabastita, 1993: 191–226): The student repeats using namoshi even after being criticized by his teacher. Thus, this excerpt has both a pun and a punoid. However, in this section, let us focus on the pun rather than the punoid. E. Sato (2019) examines six English translations of Botchan: Translation by Yasotaro Morri published in 1918 (Natsume, 1918) Translation by Umeji Sasaki published in 1968 (Natsume, 1968/2013) Translation by Alan Turney published in 1972 (Natsume,1972) Translation by Joel Cohn published in 2005 (Natsume, 2005/2012) Translation by Matt Treyvaud published in 2009 (Treyvaud, 2009) Translation by Glenn Anderson published in 2013 (Natsume, 2013)

This pun is omitted in one of the six translations (translation by Anderson) but is rendered as a monolingual SL pun (translation by Sasaki), a monolingual TL pun (translations by Moori, Turney and Treyvaud), or a heterolingual SL-TL pun (translation by Cohn). 5.2.3.1 Omission

Anderson’s translation that eliminates this pun is as follows: Translation by Glenn Anderson: I pinched a grasshopper and held it up to the kids. ‘This is a grasshopper. You’re all big enough now to know what a grasshopper is, aren’t you?’ The kid standing to my left, with the round, pudgy face, huffed, ‘I think that there be a locust.’ ‘Save it piggy! A grasshopper and a locust are the same damn thing. And did you never learn proper grammar? I think that there be?’ ‘I mean t’say, that there be a locust.’ I wasn’t sure how much more of it I could stand. Were we even speaking the same language? (Natsume, 2013: 54)

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The nuance of the dialect is perceived from there be as well as from the contraction t’say, which is a contracted form of to say. The grammar of the student’s utterances makes them sound like Southern American English or African American English. The repetition of there be uttered by the student is playful, but there is no pun in Anderson’s translation. 5.2.3.2 Direct monolingual SL pun

The monolingual SL pun in Sasaki’s translation is left unintelligible even with the footnote. The following is Sasaki’s translation (Natsume, 1968/2013): Translation by Umeji Sasaki: I picked up one of the insects and showing it to the boys said, ‘This is a grasshopper. You should be ashamed of your big bodies if you do not know the grasshopper.’ At this, a fellow with a round face who sat at the extreme left said, ‘why, it’s a locust, don’t you see?’ and he looked so wise over the victory. ‘You fool!’ retorted I. ‘A locust and a grasshopper are the same, only difference in name. Moreover, ‘don’t you see?’ is an extremely impolite expression to your teacher. What is your Namoshi? Nameshi is eaten only when you take dengaku.’ At this rebuff, he said that Namoshi and Nameshi are not the same. This fellow would not give up his dreadful Namoshi* to the last. * Here is a play on words, namoshi and nameshi. It is entirely beyond my power to render them into appropriate English. (Natsume, 1968/2013: 61)

In the student’s first utterance in this excerpt and in the protagonist’s response to it, na moshi is translated as ‘don’t you see?’ This creates a serious incongruity between the ST and the TT: na moshi lessens the assertiveness of the statement and it is a part of a geographic dialect, whereas don’t you see? increases the assertiveness of the statement, and it is not a part of any geographic dialect. However, in the protagonist’s utterance that follows, two SL items, Namoshi and Nameshi, are abruptly introduced to recreate an SL pun. However, they are not connected to the preceding don’t you see. Furthermore, the multi-morphemic na moshi is represented as a capitalized word, Namoshi, which does not make it appear as a sentence ending. Sasaki provides a footnote, but it serves only as the translator’s disclaimer and does not provide any information about the inserted SL items except that they are supposed to form ‘a play on words’. The pun formed by Namoshi and Nameshi in Sasaki’s translation is incomprehensible for TT readers and the content and the effect of the original pun are absent in his translation.

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5.2.3.3 Creative monolingual TL pun

On the other hand, the monolingual TL puns (translations by Moori, Turney and Treyvaud) use the idiolect of a celebrity in New York or a geographic/social dialect in the US or in the UK. The translation by Yasotaro Morri renders the original SL pun formed by na moshi and nameshi as a new TL pun, which is formed by a-ah say and Ah Sing. The following is Morri’s translation (Natsume, 1918): Translation by Yasotaro Morri: I showed one grasshopper to the students. ‘This is a grasshopper. What’s the matter for as big idiots as you not to know a grasshopper.’ Then the one with a round face sitting on the left saucily shot back: ‘A-ah say, that’s a locust, a-ah---.’ ‘Shut up. They’re the same thing. In the first place, what do you mean by answering your teacher ‘A-ah say’? Ah-Say or Ah-Sing is a Chink’s name!’ For this counter-shot, he answered: ‘A-ah say and Ah-Sing is different, --A-ah say.’ They never got rid of ‘A-ah say.’ (Natsume, 1918: 74)

A-ah say may be the variation of ‘I would say’. Ah Sing is the name of an Asian person. The latter is described as a Chink’s name. Chink is a racial slur that refers to those with Chinese heritage or those with an East Asian appearance. In the translator’s note, Morri indicates that it was not his own choice to use English slangs in his translation: He states that he tried to represent spicy and catchy colloquial Japanese spoken in Tokyo equating it to ‘the rattling speeches of notorious Chuck Connors of the Bowery of New York’ (Natsume, 1918: vi). Chuck Connor describes himself as ‘the supreme interpreter of Bowery slang’ and ‘the original tough dialect untouched by education’ in his autobiography (Connors, 1904/2014). Thus, Morri created a new TL pun using Chuck Connors’ idiolect. Alan Turney replaces na moshi with like and pairs it with tyke to form a new pun. The following is Turney’s translation (Natsume, 1972): Translation by Alan Turney: I showed one of the insects to the boys and said, ‘This is a grasshopper. Look at the size of you and you still don’t know what a grasshopper is.’ The boy on the far left of the group had the cheek to try and score off me by saying, ‘That’s not a grasshopper. It’s a locust, like.’ ‘You damned idiot! A grasshopper and a locust are the same thing. And while we’re about it, stop finishing every confounded sentence with ‘like.’ It sounds like ‘tyke,’ and if that’s what you’re trying to call me come straight out with it and don’t mumble.’ I thought that would shut him up, but no. ‘Like and tyke are different, like,’ he said. Like, like, like! That’s all you ever heard out of them. (Natsume, 1972: 53)

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Turney was born and educated in England, and his translation was published five decades ago. Thus, it is probably the case that tyke is meant to refer to an unpleasant or coarse man and like is meant to add a nuance of a geographic dialect in England or in its surrounding area. According to Schweinberger (2015), the use of like is abundant among Irish English speakers whereas it is infrequent among the speakers of south-eastern British English speakers. In addition, Irish English speakers prefer clause-final like with backward scope, as in its use found in Turney’s translation presented above, whereas south-eastern varieties of British English speakers predominantly use clause-medial like with forward scope as in ‘He is a very like considerate man’ (Schweinberger, 2015: 133). Thus, Turney may have used like to add a nuance of a dialect using a variety of English close to Irish English (E. Sato, 2019). The translation by Matt Treyvaud includes a new TL pun that pairs like as a filler and like as a verb. The following is Treyvaud’s translation (Treyvaud, 2009): Translation by Matt Treyvaud: I picked up one of the grasshoppers and showed it to the students. ‘This is what a grasshopper is,’ I said. ‘How the hell does someone get to be as big as you and not even know that?’ A moon-faced kid standing at the left end of the line with a smirk on his face objected: ‘Thait’s a locust, like.’ ‘Locusts and grasshoppers are exactly the same thing, you cretin! And what’s with all this ‘like’ crap? I don’t care if you like it or not!’ “Naw, thait’s a different ‘like,’ like –” began one. (Treyvaud, 2009: Loc. 551)

Unlike Turney, Treyvaud added naw and thait’s to make the student’s speech sound similar to Southern American English. These three TL-based monolingual puns are comprehensible and playful for TT readers, but they shift the context of dialect from Japan to the US or the UK. However, it is unclear if English speakers outside the US or UK would be able to perceive the distinctiveness of the selected language variety. In addition, any dialect or language variety bears its own sociohistorical and sociocultural nuances and connotations and they may be crucial for the theme of a literary work. Replacing a Japanese dialect with an idiolect of a celebrity in New York or with a geographic/social dialect in the US or in the UK necessarily distorts the culture of the ST. 5.2.3.4 Scaffolded heterolingual SL-TL pun

On the other hand, the heterolingual SL-TL pun created in Cohn’s translation is made comprehensible for TT readers without distorting the

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culture of the ST. The following is the translation of the same excerpt by Joel Cohn (Natsume, 2005/2012): Translation by Joel Cohn: I took one of the insects, held it up in front of the students, and said ‘This is a grasshopper – see how big they are? Now, don’t tell me you don’t know what they are!’ ‘No,’ said a moon-faced boy on the left edge of the group, ‘that’s a locust, na moshi.’ The kid had some nerve, but now I was on the spot. ‘Grasshoppers, locusts, they’re all the same! And who do you damned jackasses think you are sticking that stupid na moshi on the end of everything when you’re talking to a teacher? It just makes you sound mushy – that’s all it’s good for!’ That ought to show them who’s boss, I thought – but they came right back with ‘Na moshi isn’t the same as mushy – na moshi.’ It was hopeless – they couldn’t stop saying na moshi even if they tried. (Natsume, 2005/2012: 39)

In Cohn’s heterolingual pun, a Japanese element (na moshi) directly copied from the ST and an English element added by him (mushy) are paired to form a single pun. This pun is unusual because phonological sameness or similarity is much easier to achieve if words are taken from the same language as in monolingual puns. However, Cohn bravely matches two items from different languages to form a new pun. Cohn’s heterolingual pun is also morphosyntactically heterogeneous: na moshi is not a word or phrase, but a sequence of a bound morpheme and a grammatical word, whereas mushy is a fully fledged self-standing monomorphemic word. Furthermore, the nature of their meanings is heterogenous: The meaning of na moshi is functional, whereas the meaning of mushy is semantic. The question is how this heterolingual and heterogenous pun is made comprehensible for TT readers in Cohn’s translation. Unlike the monolingual SL pun, Cohn’s heterolingual SL-TL pun supports the SL item by seamlessly integrating it, without alienating it, in the linguistic context of the TT and by providing layers of scaffolding that give clues to its meaning as a part of communication within the text’s context. The inserted SL item is syntactically, semantically and pragmatically connected to the surrounding linguistic elements in English and functions as a part of the TT, without being alienated. It is just like an organ transplant, where a new organ starts functioning after being properly connected to the surrounding organs in a new person’s body, without being treated as a foreign matter by his immune system. The phonological features of the SL item can also be guessed based on the punning structure and gives an auditory contribution to the punning effect. Figure 5.1 shows layers of scaffolding provided in Cohn’s translation presented by E. Sato (2019: 458). First, in the student’s utterance, ‘that’s a locust, na moshi’, na moshi occurs in a place where it usually occurs in Japanese and syntactically

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Figure 5.1 Layers of scaffolding provided in Joel Cohn’s English translation of Botchan

connects to the preceding English sentence just like any English sentence ending does: TT readers can immediately guess that na moshi is a sentence-ending element (Scaffolding 1). Their guess is supported by the protagonist’s utterance, ‘And who do you damned jackasses think you are sticking that stupid na moshi on the end of everything when you’re talking to a teacher?’: TT readers can confirm that na moshi is a sentence-ending element (Scaffolding 2). This same utterance includes ‘stupid’ and provides pragmatic information: TT readers will know that the protagonist considers na moshi negatively (Scaffolding 3). The following utterance, ‘It just makes you sound mushy’, shows the semantic/pragmatic meaning of na moshi: na moshi does not have a concrete semantic meaning, but has a functional meaning, which is to lessen the speaker’s assertiveness or makes it sound mushy (Scaffolding 4). This utterance also provides pragmatic information, more specifically, communicative significance: It shows that na moshi and mushy form a pun (Scaffolding 5). The latter naturally shows the phonological property of na moshi: TT readers can learn how na moshi actually sounds (Scaffolding 6). The moshi part of na moshi in the Matsuyama dialect is usually pronounced with falling intonation and reduced stress because of its syntactic position and its

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function, and thus moshi in this context sounds quite similar to the English word mushy. The following protagonist’s utterance, ‘that’s all it’s good for’, helps TT readers confirm that na moshi has no function other than making an utterance sound mushy (Scaffolding 7). The heterolingual pun appears again in the student’s utterance, as in the ST, ‘Na moshi isn’t the same as mushy– na moshi’, and the communicative significance is reinforced (Scaffolding 8). This is then followed by the protagonist’s reflection, ‘It was hopeless’, from which TT readers can learn an additional pragmatic fact: The protagonist feels ‘hopeless’ for stopping his students’ use of na moshi (Scaffolding 9). Na moshi repeatedly appears in quotations in the entire text in Cohn’s translation (54 times in total). Thus, TT readers can easily memorize this ending, internalize it and use it to sense the auditory effect and the pragmatic nuance that it conveys. TT readers can also detect which character is speaking to whom and what sort of attitude is used by him or her in each scene whenever they see na moshi. This is as if they were learning a second language naturally through communicating in the target language in a language immersion program. Nameshi (vegetable rice) is omitted in Cohn’s translation, but it is not retained in any of the other translations except in Sasaki’s translation with a monolingual SL pun, which left it unintelligible. Furthermore, the contribution of nameshi in the original pun is mainly its sound, whereas the contribution of na moshi is not only its sound, but also its sociocultural significance, namely the contrast between the fast-paced straightforward Tokyo dialect and the slow-paced wordy and ‘mushy’ Matsuyama dialect, which symbolizes one of the themes of this novel, the contrast between urban and rural areas in Japan during the Meiji Period (1868–1912). Accordingly, retaining na moshi instead of nameshi was significantly beneficial. On the other hand, the cost of replacing nameshi with mushy was much smaller than its benefit. What we see in the heterolingual pun is creative language use driven by communicative needs that deploys both SL and TL linguistic features in the TT. This is exactly what we see in translanguaging, a bilingual’s creative and critical meaning-making for communication disregarding the boundary between named languages. The translation that deployed the heterolingual pun allows TT readers to discover and learn SL items using their analytical skills and their own sensitivities in the uncompromised pragmatic context of the ST. Then, through the SL items they learned and internalized, TT readers can experience the culture of the ST, deepen their knowledge, enrich their sensitivities and possibly enrich their own linguistic repertoire and their languages in the long run. To summarize, by taking a translanguaging approach, both the effect and the content of a pun can survive, and readers of translation can experience the essence of the pun in the context. This is the area that shows the limitation of monolingual translation. The multi-scripts and furigana

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convention in Japanese can relatively easily express the content and the effect of puns. However, even without such a writing system, it is possible to preserve them by scaffolding puns in the context. This approach can avoid distorting the culture of the ST through translation and allow the readers of the TT to directly sense the original punning effects. 5.3 Heterolingual Texts

As described by Bakhtin (1981), even a community that is believed to be based on a single national language presents many types of linguistic varieties: The internal stratification of any single national language into social dialects, characteristic group behavior, professional jargons, generic languages, languages of generations and age groups, tendentious languages, languages of the authorities, of various circles and of passing fashion, languages that serve the specific sociopolitical purposes of the day, even of the hour (each day has its own slogan, its own vocabulary, its own emphases) — this internal stratification present in every language at any given moment of its historical existence is the indispensable prerequisite for the novel as a genre. (Bakhtin, 1981: 262)

We have encountered constant changes of linguistic boundaries through numerous historical events such as invasion, colonization, decolonization, religious practices, trading, migration and globalization. Multilingualism is mostly the result of such fluctuation of linguistic boundaries. On the other hand, monolingualism is the result of hegemony through policy and education (Piller, 2016). Multilingualism is ever-present and has existed since ancient times (García & Li, 2014: 26). It was even noted by the ancients. Piller (2016) shows an excerpt of Homer’s Odyssey, the ancient Greek epic that dates back to the 12th century BC, which describes ‘language mixing with language side-byside’ in the island of Crete: There is a land called Crete; ringed by the wine-dark sea with rolling whitecaps; handsome country, fertile, thronged with people well past counting; boasting ninety cities, language mixing with language side-by-side. (Homer, Book 19, ll. 172–175, cited in Piller, 2016: 28)

Translanguaging has been naturally practiced facilitating communication as well as critical and creative meaning-making in constantly changing social structures. Translanguaging has also been a vital way to expand the range of expression for some literary authors. Being restricted to a single

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language prevents translators from describing new imagery, truth and sensitivities. Translation is commonly understood as a monolingual practice, where a text is converted from one named SL to another TL. However, an ST may include the TL or the other languages because our linguistic behaviors are inherently heterogeneous and increasingly heterolingual. This section analyzes the cases where a heterolingual ST yields a monolingual TT, a heterolingual ST yields a heterolingual TT and a monolingual ST yields a heterolingual TT. 5.3.1 Heterolingual ST to monolingual TT

Ezra Pound uses non-English words in his works. Hugh Selwyn Mauberley written by him starts in English; however, the third stanza begins with a line in Greek (Ἵδμεν γάρ τοι πάνθ’, ὅσ ‘ένι Τροίη) (Pound, 1921: 53). Its romanization is ‘Idmen gar toi panth, os eni Troie’, and its literal meaning is ‘For we know all that at Troy …’. This Greek line symbolizes Pound’s determination to create a new poetry tradition without compromising with the existing dominant literary tradition. This Greek line was directly quoted from Homer’s Greek epic poem, Odyssey, a part of the Siren’s song that Odysseus heard after his heroic achievement in the Trojan War. Sirens are beautiful but dangerous creatures in Greek mythology, who lured nearby sailors with their singing to cause them to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their island. Odysseus was lured by Sirens after making a heroic achievement in the decade-long Trojan War but was able to avoid certain catastrophe because he had his men tie him to the mast and placed wax in his men’s ears so they would not hear Sirens’ enticing voices. Hugh Selwyn Mauberley is taken to announce Pound’s own ‘break with London’ and his departure to the creation of a new poetry tradition (Coyle, 2006: 431). Thus, this Greek line was not inserted without any reason. It symbolizes Pound’s determination to the new literary direction and also sets the image of Odysseus to represent Mauberley as well as Pound himself. Hugh Selwyn Mauberley includes French lines also. The 18th and 19th lines include a phrase in French embedded in an English sentence, He passed from men’s memory l’an trentiesme /De son eage, which means ‘he passed from men's memory in the thirtieth year of his age’. This French phrase was adapted from Le Grand Testament, a collection of poetry by the famous French poet François Villon (1431–1463). This collection was completed in 1461 while Villon was awaiting his execution (Coyle, 2006, 438). Villon is known as the first creative modern French lyric poet. However, his life was mostly spent in prison or exile due to the crime he committed in the past, and he died in his early 30s. Villon’s life symbolizes Mauberley’s literary life that is about to cease. Mauberly did not die in his 30th year but merely ‘passed from men’s memory’ (Coyle, 2006: 438).

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Pound’s analogy and rhyming indeed crosses linguistic, cultural, spatial and temporal boundaries. Readers can picture Odysseus and Villon as they understand the mental state of Pound. Thus, Pound did not create a heterolingual text that includes Greek and French to distract fluent reading. Rather, he used heterolingual text to distract from old literary conventions in English in his time and make his work timeless and universal. However, these figures and auditory markedness are lost through translation as a monolingual practice. For example, in Shuri Kido’s Japanese translation of this poem published in 1998, the Greek and French lines are rendered in Japanese using kanji, katakana and hiragana characters, turning this English-Greek–French heterolingual poem into a monolingual Japanese poem. The Greek phrase (Ἴδμεν γάρ τοι πάνθ’, ὅσ ‘ένι Τροίη) is rendered in Japanese as: Translation by Shuri Kido: われらはトロイアにおけるすべての苦しみを知るゆえに— (Pound & Kido, 1998: 47) Romanization: Warera-wa Toroia-ni okeru subete-no kurushimi-o shiru yue-ni-Back-translation: Because we know all the sufferings at Troy--

The French phrase ‘l’an trentiesme/De son eage’ is also rendered in Japanese as 三十歳のとき sanjus-sai-no toki (when I was thirty) (Pound & Kido, 1998: 47). Thus, Kido’s Japanese translation as a monolingual text fails to bring the authenticity of the heroically resistant image of Odysseus and Françoi Villon to the reader. 5.3.2 Heterolingual ST to heterolingual TT

If the language of the TT does not have an orthographic convention like furigana and multi-type scripts as in Japanese, presenting heterolingual language use such as code-switching (or code-mixing) in translation can be challenging. However, some translators represent heterolingual language use creatively. The Japanese novel, Strawberry Road, written by Yoshimi Ishikawa was first published in 1987 in the weekly Japanese magazine Ekonomisuto (Economist). Its revision was published by Hayakawa Shobo and Bungei Shunju afterward. The novel is based on the author’s own experience of moving from Japan to America by an immigrant ship in 1965 to join his elder brother on a strawberry farm in California. The protagonist, who is also the narrator in this novel, meets Mexicans and first- and

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second-generation Japanese settlers through his brother. His brother as well as other Japanese settlers he saw speaks a unique form of Japanese, where English and Japanese are entangled at a deeper morphological level. Their speech styles represent their lives as Japanese Americans in the US right after World War II. The question a translator faces is how their Japanese can be rendered in an English translation. Let us examine the English translation of this novel by Eve Zimmerman, which was published in 1991 from Kodansha International. The original Japanese ST starts with plain standard Japanese, most of which is narrated by the protagonist, who is the author of this novel. The initial setting is the protagonist’s second day on an immigration ship that departed Yokohama port in Japan. He describes his background just in Japanese. Finally, the ship arrives at a port in Los Angeles, and the protagonist gets off the ship. His brother comes to pick him up four hours later. The following excerpt is where the protagonist finally meets his brother and Mrs Watanabe at the port: Source text written by Yoshimi Ishikawa: 「ユーは、よく来たじゃあないの」 突然、背後から大声が聞こえた。兄であった。 「こちらは、ミセス・渡辺さん。ユーの身元保証人になってくれた渡辺さん の奥さんだ。」 「ハウ・アー・ユー。よーいらっしゃたわね。英語少しはスピークできます か。」 おかしな日本語をしゃべる中年の女性といっしょだった。 [...] 「すまん、すまん、船の着く時間をミステークしてよ。急いでカーを飛ば したんだが、おかげで、ガッデム、テケツをもらって.....。移民局の手続き がツラブルといけないと思いよって、ミセスに通訳してもらおうと思って、 つれてきたんだ。ミーの英語は、こういうところでは訳にたたんもんでな」 (Ishikawa, 1987/1992: 15) Romanization: ‘Yū-wa, yoku kitajānai no.’ Totsuzen, haigo-kara ō-goe-ga kikoeta. Ani de atta. ‘Kochira-wa, Misesu Watanabe-san. Yū-no mimoto-hoshōnin-ni natte kureta Watanabe-san-no okusan da.’ ‘Hau ā yū. Yō irasshatta wa ne. Eigo sukoshi-wa supīku dekimasu ka.’ Okashi-na Nihongo-o shaberu chūnen-no jusei to issho datta. [...] ‘Suman, suman, fune-no tsuku jikan-o misutēku shite yo. Isoide kā-o tobashita-n-da-ga, okage-de, gaddemu, teketsu-o moratte ….. Imin-kyoku-no tetsudzuki-ga tsuraburu-to ikenai-to omoi yotte, misesu-ni tsūyaku shite moraou-to omotte, tsurete kita-n-da. Mī-no eigo-wa, kōiu tokorode-wa yaku ni tatan monde na’

184  Translanguaging in Translation

Verbatim translation: ‘Yū came (here safely all the way), didn’t you?’ Suddenly, I heard a loud voice. (It) was (my) big brother. ‘This is Mrs. Watanabe-san. (She is) the wife of Mr. Watanabe who (agreed to be) the guarantor of yū.’ ‘Hau ā yū (How are you?). (It’s great that you) came (here safely all the way). Can you speak English at least a little bit?’ (My brother) was with a middle-aged woman who spoke strange Japanese. [...] Sorry, sorry. I made a mistake for the arrival of the ship. I drove my car flying fast, but thanks to that, I got, goddamn it, ticket..... I was worried that the immigration process might be troubled, so I brought Mrs. Watanabe so I can ask her to translate. Me’s English is not useful in such a place.

The protagonist states, in this excerpt, that his brother was with a middleaged woman who spoke strange Japanese. However, non-standard Japanese is spoken not only by the woman but also by the protagonist’s brother. This short excerpt shows a dramatic difference between the standard Japanese used in the protagonist’s narrative and the Japanese used by the two Japanese Americans. The speech of Japanese Americans in the ST is composed of Japanese sentences that embed English elements. There are many katakana words in their speech. The following 11 words and phrases appear in this short excerpt in katakana: ユー (yū, you) ミセス (misesu, Mrs) ハウ・アー・ユー (Hau ā yū, How are you?) スピーク (supīku, speak) ミステーク (misutēku, mistake) カー (kā, car) ガッデム (gaddemu, goddamn) テケツ (teketsu, tickets) ツラブル (tsuraburu, trouble) ミー (mī, me)

The first noticeable characteristic of their speech is the overuse of yū (ユー, you) while speaking in Japanese. Person pronouns, especially second person pronouns, are normally dropped in Japanese conversation. However, yū (ユー) frequently appears in quoted speeches in this novel. The first thing the protagonist hears in America is his brother’s utterance: ユーは、よく来たじゃあないの (Ishikawa, 1987/1992: 15)

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Romanization & word-by-word gloss: yū-wa, yoku kita jānai no you-TOP well came not Q Verbatim translation: You came (here) (safely all the way), didn’t you?

Yū (ユー, you) appears not only as a pronoun but also as a form of addressing or an interjection in quoted speeches in this novel. For example, the protagonist’s brother says to him: ユー, 腹がすいているだろう (Ishikawa, 1987/1992: 16) Romanization & word-by-word gloss: Yū, hara-ga suite iru darō you, stomach-NOM empty is probably Verbatim translation: You, (you) are hungry, right?

Similarly, ミー (mī, me) is used along with a Japanese genitive particle の no to form a first-person possessive ‘my’. For example, the protagonist’s brother explains the reason why he came to pick him up with Mrs Watanabe is because he got a traffic ticket and may had to have an English translator: ミーの英語は、こういうところでは訳にたたんもんでな (Ishikawa, 1987/1992: 15) Romanization & word-by-word gloss: mī-no eigo-wa, kōiu tokorode-wa yaku ni tatan monde na me-GEN English-Top, such occasion-TOP useful-not thing PRT Verbatim translation: Me’s (my) English is not useful in such a place.

The second noticeable characteristic of the Japanese American’s speech is Misesu Watanabe-san (ミセス・渡辺さん, Mrs Watanabe-san), which is uttered by the protagonist’s brother to refer to Mrs Watanabe. The Japanese honorific morpheme -san should be subsumed in the function of ‘Mrs’. The use of both -san and Mrs make his brother’s speech redundant and marked. The third characteristic of the Japanese Americans’ speech found in this excerpt is that an English verb is used along with a Japanese helping verb. For example, Mrs Watanabe asks the protagonist if he can speak a bit of English, using supīku dekiru (スピークできる, to be able to speak). Similarly, the protagonist’s brother states that he mixed up the time of the ship’s arrival, by saying, jikan o misutēku shite yo (時間をミステークして

186  Translanguaging in Translation

よ, I mistook the time). Here, the helping verb suru is supporting the SL word misutēku (ミステーク, mistake). The following is the English translation of this excerpt by Eve Zimmerman (Ishikawa, 1991): Translation by Eve Zimmerman: ‘There yuu are!’ A voice thundered behind me. It was my brother. ‘Let me introduce Mrs. Watanabe-san. Mr. Watababe is your guarantor.’ ‘Howu aru yuu? Welcome to America. You speak any English?’ The matronly woman spoke strange Japanese. [...] ‘Sorry, sorry, I mistaku the time. I drove so fast I got a goddamn tiketto. Mrs. Watanabe came along to translate in case we had toraburu with immigration. My English is no good at a time like this.’ (Ishikawa, 1991: 4)

First, Zimmerman represents marked use of English by the two Japanese Americans in the ST with non-standard English spelling and italics in her TT. For example: yuu for ‘you’ How aru yuu for ‘How are you?’ mistaku for ‘mistake’ tiketto for ‘ticket’ toraburu for ‘trouble’

They represent the two Japanese American’s phonology that inserts epenthetic vowels to English words. Zimmerman also uses non-standard grammar in English such as ‘I mistaku the time’ in her TT. She uses the SL morpheme for respect -san, along with ‘Mrs’ to preserve the marked double respect title, as in ‘Let me introduce Mrs. Watanabe-san…’ Thus, linguistic markedness in the ST permeates through the linguistic boundary at phrase levels, word levels and morpheme levels in Zimmerman’s translation. This allows her to vividly represent the unique speech style of the Japanese American characters depicted in the novel. Thanks to Zimmerman’s translanguaging approach, the readers of the TT can sense the reality of Japanese American’s language use and their lives back in the 1960s in California. The same is true for the Japanese-speaking readers of the original ST thanks to the author Ishikawa’s translanguaging language use. 5.3.3 Monolingual ST to heterolingual TT

A monolingual text may become a heterolingual text through translation. Translators sometimes take the liberty to use a language that is not

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SL or TL in the TT. In this case, the addition of a third language is not to adhere to the ST. It is not for the ease of readability and intelligibility for the audience of the TT, either, because added texts in the third language can be opaque for the readers of the TT. However, the addition of a third language may be able to enhance the rhetorical effect or pragmatic expressiveness. Let us examine the short story Rēdāhōzen (レーダーホーゼン, lederhosen) written by Haruki Murakami, who is a prolific Japanese writer whose works have been translated into over 50 languages and is also well-known as a productive translator of American literature. Lederhosen are short pants for men that originated in Germany. The narrator of the story, presumably the author, talks with his wife’s friend about her mother who suddenly divorced her father. The mother’s decision to divorce was made when she traveled to Germany alone to visit her sister and bought a pair of lederhosen for her husband as he requested her to get it as a souvenir. Murakami’s Rēdāhōzen was first published in 1985 as a part of a collection of short stories, Kaiten mokuba no deddo hīto (回転木馬のデ ッドヒート, literally, Carousel’s dead heat) (Murakami, 1985/2004). It was translated into English by Alfred Birnbaum and published in Granta, a literary magazine, in 1992 (Nakamura, 2020) and in a collection of short stories entitled The Elephant Vanishes (Murakami, 1993). Then, The Elephant Vanishes was ‘self-back-translated’ to Japanese by the original author, Haruki Murakami, and published as Zō no Shōmetsu (象の消滅, literally, Elephant’s Vanishment) in Japanese in 2005 (Murakami, 2005). Thus, we have the source text in Japanese (ST), its English translation (TT), and the self-back translation in Japanese (SBT): ST: Source text written by Haruki Murakami (Murakami, 1985/2004) TT: English translation by Alfred Birnbaum (Murakami, 1993) SBT: Japanese translation of the TT by Haruki Murakami (Murakami, 2005)

Engetsu (2010), M. Sato (2013) and Nakamura (2020) analyze the three texts and report that a few changes and even a few minor denotative errors made by Birnbaum in his TT have been faithfully adopted by Murakami in his SBT. Nakamura (2020) argues that Birnbaum takes a translanguaging approach and adds German words, phrases, and phonological features in the part of the text that describes the mother’s adventure to purchase a pair of lederhosen in Germany by herself using her second-language skills in English. The following is an excerpt from Murakami’s ST, where the mother finds out that there is a very good shop that specializes in lederhosen in a

188  Translanguaging in Translation

small town an hour by train from Hamburg and heads to the shop (Murakami, 1985/2004): Source text written by Haruki Murakami: 母親は一人で電車に乗り、夫のみやげにレーダーホーゼンを買うため にその町に出かけた。彼女は列車のコンパートメントでドイツ人の中年 の夫婦と一緒になり、英語で世間話をした。彼女が「自分は今からみ やげのレーダーホーゼンを買いに行くところだ」と言うと、夫婦は「どこ の店に行くつもりか？」と質問した。彼女が店の名を告げると、二人は 異口同音に「それなら間違いない。その店がいちばんだ」と言った。そ れで彼女は意を強くすることができた。 (Murakami, 1985/2004: 28) Romanization: Hahaoya-wa hitori-de densha-ni nori, otto-no miyage-ni rēdāhōzen-o kau tame-ni sono machi-ni dekaketa. Kanojo-wa ressha-no konpātomento-de doitsu-jin-no chūnen-no fūfu-to issho-ni nari, eigode seken-banashi-o shita. Kanojo-ga ‘jibun-wa ima-kara miyage-no rēdāhōzen-o kai-ni iku tokoro da’ to iu-to, fūfu-wa ‘doko-no mise-ni iku tsumori ka?’ to shitsumon shita. Kanojo-ga mise-no na-o tsugeru to, futari-wa ikudōon-ni ‘sorenara machigai nai. Sono mise-ga ichiban da’ to itta. Sorede kanojo-wa i-o tsuyoku suru koto-ga dekita. Verbatim translation: The mother took the train alone and went to that town to buy lederhosen as a souvenir for her husband. She met with a German middle-aged couple on the train and made small talk in English. When she said, ‘I’m going to buy a pair of lederhosen as a souvenir,’ the couple asked, ‘Which shop are you going to?’ When she mentioned the name of the shop, the two said at the same time, ‘If that one, there is no mistake. That shop is the best.’ As a result, she could strengthen her determination.

Birnbaum’s English translation is as follows (Murakami, 1993): Translation by Alfred Birnbaum: So the mother boarded a train to buy her husband his souvenir lederhose. In her train compartment sat a middle-aged German couple, who conversed with her in halting English. ‘I go now to buy lederhosen for souvenir,’ the mother said. ‘Vat shop you go to?’ the couple asked. The mother named the name of the shop, and the middle-aged German couple chimed in together, ‘Zat is ze place, jah. It is ze best.’ hearing this, the mother felt very confident. (Murakami, 1993: 125)

In Birnbaum’s TT, the quoted English speeches of the mother and the German couple include syntactic errors. Furthermore, the quoted English speeches by the German couple include German phonological features as in vat, zat, ze and jah instead of what, that, the and yeah, respectively. The

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last item jah may be the German word/interjection, ja, for ‘yes’. These German phonological features are not included in the original excerpt in the ST. Thus, they were added by Birnbaum. Murakami’s SBT adopts jah and represents it with ヤー (yā) as follows: Self-back translation by Haruki Murakami: そこで母親は列車に乗って、夫のお土産のレーダーホーゼンを買うべ くその町まで行った。列車のコンパートメントで、中年のドイツ人夫婦 と同席した。彼らはつたない英語を使って、母親に話しかけてきた。 「 私は今から、お土産用のレーダーホーゼンを買いにいくんです」と母 親は彼らに説明した。 「どこの店に行くつもりですかね？」と二人は訪 ねた。彼女はその店の名前を教えた。ドイツ人夫婦は声を揃えて言っ た。 「それはよろしい。 ヤー、その店なら大丈夫です」。それを聞いて母 親は満足した。 (Murakami, 2005: 174) Romanization: Sokode hahaoya-wa ressha-ni notte, otto-no omiyage-no rēdāhōzen-o kau-beku sono machi-made itta. Ressha-no konpātomento-de, chūnen-no Doitsu-jin fūfu-to dōseki shita. Karera-wa tsutanai eigo-o tsukatte, hahaoya-ni hanashikakete kita. ‘Watashi-wa ima-kara, omiyage-yō-no rēdāhōzen-o kai-ni iku-n-desu’ to hahaoya-wa karera-ni setsumei shita. ‘Doko-no mise-ni iku tsumori-desu-ka ne?’ to futari-wa tazuneta. Kanojo-wa sono mise-no namae-o oshieta. Doitsu-jin fūfu-wa koe-o soroete itta. ‘Sore-wa yoroshī. Yā, sono mise-nara daijōbu-desu.’ Sore-o kiite hahaoya-wa manzoku shita. Back-translation: So the mother got on the train and went to the town to buy her husband’s souvenir lederhosen. In the train compartment, she was seated with a middle-aged German couple. They spoke to their mother in poor English. ‘I’m going to buy a souvenir lederhosen,’ the mother explained to them. ‘Which shop are you planning to go to?’ said the two. She told (them) the name of the shop. The German couple said in chorus, ‘That’s good. Yā, if it is that shop, it will be fine.’ After hearing it, the mother was satisfied.

Birnbaum also introduces a full lexical word in German. The following excerpt in Birnbaum’s TT describes how the mother spent the afternoon after the train ride and before reaching lederhosen shop: Translation by Alfred Birnbaum: It was a delightful early-summer afternoon and a quaint old-fashioned town. Through the middle of the town flowed a babbling brook, its banks lush and green. Cobblestone streets led in all directions, and cats were everywhere. The mother stepped into a café for a bite of Käsekuchen and coffee. (Murakami, 1993: 125)

190  Translanguaging in Translation

Here, otherwise a plain English paragraph includes a German word Käsekuchen in italic, which means ‘cheesecake’. The corresponding ST part denotes it simply as the commonly used katakana word borrowed from English チーズ・ケーキ (chīzu kēki) (Murakami, 1985/2004: 29). The translator took the liberty to express it not in English, but in the other language, German. It is not commonly known by English speakers, but the context shows that it is something that one can ‘bite’ in the ‘afternoon’ along with ‘coffee’, so it must be some kind of sweet, which could be anything, from cakes and tarts to pies and cookies. To understand the story, the choice of word for the sweet that the mother had does not matter for the readers of the TT. However, by seeing a German word represented in German script with diacritics, the readers would be able to imagine the smell of the German sweet. They may become curious about German sweets and look for German cookbooks. Murakami’s SBT renders Käsekuchen as チーズ菓子 (chīzu gashi, cheese-based sweets) (Murakami, 2005: 175). Why didn’t he render it as チーズ・ケーキ (chīzu kēki) just as he did in his ST? It is possible that there is a slight difference between チーズ・ケーキ (chīzu kēki) popularized in Japan following typical American versions of cheesecake and the version in Germany in terms of the ingredients and the baking method. Thus, the more general term チーズ菓子 (chīzu gashi) is safer to use although the readers of his SBT may not be able to picture it and wonder what type of cheese-based sweets he is referring to. Nonetheless, the more general term avoids acculturation of the German food culture, taste and flavor. Birnbaum’s TT also adds a German phrase. The first quoted speech of a German worker of the lederhosen shop is represented in plain normal Japanese in the original Japanese text (ST) but is represented in German in Birnbaum’s TT and is represented in German in Murakami’s SBT (Engetsu, 2010: 611; Nakamura, 2020). The following excerpt is from the ST, where the speech of the German worker uttered when the mother entered the lederhosen shop is quoted (Murakami, 1985/2004): Source text written by Haruki Murakami: レーダーホーゼンの店は簡単にみつかった。[..] 彼女はドアを押して入 った。店の中では二人の老人が働いていた。[...] 「何かご用でしょうか、奥様」と大柄の方の老人が立ち上がってドイツ 語で声をかけた。 「レーダーホーゼンを買いたいのです」と彼女は英語で言った。 (Murakami, 1985/2004: 30) Romanization: Rēdāhōzen-no mise-wa kantan-ni mitsukatta. [..] Kanojo-wa doa-o oshite haitta. Mise-no nakade-wa futari-no rōjin-ga hataraite ita. [...] 　 ‘Nanika go-you deshō ka, Okusama’ to ōgara no hō no rōjin ga tachiagatte, Doitsu-go de koe o kaketa. ‘Rēdāhōzen o kaitai nodesu’ to kanojo wa eigo de itta.

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Verbatim translation: T he Lederhosen store was easily found. [..] She pushed in the door and entered. Two old men were working in the store. [...] ‘Anything you need, Madam?’ the larger old man (of the two) stood up and spoke (to her) in German. ‘I want to buy lederhosen’, she said in English.

The quoted speech in the above ST is a polite business-oriented phrase, which we hear in the Japanese context, demonstrated by the use of okusama (奥様). This term is used to address someone who appears to be a married woman. The following is the translation of this part in Birnbaum’s TT (Murakami, 1993): Translation by Alfred Birnbaum: She found the lederhosen shop without problem. [...] She opened the door and walked in. Two old men worked in the shop. [...] ‘Darf ich Ihnen, Madame?’ the larger of the two old men addressed the mother. ‘I want to buy lederhosen’, she responded in English. (Murakami, 1993: 126)

As we can see, a German phrase ‘Darf ich Ihnen, Madame?’ is inserted in Birnbaum’s English translation (TT). On the other hand, the narrator does not state that the man’s speech was in German because it is made obvious by the quoted speech in German. The meaning of the German phrase ‘Darf ich Ihnen, Madame?’ in the TT is contextually clear because it is what the German worker at the shop said right after the mother entered the shop, and the narrator states that she responded to him and said that she wanted to buy a pair of lederhosen. Murakami’s SBT adopts this German quoted speech with the Japanese translation in parentheses. The following is Murakami’s SBT (Murakami, 2005): Self-back translation by Haruki Murakami:   レーダーホーゼンを売る店はすぐに見つかった。[...] 彼女はドアを 開けて、中に入った。   店の中では二人の老人が仕事をしていた。[...]   「Darf ich Ihnen helfen, Madame?（何かをお求めでしょうか、 マダム） 」、 二人の老人のうちの大柄な方が母親に尋ねた。   「私はレーダーホーゼンを買いに来ました」と母親は英語で言った。 (Murakami, 2005: 175): Romanization:   Rēdāhōzen-o uru mise-wa sugu-ni mitsukatta.[...] Kanojo-wa doa-o akete, naka-ni haitta.

192  Translanguaging in Translation

  Mise-no naka-de-wa futari-no rōjin-ga shigoto-o shite ita.[...] ‘Darf ich Ihnen helfen, Madame? (Nanika o-motome deshō ka, Madamu),’ futari-no rōjin-no uchi-no ōgara-na hō-ga hahaoya-ni tazuneta. ‘Watashi-wa rēdāhōzen-o kai-ni kimashita’ to hahaoya-wa eigo-de itta Verbatim translation:   A store selling Lederhosen was soon found. [...] She opened the door and went inside.   Two old men were working in the store. [...] The larger one of the two old men asked the mother, ‘Darf ich Ihnen helfen, Madame? (Are you looking for something, madame?)’ ‘I came to buy lederhosen’, the mother said in English.

 hese are only a few selected examples where Birnbaum added linguistic T features of German in his TT. However, Murakami’s original ST did include some German features. Murakami included a few instances of translanguaging facilitated by the use of katakana-transliteration secured as furigana to accompany the corresponding full-size Japanese text. The first instance is the quoted speech of the shorter German shop worker, who agrees with the taller one by saying ‘Sō, sō (そう、そう, yes, yes)’ which is accompanied by the furigana, ia, ia (イア、イア), which is the transliteration of German phrase ‘ja, ja’ (Yes, yes) (Murakami, 1985/2004: 32). The second instance is the quoted speech of the mother when she tried to thank the shorter German shop worker after thanking the taller one. She says ‘Totemo kansha-shimasu’ (とても感謝します, It is greatly appreciated), which is accompanied by the dusu・isuto・zō・netto・fuon・īnen (ダス・イスト・ゾー・ネット・フオン・イーネン), which is the transliteration of Das ist so nett von Ihnen that means ‘That is so nice of you’ (Murakami, 1985/2004: 33). Both of them are rendered in German in italics in Birnbaum’s TT: Translation by Alfred Birnbaum: The larger old man explained the situation to the smaller old man, who nodded sadly, jah, jah. (Murakami, 1993: 126) Translation by Alfred Birnbaum: ‘Thank you’, she said. Then she managed to thank the other brother in German: ‘Das ist so nett von Ihnen’. (Murakami, 1993: 127)

These two quoted speeches in German appear in full-size text in Birnbaum’s English translation (TT). They also appear in full-size text rather than as furigana in Murakami’s self-back translation (SBT). ‘Ja, ja’

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is rendered as ヤー、 ヤー in full-size font and ‘Das ist so nett von Ihnen’ is rendered directly in his SBT: Self-back translation by Haruki Murakami: 小柄な老人は悲しい過去をして「ヤー、 ヤー」とうなずいていた。 (Murakami, 2005: 176) Self-back translation by Haruki Murakami: 「ありがとう」と彼女は言った。それからお兄さんに向かってドイツ語 で言った。 「Das ist so nett von Ihnen. (ご親切を感謝します）」 (Murakami, 2005: 177)

Translanguaging in translation that we have seen in previous chapters is mostly manifested as the permeation of SL items in TTs. However, translanguaging in Birnbaum’s English translation of Lederhosen is mostly the addition of the linguistic features of the third language, German. This makes the communicative interactions among characters more realistically vivid. In this story, a Japanese woman (the mother) and German people communicate in their mutual second language, English, so she can purchase a pair of lederhosen for her husband in Japan. Their communicative collaboration crossing linguistic barriers cannot be expressed without translanguaging the features of German and the features of second language speakers of English. Through Birnbaum’s translanguaging practices in his English translation, the audience of the TTs can actually hear, smell and sense the German contexts and appreciate the communicative effort made by the characters. It is interesting to see that the original author Murakami incorporates Birnbaum’s translanguaging practices in his self-back translation. To summarize, translated texts are often thought to require language purism. However, some translators make efforts to express multilingual realities in their translation through creative translanguaging practices. Our societies are more and more multilingual, and many individuals are multilingual. These characters do not have to be erased through translation. 5.4 Manipulation

Translanguaging is a fluid language use that disregards linguistic boundaries. However, ironically, the concept itself cannot exist if there are no perceivable linguistic boundaries. We are surrounded by many invisible but perceivable socioculturally constructed boundaries. They divide language users, communicative contexts or linguistic elements. These boundaries together form a lattice of interrelated linguistic boundaries, and such a lattice is shaped and reshaped by ongoing t­ ranslanguaging

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(E. Sato, 2021). Translanguaging is maneuvered by the sensitivity of language users that reflect their identities, the sociocultural environment that surrounds them and the sociohistorical background of linguistic elements sensed differently by language users in different places at different times. Translanguaging can take place wittingly or unwittingly. This section examines a case where linguistic boundaries are manipulated due to the sociopolitical conflict between Japan and Korea. There are considerable linguistic parallelisms between Japanese and Korean. They share similar sentence structures, morphosyntactic properties and honorific systems. They both have a large inventory of mimetic words that are used as standard vocabulary. They both lacked their own scripts until they adopted Chinese characters, as kanji in Japanese and as hanja in Korean. We cannot help but notice that kanji and hanja already sound very similar. Japanese and Korean also have their own indigenous native vocabulary for words that denote outer body parts, kin terms, landscape and simple actions and states, but they adopted and extensively developed Sino vocabulary, which are called kango in Japanese and hanjaeo in Korean. However, the parallelism between the two languages triggered a dispute over a Japanese translation of a short Korean poem in 1995. The Korean poem, entitled ‘Seosi’ (서시, Forward), was written in hangul (Korean phonetic syllabary) by Yun Dong-Ju (1917–1945) in 1941 in Korea during the Japanese colonial rule (1910–1945) (see Section 3.2.3 about Yun Dong-Ju). About 40 years after the end of World War II, this poem was first translated into Japanese by Go Ibuki in 1984. The analysis of Yun’s poem and its Japanese translation by Ibuki requires a brief description of the sociohistorical background of this poem. Yun Dong-ju (1917–1945) was born in a Christian family, in Myeongdong, which is currently in China. He graduated from Yonhi College (current Yonsei University) in 1941, majoring in literature. As it was difficult for Koreans to pursue higher education in Korea during its Japanese rule, he went to Japan and entered Rikkyo University in Tokyo in 1942 to study English literature, and then moved to Doshisha University in Kyoto shortly after. He was arrested in 1943 in Kyoto and was imprisoned in Fukuoka in Japan next year for the charge of participating in Korean independence movements. He passed away in the Fukuoka prison on 16 February 1945: The cause of his death is unknown. Sky, Wind, Stars, and Poetry (하늘과 바람과 별과 시 Haneulgwa baramgwa byeolgwa si), the collection of Yun Dong-Ju’s poems, was published posthumously in 1948 in Korea. It was first translated into Japanese by Go Ibuki, which was published in 1984 in Japan. Ibuki’s translation of this collection was highly praised in The Journey to Hangul (ハングルへ の旅 Hanguru-e-no tabi) written by Noriko Ibaragi (Ibaragi, 1989/2016: 241). Her essay was included in a Japanese textbook (Kim, 2017: 61) and significantly increased the awareness of Yun Dong-Ju in Japan. A monument

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was erected to commemorate 50 years since Yun’s death on the campus of Doshisha University, and its unveiling ceremony was conducted on 16 February 1995. 2 Yun Dong-Ju’s poem ‘Seosi’ (서시, Forward) in Sky, Wind, Stars, and Poetry along with its Japanese translation by Ibuki was inscribed on this monument. This poem was written in hangul on 20 November 1941 in Korea before Yun left for Japan. When this poem was written, the use of Korean language and the identity of Koreans were oppressed by the Japanese Government-General of Korea. Korean and Japanese languages were required subjects in elementary schools from 1911 to 1938, but Korean was degraded to the status of an ‘optional subject’ in 1938 and was eventually excluded from elementary school curricula in 1941 although it was still listed as optional (Chou, 1996: 49). The name-changing campaign called Sōshi-Kaimei (創氏改名, create a family name and change one’s given name) began on 11 February 1940. Koreans were coerced to have Japanese names by this campaign, and 75% of Korean households acquired Japanese names by 11 August 1940 (Chou, 1996: 60). Yun Dong-Ju also gained a Japanese family name, Hiranuma. He had a close cousin, Song Mong-Gyu (宋夢奎), who had participated in resistance movements and was once arrested. Because of this sociocultural and sociopolitical climate, Yun Dong-Ju’s poems, which were written in hangul, were considered as nationalistic resistance poems. The original Korean poem ‘Sŏsi’ (서시, Forward) is as follows: Source text written by Yun Dong-Ju: 죽는 날까지 하늘을 우러러 한 점 부끄럼이 없기를、 잎새에 이는 바람에도 나는 괴로워했다。 별을 노래하는 마음으로 모든 죽어가는 것을 사랑해야지 그리고 나한테 주어진 길을 걸어가야겠다。 오늘 밤에도 별이 바람에 스치운다。 (Yun, 1984/2002: 17) Romanization: Jug-neun nalkkaji haneul-eul ureoreo hanjeom bukkeuleom-i eobsgi-leul, ipsae-e i-neun baram-e-do na-neun goerowohaessda. Byeol-eul nolaeha-neun maeum-eulo modeun jugeoga-neun geos-eul salanghaeyaji geuligo na-hante jueoji-n gil-eul geoleo-ga-ya-gessda. Oneulbam-e-do byeol-i balam-e seuchiunda.

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Verbatim translation: Look up to the sky until the day of death Wishing not to have a speck of shame, Even when the wind rises on the leaves I suffered. With the heart that sing the stars I have to love all that are dying. And the road I have been given (I) must walk Tonight, again, the stars are brushed by the wind

After the unveiling ceremony of the monument that inscribes Yun DongJu’s poem ‘Foreword’ and Ibuki’s Japanese translation, a newspaper article entitled ‘Distorted Japanese Translation’ written by Hyeong-Gyun Cho3 appeared on The Chosun Ilbo (조선일보) on 31 October 1995. Four of Cho’s criticisms over Ibuki’s Japanese translation are summarized in Japanese in Arakawa (1997), which are discussed and further analyzed in Sagawa (2000), Kim (2017), McNulty (2018) and E. Sato (2021), among others. One of Cho’s criticisms is rather subjective: It is sad that a monument with a Japanese translation filled with mistakes is placed in a university in Japan to be read with an innocent heart. The other three points are more specific: They are about haneul (하늘, sky) in the first line, bukkeuleom (부끄럼, shame) in the second line and 모든 modeun jugeoganeun geos (죽어가는 것, all that are dying) in the sixth line. Let us first consider Ibuki’s rendering of haneul (하늘, sky). It was rendered as sora (空, sky) in Ibuki’s Japanese translation. Cho claims that haneul, which literally means ‘sky’, should be rendered as ‘heaven’ because the author was a Christian, and he must have referred to the image of his religion rather than the physical ‘sky’ (Arakawa, 1997: 32). For this criticism, Ibuki responds that the elements of this poem, sky, wind and stars, should be taken literally and their meanings should not be narrowed down (Ibuki, 2002: 295). Next, consider bukkeuleom (부끄럼, shame) in the second line. Cho states that bukkeuleom should be rendered as the native Japanese vocabulary, haji (恥, shame), instead of the Sino-Japanese counterpart 恥辱 (Arakawa, 1997: 32). Note that the Sino-Japanese word 恥辱 used in Ibuki’s Japanese translation is accompanied by はじ (haji) written in small-size hiragana provided as furigana. はじ (haji) is the pronunciation of the native Japanese word, which is written with one kanji character, 恥. はじ (haji) is not the conventional pronunciation of the compound kanji characters, 恥辱, which is normally pronounced as chijoku. According to Arakawa (1977: 32), Cho claims that Ibuki’s translation with 恥辱, instead of 恥, changes the message of the original Korean poem: the use of 恥辱 makes this line (and the poem) the author’s wish for his safety so he will not receive any physical violence from the oppressor; however, the message of this poem is the author’s vow and wish not

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to sell his conscience, and it is the very reason why this poem has been loved and recited. Let us analyze Cho’s criticism through a lens of translanguaging. Cho’s criticism is clearly based on the assumption that Korean and Japanese have comparable native words and comparative Sino words, and his point is the loss of parallelism between the Korean ST and the Japanese TT in terms of the origin-based lexical classes. The original word used in the ST is the native Korean word pukkŭrŏm (부끄럼, shame), and there is a comparable native Japanese word haji (恥, shame). Somehow, the Sino-Japanese word with a similar meaning, chijoku 恥辱, was used in Ibuki’s translation, which supposedly corresponds to the Sino-Korean word chiyok (치욕, 恥辱). That is, Ibuki crossed both interlingual and intralingual boundaries, as you can see in Figure 5.2:

Figure 5.2  Interlingual and intralingual boundaries

Crossing an interlingual boundary is expected in a professional translation practice. However, crossing an intralingual boundary is not expected and not acceptable for Cho. Although the Sino-Japanese kango word 恥辱 is accompanied by the native Japanese wago word はじ used as furigana, furigana is only a small-size text optionally provided as an annotation alongside the word in the main text. In this case, the kango, not the wago, is the main text, and thus Ibuki indeed crossed the intralingual boundary (E. Sato, 2021). Cho’s criticism may be based on the difference that he senses between native Korean words and Sino-Korean words, and he assumes that the same difference holds between native

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Japanese words (wago) and Sino-Japanese words (kango). Cho claims that the meaning of ‘shame’ has changed from the personal shame that emerges and felt internally to the shame that is caused by an external oppressor with no indication of the internal mental state. The same difference can be sensed between the native Japanese word haji (恥) and the Sino-Japanese word chijoku (恥辱), and thus Cho’s claim is valid. McNulty (2018) argues that the original native Korean word bukkeuleom expresses a ‘general’ sense of shame, which is appropriate to imply the author’s desire to be ‘totally’ pure, whereas the Sino-Korean counterpart chijoku has a ‘specific’ sense of shame that is eventive or incidental such as the political atmosphere, which trivializes the author’s desire to be ‘totally’ pure. Her observation based on ‘totality’ is consistent with Cho’s observation based on ‘internality’. Unexpectedly, Ibuki’s response to Cho’s criticism over ‘shame’ was quite short and simple. Ibuki states that it is not worth discussing because Cho read this word in Korean ignoring the furigana and asserted that the nuance is different (Ibuki, 2002: 299). According to E. Sato (2021), his response to Cho raises a few questions. First, why did Ibuki use a mismatching furigana and a kango (Sino-Japanese compound) in his translation? If it was for creative meaning-making, what was his intention? If only one kanji, 恥, is used, it can be automatically read as haji, without requiring furigana at all. In fact, this simple method was used in the Japanese translation of this poem by Japan Christian Organization Publisher (Yun, 1995/2008: 8): pukkŭrŏm (부끄럼, shame) is simply rendered as 恥 without requiring furigana. Second, why did Ibuki choose not to comment on the difference in nuance between the native Japanese word haji (恥) and the Sino-Japanese word chijoku (恥辱)? Cho described his own perception, and thus Ibuki should have described his, too. On the other hand, Arakawa (1997: 34) defends Ibuki and argues that the use of the Sino-Japanese compound 恥辱 (chijoku) is not due to fabrication or distortion. He claims that it is a frequently used practice to supplement a kanji character with another kanji character with a similar meaning to create a two-kanji compound such as 河川 (ka-sen), 氾濫 (han-ran), 魂魄 (kon-paku) and 温暖 (on-dan) in Japan. According to him, it makes the word phonologically stable as a word to the extent that the meaning will not change significantly. Arakawa (1997: 34) continues that the relative semantic weight between the two kanji characters in 恥 辱 is not equal. He claims that the semantic contribution of 恥 (shame) is much larger than that of 辱 (humiliation), and by combining them, the meaning of 辱 (humiliation) is softened. Arakawa’s (1997) defense of Ibuki actually makes the use of 恥辱 even more questionable, when there is a native Japanese word 恥 (E. Sato, 2021). First, 恥 (haji) is a two-syllable word, and thus, it is already phonologically stable, and there is no need to add another kanji character, especially because the entire Japanese TT is written in plain native

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Japanese, just like the entire Korean ST is written in plain Korean. Second, 辱 can be used as a part of the verb 辱める (hazukashimeru, to humiliate someone) in Japanese. This verb is a transitive verb, and thus necessarily conveys transitivity (someone humiliates someone else) and intentionality. By contrast, 恥 can be used as a part of the verb 恥じる (hajiru, to feel ashamed), which is an intransitive verb that means someone feels ashamed. In fact, a variation of this intransitive verb 恥ずる (hazuru) is used in the Japanese translation of this poem by Yun Dong-Ju Poetry Monument Establishment Committee (Yun Donju Shihi Konryū Iinkai, 1997: 13), again, without requiring furigana. 恥 has no implication of transitivity or intentionality. Therefore, only the addition of 辱 is responsible for the perceivable transitivity and intentionality, which limits shame to eventive/incidental shame intentionally caused by external force. This line of analysis can explain why Ibuki added the furigana はじ (haji): The furigana はじ camouflages transitivity and intentionality provided by the second kanji 辱. It presents the manipulation of the intralingual boundary between vocabulary classes (E. Sato, 2021). Finally, consider Ibuki’s rendering of modeun jugeoga-neun geos-eul salanghaeyaji (모든 죽어가는 것을 사랑해야지, we must love all that are going to die) as ikitoshi ikeru mono o oshimaneba (生きとし生けるものを いとおしまねば, we must love all that are living). Notice that ‘all that are going to die’ was changed to ‘all that are living’. Cho claims that this part should be read while feeling the history of varied cruelty that Koreans were facing, but it was degraded to an abstract principle about life that calls for aesthetic appreciation and sentiment (Arakawa, 1997: 32). Cho states that ‘all that are going to die’ represents the constant suffocating pain for the poet (Yun), and the poem is for him to swear to love all including the people who were ‘dying’ (Arakawa, 1997: 32). A question was raised by Masuo Omura, Professor Emeritus, Waseda University, regarding the same part of this poem (Ibuki, 2002: 292). Ibuki responds to Omura’s criticism by saying that ‘all that are going to die’ and ‘all that are living’ are logically equivalent (Ibuki, 2002: 295) and also argues that the author Yun’s intention should not be unfairly narrowed by saying ‘all that are dying’ (Ibuki, 2002: 298). In addition, Ibuki states that he did not want to repeat the word ‘to die’ in the same poem as it also appears in the first line (Ibuki, 2002: 298). Arakawa (1997) rejects the implication of those who caused death in this poem. Even though the poem’s sociohistorical background implies the existence of those who caused death, which would be the Japanese rulers of Koreans, he thinks that negative nuance should be absent in the Japanese translation so the current Japanese readers can appreciate the pureness of Yun Dong-Ju’s poem itself (Arakawa, 1997: 34). The phrase ikitoshi ikeru mono (生きとし生けるもの, all that are living) sounds poetic as it has been used by Japanese writers over 1000

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years since Ki no Tsurayuki (紀貫之, 872-945) used this phrase in the foreword of The Kokin Wakashū (古今和歌集, Collection of Japanese Poems of Ancient and Modern Times) compiled in the 10th century. Thus, ikitoshi ikeru mono does make Ibuki’s translation sound elegant and poetic (Kim, 2017: 67). Hence, his change from ‘all that are going to die’ to ‘all that are living’ is driven by his interpretation and poetology. Just by observing the above three points raised by Cho in 1995, reported in Arakawa (1997), we can see some inconsistencies with Ibuki’s translation strategies. Ibuki has expressed his intention of avoiding associating the poem with negative historical fact when commenting on ‘all that are living’ instead of ‘all that are dying’. He wanted to keep Yun Dong-Ju’s poem pure and free from sociohistorical and religious implications as he explained his choice of ‘sky’ over ‘heaven’. However, he wants to narrow the sense of ‘shame’ by associating ‘shame’ with externally imposed shame, namely, the Japanese rule of Koreans. This contradiction let us think that Ibuki wanted to create a translation that can be easily accepted by the current Japanese. For this purpose, Ibuki manipulated a fine line between the sensitivities that arise from lexical classes. After the publication of Ibuki’s translation in 1984, Yun Dong-ju’s poems became widely known in Japan. Ibuki’s Japanese translation was highly praised for its literary value and for his thorough studies of Yun  Dong-Ju’s life by a prominent Japanese author, Ibaragi Noriko, who included Ibuki’s translation in her essay collection, Hanguru e no Tabi [ハングルへの旅, The Journey to Hangul], published in 1986 (Ibaragi, 1989/2016). As mentioned earlier, her essay was included in a Japanese textbook (Kim, 2017: 61) and significantly increased the ­awareness of Yun Dong-ju in Japan. Arakawa (1997: 35) argues for the ­importance of making Yun’s poems understood and appreciated by a wider range of people, not just by Koreans. On the other hand, Sagawa (2000: 303) states that the Japanese are not recognizing their sins and their shame in contrast with Yun’s recognizing his conscience. Ibuki’s use of a Sino-Japanese word with a mismatching furigana shows his compromise between being faithful to the original and making his translation well received by the current Japanese audience. It was executed through translanguaging that manipulates the intralingual boundary between origin-based lexical varieties (E. Sato, 2021). This case shows that translanguaging closely reflects the identity of language users, the sociocultural environment that they are placed in, their sensitivities toward linguistic elements and the boundaries that divide them. 5.5 Conclusion

It is never an exaggeration to say a context is everything for understanding and using any word, any phrase or any sentence. Nothing means anything without a context. Metaphors and puns are those that tend to be

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adaptively rendered in translation processes, sacrificing their rhetorical effect, playfulness, content or cultural flavor. On the other hand, they can be saved by translanguaging in translation if contextually scaffolded. A calque-like translation of a metaphor may be needed to preserve the hidden theme of a poem, whereas a fluent equivalent metaphor may ruin it. Similarly, use of an SL element may be able to convey both the effect and the content of a pun, whereas a fluent alternative pun may distort the culture of the ST. This is the area that shows the limitation of monolingual translation. The multi-scripts and furigana convention in Japanese can relatively easily express the content and the effect of puns. Metaphors and puns are those that tend to be adaptively rendered in translation processes, we can avoid distorting the culture of the ST through translation and allow the readers of the TT to experience the essence of the original punning effects and engage in a virtual intercultural communication. Another area where we can loudly say ‘context is everything’ is multilingual language use. A multilingual reality found in narratives and in quoted speeches of bilinguals themselves conveys the identity of the characters. Their code-switching and code-mixing tell us about a person’s cultural background, personal histories, personality, social status and social relationship with other people. If a translated text as a product must be monolingual, such realities and subtle nuances will all be erased. However, some translators capture them in their translation through creative translanguaging practices. Furthermore, manipulative behaviors of translators are driven by ­socicultural ideologies that surround them. Ibuki’s use of a Sino-Japanese word with a mismatching furigana in his Japanese translation of the Korean poem ‘Foreword’ written by Yun Dong-Ju during the Japanese rule of Korea shows his compromise between being faithful to the original and making his translation well received by the current Japanese audience. It was executed through intralingual translanguaging that manipulates a boundary between origin-based lexical varieties. Translanguaging closely reflects the identity of language users, the sociocultural environment that they are placed in, their sensitivities toward linguistic elements and the boundaries that divide them. Notes (1) https://www.etsy.com/il-en/market/buzz_words?ref=rlte_std_1 (2) Asahi Shimbun, 25 February 1995. (3) The title and the author’s full name in hangul is listed in Kim (2017): 조형균 1995 왜 곡된 일본어역, 조선일보1995.10.31.

6 Roles of Translanguaging and Translation

The research presented in this book sheds light on the roles of translanguaging and translation for language development, language use and language teaching. 6.1 Language Development

Translanguaging operates recursively, multi-directionally and productively, even at morpheme and graphic levels. It enables languages to evolve reflecting the changes of the surrounding society. In other words, translanguaging allows linguistic elements to absorb the essence of the communicative context embedded in a given society. Crucially, language users’ creativity is the driving force of translanguaging, and their creativity is evoked when they notice differences between cultures and languages. Changes in culture change languages. Similarly, changes in languages, facilitated by translanguaging, cause changes in culture and society. Thus, a language and its surrounding society evolve together. Some argue that translanguaging is a threat to the existence of a language, especially to endangered languages. It is true that translanguaging causes a change to a language. However, we must ask ourselves if any language can survive without changing. There are no known languages with active speakers that remain unchanged. The ability for a language to change is the reason why we still have languages to be used for communication. Languages constantly change through being used for communication and by being affected by the changes of the sociocultural environment in which they are used. Meanings of words are never stable (Derrida, 1982), and they change depending on the context and depending on the time in history. Grammatical structures, not just vocabulary, change through translation practices. Any language changes in step with societal changes. 6.1.1 Language and society

Any society changes regardless of whether it is open or closed. During the Edo Period (1603–1868), Japan was mostly closed for 214 years due to 202

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the closed-country policy sakoku (鎖国). During this period, people regained peace after the long war era, and economic wealth shifted from the warrior class to merchants. Many forms of authentic Japanese art, literature and entertainment emerged. During the Meiji Period (1868– 1912), Japan was open to the West. During the Meiji Period, the country was quickly modernized in almost all aspects of society including government, military, industry, commerce, education, literature, art and cultures. Thus, societies always change to some extent regardless of whether they are open or closed. As societies change, different languages or language varieties emerge. The dominant language variety that emerged in the Edo Period was ‘Edo Japanese’. Edo Japanese was not a direct continuation of any particular local dialect of Japanese but emerged and developed through close contact between speakers of different varieties in an urban setting (Frellesvig, 2010: 378). Edo Japanese was heavily based on a common variety in Kyoto, included the features of multiple dialects, and was affected by the unique language use in the urban setting of Edo (Frellesvig, 2010: 378). This clearly shows the emergence of a language variety facilitated by the use of language that reflects the spirit and ideology of the newly emerged forms and characteristics of the given society. The place, time and the sociohistorical context are crucial for the development of languages and language varieties. Edo Japanese can be characterized by its vocabulary, new type of honorifics and informal speech styles with noticeable phonological reduction. For example, arinsu is one of the forms found in Edo Japanese in the Edo Period. It is the phonologically reduced form of arimasu (a polite auxiliary verb) used by prostitutes in the red-light district of Yoshiwara (Frellesvig, 2010: 378). Clearly, words and linguistic features reflect the context of their use and gain specific perceivable flavors and nuances. Thus, the development and emergence of languages are driven by the changes reflected in societies. On the other hand, the dominant language variety identified in the subsequent Meiji Period was hyōjungo (標準語, standard language). This standard Japanese was the ‘descendant of the Edo-influenced variety of the common language’ (Frellesvig, 2010: 380). It was designated partially because the government needed the presence of a common language that could be used by all people to create, spread and strengthen a unified education system and curriculum to quickly catch up with the West. Japan is a long and mountainous country. Thus, geographic varieties of Japanese at that time were quite different to the extent that the people from northern Japan and those from southern Japan could not understand each other. Another driving force of the designation of ‘standard’ Japanese in the Meiji Period was the genbun-itchi (言文一致, speech-writing-­ unification) movement initiated in the late 19th century. It literally means

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speech-writing-unification but actually means the reform of written Japanese to be closer to spoken Japanese. Before the Meiji Period, most written Japanese texts were quite different from spoken Japanese. They were more like the verbalization of classical Chinese. On the other hand, written forms in European languages were much closer to spoken forms than written forms at that time. Thus, some literary authors and scholars tried to follow the European tradition. The novel Ukigumo (浮雲, Floating Cloud) written by Shimei Futabatei (二葉亭四迷) in the late 19th century is often viewed as the first successful use of vernacular Japanese in writing during the genbun-itchi movement in Japan. In this period, mass printing became widely available and circulated literary works with quoted speeches among the middle class. This also contributed to the propagation of ‘standard’ Japanese during the Meiji Period. Thus, the emergence and the development of languages and language varieties cannot be separated from the changes of their surrounding sociocultural environment. 6.1.2 Recursive and multi-directional translanguaging

Mixing linguistic elements in two or more languages is usually viewed as signs of linguistic deficiency if not established loanwords. However, loanwords are not created overnight. There are intermediate stages for the emergence of loanwords. In Section 2.5.2, we saw that many katakana words that appeared as furigana in Japanese translations later became fully fledged loanwords in Japanese after a few decades. The katakana words that initially appeared as furigana in Japanese translations are not signs of linguistic deficiency, but traces of translanguaging (E. Sato, 2018b). The process for a word to become a fully-fledged loanword is a translanguaging process (Baynham & Lee, 2019). It is important to notice that translanguaging applies recursively and multi-directionally (E. Sato, 2021). For example, as discussed in Section 2.3.2, a group of kanji characters called wasei-kanji (和製漢字) or kokuji (国字) were created in Japan by combining parts of some kanji characters (e.g. 働, to work), and then used to create new kanji compound words or kango (漢語) (e.g. 労働 ‘labor’). Kanji characters were originally from Chinese, and new kanji characters were created in Japan, which then became a part of a new kango, through multiple translanguaging processes. Furthermore, many compound kanji words created in Japan ‘traveled’ back to China. For example, kanji compounds such as 電話 (telephone) and 銀行 (bank) were created in Japan and imported to China to be used in modern Chinese (Huang, 2012; Liu, 1995). Words created through translanguaging feed both Japanese and Chinese, crossing linguistic boundaries multiple times in multiple directions.

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6.1.3 Productive translanguaging morphology

The Japanese lexicon was dramatically expanded through translating a large number of texts from the West in the Meiji Period (1868–1912). Thousands of Sino-Japanese words and katakana words were created through translation as discussed in Sections 2.3.4 and 2.4.2. They also have been engaged in cycles of translanguaging morphology. Words from different lexical varieties are combined to form new words. For example, 省エネ (shō-ene, energy conservation) is a compound noun made of a Chinese morpheme, 省 that means ‘conservation’, and エ ネ, the first two syllables of the loanword エネルギー (enerugī, energy). Such hybrid compound nouns are called konshugo (混種語, mixed-class words). Konshugo are made of any combination of wago (和語, native Japanese words), kango (漢語, Sino-Japanese words) and gairaigo (外来 語, non-Chinese loanwords written in katakana). The following are additional konshugo compound nouns, where W, K and G stand for wago, kango and gairaigo, respectively: 夏服 natsu-fuku (summer apparel): 消しゴム keshi-gomu (eraser): 先手 sen-te (first move): 今シーズン kon-shīzun (current season): コーヒー豆 kōhī-mame (coffee beans): レッカー車 rekkā-sha (tow truck):

夏 (summer, W) + 服 (clothes, K) 消し (to erase, W) + ゴム (rubber, G) 先 (preceding, K) + 手 (hand, W) 今 (now, K) + シーズン (season, G) コーヒー (coffee, G) + 豆 (beans, W) レッカー (wrecker, G) + 車 (car, K)

New Japanese verbs can be productively made with the dummy verb suru (する, to do). The following are their examples, where K and G stand for kango and gairaigo, respectively: 復習する fukushū suru (to review): 進化する shinka suru (to evolve): コピーする copī suru (to copy): オーダーする ōdā suru (to order):

復習 (review, K) + する suru 進化 (evolution, K) + する suru コピー (copy, G) + する suru オーダー (order, G) + する suru

New adjectives can also be productively made with the nominal-adjective formative na (な). The following are their examples, where K and G stand for kango and gairaigo, respectively: 複雑な fukuzatsu na (complex): 高価な kōka na (expensive): シャイな shai na (shy): ユニークな unīku na (unique):

複雑 (complex, K) + な na 高価 (expensive, K) + な na シャイ (shy, G) + な na ユニーク (unique, G) + な na

Many such hybrid vocabulary words created through translanguaging morphology are essential in current Japanese society.

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6.1.4 Norm-breaking translanguaging morphology

Morphological operations that exclusively apply to native words occasionally apply to non-native words. Such norm-breaking morphological operations are usually created experimentally, but some of the outcomes have been internalized by Japanese speakers due to overuse. For example, the verbal suffix ru (る), which should be exclusively used with wago, is combined with some kango and gairaigo as below: コピる copi-ru (to copy): コピー (copy, G) + る ru メモる memo-ru (to take a memo): メモ (memo, G) + る ru ググる gugu-ru (to google): グーグル (Google, G) + る ru 事故る jiko-ru (to have an accident) : 事故 (accident, K) + る ru 愚痴る guchi-ru (to complain): 愚痴 (complaint, K) + る ru 告る koku-ru (to confess one’s love): 告白 (confession, K) + る ru きょどる kyodo-ru (to act suspiciously): 挙動不審 (suspicious behavior, K) + る ru

Similarly, the adjectival suffix i (い), which should be exclusively used with wago, is occasionally combined with some kango and gairaigo as follows: 四角い shikaku-i (square): ナウい nau-i (trendy): グロい guro-i (grotesque): エロい ero-i (erotic):

四角 (square, K) + い i ナウ (now, G) + い i グロテスク (grotesque, G) + い i エロチック (erotic, G) + い i

Such experimental translanguaging morphological operations produce words that are playful, fresh and attention-drawing. However, after being overused, they are perceived as a regular part of vocabulary words and their playful and catchy sensitivities cease to exist. Words such as sabo-ru (サボる, to slack off), dabu-ru (ダブる, to be duplicated) and shikaku-i (四角い, square) are sensed as regular Japanese vocabulary and are not sensed marked or foreign. This is similar to the lexicalization of metaphors and onomatopoeias. 6.1.5 Grammatical borrowing

Translanguaging, especially translanguaging practiced within translation, not only expands the lexicon of a language but also shapes the grammatical structure of a language (Wakabayashi, 2009). This corresponds to ‘grammatical borrowing’ discussed in the Japanese context by Miura (1979). Grammatical borrowing is not as obvious as word borrowing; however, many of them were established through translation practices.

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Miura (1979) lists 14 examples of grammatical elements in modern written Japanese attributed to the influence of European languages (particularly English): (1)

‘Inanimate things as subjects’: The use of inanimate things and concepts started to be used as the subject of a transitive verb as in Denwa-ga watashi-o okoshita. (The phone woke me up.) (2) ‘Translation Passive’: The verbal suffix -(r)are started to be used to form a passive verb to express ‘direct passive’, where the direct object of a transitive verb serves as a subject noun of the passivized verb as in the English sentence ‘My cookies were eaten by my brother’. The verbal suffix -(r)are was only used for ‘indirect passive’ that indirectly expresses the speaker’s negative view on a given event. For example, Ame-ni fur-are-ta means it rained (on me). (3) ‘Frequent use of pronoun’: Japanese sentences are full of ellipses or dropped pronouns and use of words such as anata (you) is highly avoided. However, under the influence of European languages, the use of anata, which is used as the translation of ‘you’, started to be over-used by some writers. In addition, new pronouns kare (彼) and kanojo (彼女) appeared in modern Japanese to translate the pronouns he and she, respectively. (4) ‘Tense’: De arō or darō is a modal that shows probability, but it was originally used to indicate future tense as the translation of will/shall in English by some authors. (5) ‘Long pre-noun modifiers’: Long prenominal modifiers started to be used in modern times in Japanese. (6) ‘Conjunctions’: Conjunctions that clarify logical relationships in a text such as shikashi (but), keredomo (nonetheless), daga (but) and sōshite (and then), and nazenara (because) are more frequently used in modern Japanese than classical Japanese as a result of the influence of European languages. (7) ‘Comparisons’: The particle yori started to be used to form a comparative form of an adjective, like more in more beautiful in English, whose Japanese counterpart now is yori utsukushi. (8) ‘Relative pronouns’: To translate relative pronouns such as ‘who’, ‘which’ and ‘that’, a phrase tokoro no was adapted for translation purposes since the time of Dutch studies in the Edo Period. (9) ‘Personification’: Use of personification was extended in modern times, especially the use of abstract nouns such as unmei (destiny) and shi (death), kesshin (decision) and kūsō (imagination) with agentive verbs. (10) ‘Beki, beku’: Under the influence of to-infinitives in English, two forms (beki and beku) of the old auxiliary beshi were adopted during the Meiji Period. (11) ‘Cognate Objects’: In English, it is common to use a cognate object, which is a direct object that has the same linguistic derivation as the

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verb that governs it, as in ‘sing a song’, ‘live a happy life’, ‘dream a beautiful dream’ and ‘die a sudden death’. Use of cognate objects was introduced into Japanese by some modern writers. (12) ‘Prefixes and suffixes’: There are a number of prefixes and suffixes of Chinese origin that were adopted in modern Japanese to reflect some English affixes. Examples are cho- (超, super-), fu- (不, un-), han- (反, -anti), -sei (性, -ity) and -teki (的, -al, -ic). (13) ‘New idioms’: New idioms were created, which were obviously direct translations from English. Examples are aru imi de wa (in a sense), chūi o harau (to pay attention), genmitsu ni itte (strictly speaking), gensoku to shite (as a rule), kai o motsu (to hold a meeting), kōei o yūsuru (to have the honor of), kyūsoku o toru (to take a rest), manzoku o ataeru (to give satisfaction to), shūshifu o utsu (to put a period to) and sotchoku ni ieba (frankly speaking). (14) ‘Punctuation marks’: Punctuation marks, such as 、, 。, !, ?, …, ( ), [ ], etc., were first introduced into Japanese by writers such as Shōyō Tsubouchi (坪内逍遥) and Bimyō Yamada (山田美妙), who, under the influence of European languages, tried to make written Japanese easier to read. The structures listed by Miura (1979) are fully internalized and commonly used by the current Japanese people. Grammatical borrowing can be referred to as ‘translationese’ and has been a vital part of the target language (TL) (Wakabayashi, 2009), and it is certainly the product of translanguaging in translation. Miura’s (1979) list includes the use of kare (彼, he) and kanojo (彼女, she) in Japanese. They are usually dropped in natural oral conversation. Japanese speakers who overuse kare and kanojo are perceived as snobby, scholar-like, or Westernized. However, they are essential when translating English and other European languages, in which subjects, objects and possessives are kept unlike in Japanese (see Section 4.4). Akira Yanabu argues that Japanese sentences do not have a subject position to start with and that kare (彼) was originally just a deixis to refer to a man, a woman or a thing (Yanabu, 1982/2015: 197, 202). He also argues that kanojo (彼女) was originally read as kano onna, which literally means ‘that woman’, and started to be read as kanojo in the late 19th century (Yanabu, 1982/2015: 196). On the other hand, third-person pronouns, he and she, must be repeatedly used even within the same sentence in English. When literally translating English sentences into Japanese, Japanese counterparts for he and she were needed. A similar situation holds with the use of geu (그, he) and geunyeo (그녀, she) in Korean. Kim (2004) states that they are, in part, inventions of translation. They have been used by many literary translators in quoted speeches, and now, some Korean creative writers also use them (Kim, 2004: 238). The situation in Chinese regarding the third-person pronoun is very different from Japanese and Korean. Third-person pronouns have been

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essential in Chinese because sentences need to have a subject unlike in Japanese and Korean. The third-person pronoun in Chinese is tā for both genders, and it was originally written as 他. However, a gender distinction is made in terms of writing now, as discussed in Section 4.4: the masculine third-person pronoun is still written as 他 with the human radical イ, but the feminine counterpart is written as 她, with the woman radical 女. The introduction of the character 她 with the woman-radical to represent the feminine third-person pronoun began in the 19th century when there were increased needs to translate European texts into Chinese and notable writers such as Liu Bannong (劉半農) and Lu Xun (魯迅) advocated the use of this character (Cheng, 2016: 102; Miyajima, 2014: 132). 6.1.6 Creativity

A lexical gap ignites translanguaging and awakens the creativity of bilinguals. They are urged to fill the gap with linguistic features that they have in their linguistic repertoire disregarding the linguistic boundaries. They may use a whole word or just a phoneme, a morpheme or a part of an orthographic character. The creativity found in their translanguaging practices is driven by the need to communicate and is fundamentally different from Chomskyan linguistic ‘creativity’, which results from the recursiveness of phrase-generating rules. However, both types of creativities are real and essential for our languages and language development. Translation is a battlefield for translators. Translanguaging in translation cannot be achieved without the creativity of translators, and their creativity is always driven by communicative purposes in a given sociocultural context. Languages are fluid codes framed within social practices (García, 2009: 32). Darwinian concepts apply to languages as well: Languages that cannot adapt to the change of the surrounding society cannot survive. They eventually cease to exist. Translanguaging is essential for the emergence of language variety. E. Sato (2018a) argues that onna kotoba (women’s language) in Japan was constructed in the Meiji Period (1968–1912) through both interlingual and intra- lingual translanguaging, where the linguistic features of modern school girls’ speech (Inoue, 2002, 2006) and those of traditional court ladies’ speech (Endo, 1997, 2008) were deployed. The schoolgirls’ speech was perceived as vulgar, whereas the court ladies’ speech was perceived as soft, elegant and childish. The combination of the two constructed a type of language called ‘women’s language’ and its unique group identity of modern middle-upper class Japanese women, reflecting the environment that was rapidly changing from a feudalistic society to a Westernized society in the midst of Japan’s modernization. The society at the time was male-dominant and highly polarized with competing values, such as feudal/Western, traditional/modern. Despite all of the dual characteristics of the society at the time, women’s language was a unique hybrid of many

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dualities. Language users were sensitive to the boundaries that divided speakers. Different groups of people were associated with different linguistic elements which were grammatical particles, sentence-endings, or even prosodic features such as pitch and tempo. In summary, languages emerge and develop by being used for social interaction, and any linguistic features sensed by language users are subject to translanguaging practices. 6.2 Language Use

There is an intriguing correlation between translanguaging in translation and the mindset of the receiving culture of translation toward multilingualism. English is the hegemonic language, but how English is perceived, how it functions and how it is used depend on the culture and the society where English is used. This leads to different translation approaches. Translanguaging in translation is essential for giving the readers of translation the opportunity to experience the culture of the source text (ST) and engage in a virtual intercultural communication. Translanguaging has served as a wake-up call for those accustomed to the monolingualized mindset that has dominated the West, in particular, Anglo-America. 6.2.1 Monolingualism

Monolingualism is not the norm in many areas around the globe. However, in most Anglophone societies, English-only attitudes have been normalized by policymakers and educators, and schools designate one language as the medium of teaching. Students’ performances are evaluated based on how well they express their ideas in English. Code-switching in their term papers translates to poor academic performance, which impacts their professional success due to being heavily influenced by their academic performance. Thus, monolingualism is partially responsible for the division between the elite and non-elite, and the division between rich and poor. The problem is that bilinguals are required to suppress their full communicative skills and intellect. An unfair emphasis on the TL is commonly placed in foreign language classrooms. Even mainstream researchers of second language acquisition often view mixing of two languages as signs of deficiency. How is monolingualism relevant to translation? The monolingual approach that only uses established TL words in the target text (TT) almost always misrepresents the theme of the ST and distorts the culture and the society that surrounds the ST. The dominant translation approach in Anglo-America is the domesticating approach where the culture of the ST is distorted and the translation is not perceived as translation but as original (Venuti, 1995).

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6.2.2 Multilingualism

Even if the TL of translation is English, how texts are translated differs depending on the language attitude in the receiving culture of translation. For example, the four English translations of the Hindi novel Godaan written by Premchand in 1936 that are examined in E. Sato and Sharma (2017) show extensive use of source language (SL) words, ranging from culture/society-specific words to units of measurement as shown in Sections 4.1 and 4.2. For example, in the English translation of Godaan by Anurag Yadav, a total of 1292 occurrences of SL words (133 SL distinct words) were identified (E. Sato & Sharma, 2017). The first instance is lathi which appears in the first paragraph of the first page. Yadav responded to my question about the use of many Hindi words in his English translation as follows in the summer of 2019: The reason I used many Hindi words in the translation was that from the first page itself I discovered that the text would turn utterly bland if I tried to put everything in English. Also, I strongly believed that for anyone reading the English version of a Hindi novel written in the 1920s, it is important to somehow delve deeper into the cultural context as well to be able to really appreciate the story. I assumed anyone reading the book who is not familiar with Hindi, especially those not knowing Indian cultural contexts, would definitely have patience and discover the meaning of the Hindi words as the story progresses. Often while reading English novels or articles I have always come across phrases from many European languages and I try to find out their meaning instead of just skipping it, so if anyone reading my book might also have decided to read Premchand in English, he might also make a similar effort!

The translator, Anurag Yadav, believes that use of SL words is necessary to appreciate a novel such as Godaan, which is deeply rooted in the history, culture, society and religions of India. By translating culture/societyspecific words from Hindi to English, they automatically become Westernized, and the gravity of the essential concepts in the ST is erased. Another point Yadav makes is the attitude. When one would like to read a novel in some culture, they are expected to make some effort to learn cultural concepts. This is a matter of respect to the ‘other’ culture. It is simple and obvious but is exactly what is missing in Anglo-America. Publishers instruct translators to use only fluent, grammatical, natural and ‘normal’ English. Readers’ reviews on websites praise translations mostly for readability and criticize them for stiff and non-fluent translations. Yadav is not the only translator who used numerous SL words and morphemes when translating Godaan into English. Each of the four English translations I identified includes about 100 SL terms, most of which repeatedly appear throughout the text as you can see in Table 6.1.

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Table 6.1  Number of SL terms found in four English translations of Godaan Translator

Number of SL terms found in translation

Jay Ratan and P. Lal (Premchand, 1957/2008) 

144 (119 italic; 25 non-italic; no glossary provided)

Gordon C. Roadarmel (Premchand, 1968/2002) 

98 (78 included in glossary; 20 not included in glossary)

Anupa Lal (Premchand, 2000) 

109 (53 included in glossary; 56 not included in glossary)

Anurag Yadav (Premchand, 2009) 

133 (96 italic; 37 non-italic; no glossary provided)

The translations of Godaan we have examined reveal the nature of translation practices and language attitude in India: Roadarmel’s translation is the only one published outside of India, but Roadarmel himself was born in India and lived in India until he started his higher education in the United States. India is the world’s second-largest English-speaking country, second only to the United States (Masani, 2012). However, English is mostly spoken as a second language in India. English is not a typical home language, but is the language for administration and education, and the language that links different communities within India. We cannot forget that English is also the former colonizer’s language. Thus, English is both favored and resisted. Gandhi promoted multilingualism to unite the country and decolonize it from English rule: I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the cultures of all the lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any. I refuse to live in other peoples’ houses as an interloper, a beggar or a slave. I refuse to put the unnecessary strain of learning English upon my sisters for the sake of false pride or questionable social advantage. I would have our young men and young women with literary tastes to learn as much English and other world languages as they like, and then expect them to give the benefits of their learning to India and to the world, like a Bose, a Roy or the Poet himself. But I would not have a single Indian to forget, neglect or be ashamed of his mother tongue, or to feel that he or she cannot think or express the best thoughts in his or her own vernacular. (Gandhi & Bharatan, 2014: 9)

Therefore, language purism is not the norm in multilingual countries such as India. Multiple languages have been simultaneously used and translanguaging (code-switching/mixing) has been a daily practice in India. Accordingly, a natural translation approach for readers of English

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in India does not require monolinguistic language purism, unlike what is prevalent in Anglo-America. Devy (1999) puts it convincingly that the ST and the TT are ‘parts of a larger and continuous spectrum of various intersecting systems of verbal signs’ (1999: 185). Translation is not a one-time conversion but is an ongoing communicative process taking place within a text for those who translate for the readers in India. It is a continuation of their daily multilingual communication. They may be speaking in English but may address their colleagues, friends and clients with a friendly kinship term or a respectful morpheme such as -ji in Hindi during their conversation (see Section 4.5.4 for the Hindi suffix -ji). In their English business negotiations, they most likely express the prices of products using units of measurement in Hindi because they are in India. Going back to the translanguaging prevalence in English translations of Godaan, English translations with many Hindi words are merely extensions of such daily translanguaging communications framed in English. 6.2.3 Intercultural communication

Blommaert (1993: 21) states that reading non-Western texts is an instance of ‘intercultural communication’, where shared knowledge is ‘constrained’ and needs to be ‘established in the process’. It follows that translation is a special form of intercultural communication especially if the translator takes a translanguaging approach. Readers can feel the culture of the ST by reading translations with traces of translanguaging. Encountering an SL word within an English translation is an opportunity for readers not only to learn about but also virtually sense the culture of the ST. Each of the injected SL words revives the ‘tastes of the context and contexts in which it has lived its socially charged life’ (Bakhtin, 1981: 293). Through SL words injected into translations, readers can also sense the voice of the ‘others’ more clearly and place themselves in the sociocultural and sociopolitical climate of the given time and given place. 6.3 Language Teaching

Translation and language teaching are certainly relevant to each other. Many foreign languages started to be taught through translation practices. Translanguaging and language teaching are also tightly connected as the idea of translanguaging was first proposed in a language teaching context (Williams, 1994). Let us consider the contribution of translation and translanguaging to the teaching of foreign languages as an academic subject in secondary and higher education. The Grammar-Translation Method began at the end of the 18th century in Germany (Howatt, 1984/1997: 131) and was used as a major method for teaching foreign languages until the mid-20th century in

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Anglophone societies. Although it was effective for literacy development and grammar learning, the Grammar-Translation Method was not very effective for the development of functional oral communication skills. As a result, the focus of foreign language teaching shifted to the development of oral communicative competence in the 1970s. One of the extreme methods that followed was the Direct Method which bans the use of languages other than the TL. After Communicative Language Teaching (CLT) became a dominant method for teaching foreign languages in the West in the mid-20th century, translation lost its place in language classrooms, regardless of whether it was for teaching grammar or assessing students’ progress. Under the CLT, translation, grammar explanation and the use of languages other than the TL have been discouraged in class, whereas class time has been almost exclusively used for communicative activities that use only the TL. Students learning under CLT are expected to learn the TL through communicating in the TL, just as in L1 acquisition. Translation is considered particularly problematic in the CLT because it is considered to enable L1 interference. However, the CLT also has its drawbacks. Although it is effective for developing basic oral proficiency and situation-by-situation survival skills, it is not very effective for developing other types of communicative skills including presentational and intercultural communicative skills in both oral and written communications. Written communication can be more effectively taught by explicit grammar and usage explanation using not only the TL but also the students’ L1 or mutually intelligible common language(s). Furthermore, secondary schools and colleges are not vocational schools. Thus, the objectives of their foreign language courses should not be limited to the development of functional linguistic skills but should include the development of intercultural competence that enables ­students to qualify as ideal global citizens. For example, the WorldReadiness Standards for Learning Languages (WRSLL) developed by the American Council on the Teaching of Foreign Languages (ACTFL) provides five goal areas of WRSLL, also known as the 5 Cs: Communication, Cultures, Connections, Comparisons and Communities. Each goal area has two or three standards, which jointly serve as a guideline to prepare world-ready educated citizens (The National Standards Collaborative Board, 2015). 6.3.1 Translanguaging pedagogy in language classrooms

Translanguaging is not only a theoretical perspective on languages and bilinguals but is also a pedagogical perspective. Some teachers embrace translanguaging in their classroom for teaching, but other teachers are skeptical about it. Foreign language teachers who adopt the Direct Method often ask students to pledge to use ‘only’ the TL in the classroom.

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Such an idea is consistent with the ‘subtractive’ or ‘additive’ model of bilingualism (Lambert, 1974). Their assumption is that linguistic features are maintained in autonomous linguistic repertoires that can be added or removed instantly. This model necessarily intimidates second language learners, especially self-conscious adult learners, for a certain period of time because it rejects their existing linguistic competence, confines their intellect and gives them no choice other than to communicate like toddlers. However, bilingualism is not additive or subtractive, but ‘dynamic’ and ongoing (García, 2009). It takes time to acquire or start using the features of the second language, and even after one acquires the second language substantially well, they still mix the features of all languages that are owned by them. All bilinguals mix languages to some extent in their daily lives no matter how linguistically skilled they are. Advanced bilinguals may mix languages purposely and deliberately for creative and critical meaning-making (García & Li, 2014). They may also mix languages naturally without realizing it, especially when shocked, excited, tired or angry. Practitioners of target-language-only pedagogy argue that a translanguaging pedagogy that allows them to use all of their linguistic features makes students constantly rely on their L1 and develop a habit of mixing languages. However, is this something to worry about? What is the goal of foreign language teaching? Is it to separate and purify named languages in the world? Or, is it to prepare individuals who can communicate with more people? If mixing languages can facilitate effective communication throughout the process of foreign language learning, while the Direct Method suppresses learners’ existing intellectual competence for a certain period of time, which method satisfies the goal of language teaching better? Does translanguaging pedagogy really form a habit of mixing languages in classrooms? Is it true that language learners cannot stop mixing language even when they try not to? It seems that bilinguals naturally self-regulate the extent of their language mixing by closely monitoring who the participants of each communicative event are and who understands which language. Chinese Americans would more freely mix Chinese and English when speaking with other Chinese– English bilinguals than when speaking with Italian–English bilinguals. Similarly, a Chinese learner of English might insert a Chinese word in an English sentence to fill a lexical gap in English if he is talking with a Chinese–English bilingual. However, he would not do so if he is talking with an English speaker without any Chinese background. Instead, he would resort to other solutions such as facial expressions, hand gestures, onomatopoeia or drawing, if needed, instead of mixing Chinese and English. Two facts emerge from these cases. First, language users’ ultimate goal in their daily language practices is successful communication rather than

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adherence to a named language that could hinder communication. Second, bilinguals can self-regulate the extent of translanguaging, and thus habitformation is not an issue. Language users and language learners select features naturally based on the ‘social information that each individual speaker has regarding the particular communicative context in which the social interaction takes place’ (Vogel & García, 2017). Translanguaging is useful not only in bilingual education but also in foreign language classrooms (Turnbull, 2018). It can make classroom management clear for all students so they can engage in all classroom activities with full understanding of what is expected. It can also make testing fairer for students as they would know what each question in the test is asking about. It gives a psychological benefit to language learners: Translanguaging reduces their frustration, increases their readiness and control over their communicative tasks and strengthens trust in their teachers. These psychological benefits may help learners use more TLs during their activities (Levine, 2003, 2011; Littlewood & Yu, 2011). Using two languages in the classroom is also useful for integrating fluent target-language speakers and less fluent ones. As no students will be limited in terms of how much TL should be used, more competent L2 learners can use the TL more than less competent L2 learners. 6.3.2 National standards for the teaching of foreign languages

Translanguaging pedagogy supports L2 learners to achieve the ACTFL’s WRSLL standards in the five goal areas (Communication, Cultures, Connections, Comparisons and Communities) through classroom learning. This section visits each of the five goal areas and considers how translanguaging pedagogy can help learners reach their goals. 6.3.2.1 Communication

The Communication goal area is defined as the ability to ‘communicate effectively in more than one language in order to function in a variety of situations and for multiple purposes’. This goal area includes the following three content standards: Interpersonal Communication: Learners interact and negotiate meaning in spoken, signed, or written conversations to share information, reactions, feelings, and opinions. Interpretive Communication: Learners understand, interpret, and analyze what is heard, read, or viewed on a variety of topics. Presentational Communication: Learners present information, concepts, and ideas to inform, explain, persuade, and narrate on a variety of topics using appropriate media and adapting to various audiences of listeners, readers, or viewers.

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Translanguaging is particularly helpful for interpersonal communication during spoken conversation. It provides a ‘scaffold’ to students to communicate in the TL. Without it, beginners’ expression in and understanding of the TL would be as primitive as that of kindergarteners. Self-consciousness may silence learners just because they do not know a specific word in the TL even though they already know the basic sentence structures that can be used in the TL. However, if they are allowed to mix languages, they can fill the lexical gap. Such freedom would help learns convey their ideas and engage in communicative activities without feeling intimidated. 6.3.2.2 Cultures

The second C of the 5 Cs, Cultures, is where learners are expected to ‘interact with cultural competence and understanding’. The goal area Cultures has the following two content standards: Relating Cultural Practices to Perspectives: Learners use the language to investigate, explain, and reflect on the relationship between the practices and perspectives of the cultures studied. Relating Cultural Products to Perspectives: Learners use the language to investigate, explain, and reflect on the relationship between the products and perspectives of the cultures studied.

To ‘investigate, explain, and reflect’ the relationship between the perspective of the culture and their products/practices, one needs to engage in research, read books, articles, magazines and websites, interview people in the culture, or gain information from experts or people who have relevant knowledge or experiences. Learners cannot do this just by using the TL unless they are advanced learners of the language. Beginning and intermediate learners, especially those who may tend to be self-conscious, would benefit greatly from the use of full capacity of their linguistic repertoire, not just the TL. 6.3.2.3 Connections

Consider the third goal area, Connections. This area is where L2 learners are expected to develop the ability to ‘connect with other disciplines and acquire information and diverse perspectives in order to use the language to function in academic and career-related situations’ and has the following two subareas: Making Connections: Learners build, reinforce, and expand their knowledge of other disciplines while using the language to develop critical thinking and to solve problems creatively. Acquiring Information and Diverse Perspectives: Learners access and evaluate information and diverse perspectives that are available through the language and its cultures.

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Unlike Communication and Cultures, which have been commonly addressed in introductory language courses and even in textbooks, Connections seems to be a particularly challenging goal area as it brings the learners right into ‘academic and career-related situations’. Even a beginner may be able to connect to a subject such as history. For example, beginners often engage in a communicative role-playing activity in the classroom, like shopping. Most teachers would show real coins or bill notes used in the target culture for such activities. Bill notes in most countries include a photo of a notable historical figure and students naturally wonder about the identity of the individual printed on the bill note. However, how can beginners ‘acquire’ information about that historical figure using just the TL? They need to use both the TL and their existing language repertoire in order to access historical information of the target culture. Thus, translanguaging promotes students’ fuller understanding of the subject matter regardless of their skill level in the TL and helps them understand the subject matter fully and deeply. 6.3.2.4 Comparisons

The fourth C of the 5 Cs, Comparisons, is a goal area to ‘develop insight into the nature of language and culture in order to interact with cultural competence’. The goal area Comparisons has the following two content standards: Language Comparisons: Learners use the language to investigate, explain and reflect on the nature of language through comparisons of the language studied and their own. Cultural Comparisons: Learners use the language to investigate, explain and reflect on the concept of culture through comparisons of the cultures studied and their own.

This area is particularly important because it allows learners to discover the nature of their own language and their own culture. No one can fully understand the nature and character of their language and culture unless they can compare them with other languages and cultures. Some introductory language textbooks explain grammar and usage by demonstrating differences from the expected first/common language of the users. However, again, it is difficult to show the comparative facts just by using the TL. Use of metalanguage is essential for comparing two languages and cultures. 6.3.2.5 Communities

Finally, consider the fifth goal area, Communities. This goal area encourages learners to ‘communicate and interact with cultural competence in order

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to participate in multilingual communities at home and around the world’ and includes the following two standards: School and Global Communities: Learners use the language both within and beyond the classroom to interact and collaborate in their community and the globalized world. Lifelong Learning: Learners set goals and reflect on their progress in using languages for enjoyment, enrichment and advancement.

Teachers cannot have full control over their students’ performance in this goal area. The learners leave the classroom and put themselves in a community where the TL is used. They must use the full capacity of their linguistic repertoire and make adjustments depending on who they communicate with, where their communication takes place and what topic they talk about. If their interaction takes place in a multilingual community where their first or common language is spoken, it will help them more easily engage with the members of the community. Translanguaging pedagogy is based on the assumption that students’ linguistic features are stored in the same one linguistic repertoire, rather than in separate autonomous compartments that are in a hierarchical relationship (García & Li, 2014; Vogel & García 2017). Translanguaging pedagogy is not only useful but also essential to achieve any of ACTFL’s 5 Cs because it maximizes students’ and teachers’ linguistic resources in the process of knowledge gain and problem-solving. The Direct Method restricts and inhibits learners’ communicative activities and feeds fear and self-­ consciousness in adult language learners. This problem is especially serious when the TL is not a cognate language of students’ home languages. Translanguaging pedagogy is consistent with Vygotsky’s Zone of Proximal Development (ZPD) (Vygotsky, 1986) situated in social interaction. Antón and DiCamilla (1998) show that the use of L1 helps develop one’s L2 skills through collaborative learning. Iida (2014) also argues that the Japanese government’s pedagogical policy of ‘teaching a target language in the target language’ implemented by the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology in Japan in 2013 is ineffective for L2 learning as it fails to motivate students. A similar point is reported in the context of dual language bilingual education (Fitts, 2006). Translanguaging pedagogy not only collapses language hierarchy but also helps learners digest, reinterpret and internalize information step by step. 6.3.3 Translanguaging in a language textbook

Textbooks tend to impose authoritative views on language learners. They dictate what is correct and what is incorrect. However, it is not clear if they are compatible with the reality of language use. Dialogs presented

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in beginners’ textbooks are unrealistically monolingual, limited and thus unnatural. However, some newer textbooks embrace translanguaging realities. Beginning Japanese, written by Michael L. Kluemper et al. (2016), presents some conversations and texts that freely mix English and Japanese. For example, the following is the first dialog in Chapter one presented within a manga-style comic, where the main character, Kiara, steps into her Japanese high school in Japan for the first time and approaches the registration desk where a male agent and a female agent are sitting: Male agent:

日本語がわかりますか。

Kiara:

はい、わかります。

Female agent:

いいですね。 Can you introduce yourself?

Kiara:

初めまして。 私はキアラです。 どうぞよろしく。 (Kluemper et al., 2016: 26)

This textbook does not provide English translations of dialogs. The following is the verbatim translation of the above dialog: Male agent:

Do you understand Japanese?

Kiara:

Yes, I understand it.

Female agent:

Oh, good. Can you introduce yourself?

Kiara:

How do you do? I’m Kiara. Nice to meet you.

As you can see, the female agent first responds to Kiara in Japanese, and then says, ‘Can you introduce yourself?’ in English. She mixes English and Japanese. As a textbook, such a heterolingual utterance by a school agent is not expected. However, mixing two languages is very realistic in such a situation, where an apparently non-Japanese girl walks into a school. This textbook is presenting a translanguaging practice which precisely captures the current multilingual reality in Japan. Translanguaging is ‘not as marked or unusual, but it is normal’ (García, 2009: 71). The reading section of Beginning Japanese also takes a translanguaging approach. In this textbook, the reading materials consist of Kiara’s

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journals, where she writes about her daily life in Japan. For example, Kiara’s journal in Chapter five includes a sentence such as: この experienceは毎日surprisingです。 (Kluemper, 2016: 175)

The literal translation of the above sentence is ‘This experience is surprising every day’. Here, Japanese and English words are mixed within the same sentence. Some teachers of Japanese may frown, but bilinguals do naturally mix two languages when they freely write down their thoughts. Learners of Japanese can express their ideas more easily if they are allowed to use more than just the TL. In earlier chapters, Kiara’s journal is mostly written in English, but in her subsequent journal entries, the proportion of English words gradually decreases. However, if some topic requires more complex vocabulary and structures, her English use is more dominant than Japanese again. Because Kiara takes a translanguaging approach in writing, the cultural content she is expressing is quite detailed and insightful compared to what we would expect from a beginner using Japanese only. Learners of Japanese using Kluemper’s textbook can also absorb Japanese culture colorfully through Kiara’s Japanese-English translanguaging journal entries. If the text is written solely in the TL, learners will have to depend on dictionaries, consuming a large amount of time and effort. This textbook boldly opens the door to the translanguaging pedagogy for teaching languages. Translanguaging pedagogy liberates bilinguals’ full potentials from the confinement of target-only pedagogy. It promotes the Vygotskian learningthrough-interaction approach, where people with different resources naturally collaborate to communicate with one another and foster their language development. In addition, translanguaging pedagogy reflects our language reality where everyone speaks his own idiolect (Otheguy et al., 2015). Our idiolects constantly change in the context of language use, and thus named languages are nation-state constructions and native speakers are delusionally constructed target characters. Translanguaging pedagogy is not just about a mix of languages but is also about the realization of our natural state of language use. One’s linguistic competence and repertoire keep developing over time. We should recognize a learner’s progress at each state rather than making them feel incompetent each time. Translanguaging has brought a sea-changing pedagogical perspective to multilingual classrooms in the 21st century (García, 2009; García & Li, 2014). 6.3.4 Benefit of translation tasks in language learning

Translation tasks were excluded from language classrooms after CLT became the dominant pedagogical approach for language teaching.

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However, there is a renewed interest in translation in language classrooms, as a means of language teaching and learning and as an end skill in its own right (Laviosa, 2014). Translation tasks are useful for reaching all five goals of the ACTFL’s WRSLL. The goal area Comparisons is ACTFL’s WRSLL goal area where translation can instantly benefit language learners. By participating in translation activities, going through self-trial, reflection and classroom discussions, students can compare and contrast sentence structures, semantic/pragmatic meanings and culture of the SL and the TL. They can discover many subtle differences between the two languages and cultures that can spark more interest and curiosity in the TL and culture. Without translating, would language learners ask questions about the nature of languages and the characteristics of cultures in classrooms? Would they notice anything worth comparing? Would the teacher have to set aside a class for linguistic and cultural studies? One of the most effective ways of teaching languages and cultures is to allow students to translate from their first (or common) language to their TL and let them be surprised by the alternatives provided by their teachers. Seeing the alternatives will naturally provoke students to ask why the alternative is better than or different from their version. Translation tasks can arouse students’ intellectual curiosity and serve as a natural introduction to learning the nature of languages and the characteristics of cultures through Comparisons. Translation tasks can provide students with hands-on experience of comparing two languages and two cultures. Of the five goal areas, Connections is one of the hardest goal areas to implement in classrooms. However, it can be naturally implemented through translation tasks. Through translation, language learners can gain knowledge in linguistics, anthropology, history, cultural studies and so many other subjects. For instance, the closest equivalent of the English verb to meet is au (会う) in Japanese. English-speaking learners of Japanese make a sentence such as sensei-o au (先生を会う) in translation activities. This is intended to mean ‘to meet the teacher’ but is ungrammatical in Japanese. Here, the direct object marking particle o (を) is not appropriate and must be replaced by the particle ni (に), which is similar to the preposition to in English. Students can investigate this matter and learn about the syntactic features that a word possesses, such as transitivity. Some verbs are transitive, and others are intransitive. When we pick a pair of verbs, they may seem to have similar meanings but may not have the same transitivity. Without trying to translate, it is difficult to notice selectional properties hidden in each verb. Thus, students can gain knowledge in syntax through translation. Similarly, they can gain knowledge in semantics. Inappropriate word choice caught during translation activities can reveal the fact that a word has a bundle of semantic features and similar words may differ only in terms of one semantic feature. For example, the

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closest Japanese verb to the English verb to drown is oboreru (溺れる). However, oboreru does not automatically imply the death caused by it, while the English verb to drown does. This point causes a serious problem in the translation of the stock metaphor used in the poem ‘Bansan’ discussed in Section 5.1.3. Interested students can connect this fact to their studies of literature, rhetoric or metaphors. The goal area Cultures can also be naturally implemented in translation tasks. Lexical gaps found during translation practices are ideal eyeopeners for language learners because most lexical gaps result from sociocultural differences. For example, in Japanese, some fish have different names depending on their stages of growth. Yellowtail is called wakashi (10–30 cm), inada (30–60 cm), warasa (60–80 cm) and buri (80 cm or longer) in Eastern Japan, whereas the same fish is called tsubasu, hamachi, mejiro and buri depending on the size in Western Japan. When troubled by lexical gaps, students are inspired to investigate the cause, learn the culture and the history of the TL and reflect upon their own language and culture, achieving the objectives of the ACTFL’s world-readiness standards in the area of Connection. They can easily find that, for example, there are fewer words for cattle in Japanese than in English. Japanese has only one word, ushi (牛), for calf, cow and bull. The only way the Japanese can distinguish them is to add a qualifier such as ko (子/小, child/small), me (雌, female) or o (雄, male) before ushi, as in ko-ushi (子牛, calf), me-ushi (雌牛, cow) and o-ushi (雄牛, bull). As an island country, fish have historically been the major source of protein in Japan, and the consumption of beef was not common until the mid-20th century when the Western influence became significant. On the other hand, the West has a beef consumption history of over a thousand years. Thus, there are more word choices for cattle in English than in Japanese, while there are more word choices for fish in Japanese than in English. These types of examples and comparisons can help language learners deepen their understanding of two cultures and their connections to their languages. Translation can also help language learners reach Communities and Communication by engaging students as volunteer translators or interpreters when organizing cultural events in their local communities, helping primary and secondary schools administer tests, guiding tourists in the town and helping patients at hospitals. To summarize, both translanguaging and translation have benefits in foreign language teaching in secondary schools and colleges. Translanguaging and translation should not be the only methods used, but they have been unfortunately excluded and rejected in foreign language teaching over the course of the past half century. The important point to remember is not to be limited to one extreme way of teaching. Teachers should be open-minded and aim at a holistic approach to language teaching.

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6.4 Conclusion

To conclude this chapter, the study of traces of translanguaging in translation have shown that translanguaging practices facilitate the development of languages as well as intercultural communication regardless of what mode of communication one takes. Both translanguaging and translation can benefit language learning and teaching, especially in the current globalized societies, where the insistence to the notion of native speakers as the target of language learning is problematized.

7 Conclusion

Traces of translanguaging found in translated texts can show us how translators’ creativity and criticality have been shaping and reshaping our languages and societies. This supports the idea that our languages are societally constructed and constantly develop as they are used because of our creative, recursive, multidirectional and/or productive translanguaging practices. All of us, not only those who can claim to be ‘bilinguals’, constantly sense linguistic boundaries that divide us in terms of nationalities, geographic regions, age, gender, social status, power, beliefs and even attitude. We are indeed surrounded by a lattice of linguistic boundaries that are sensed when we communicate. We may unconsciously disregard these boundaries or deliberately manipulate them as we communicate, and this in turn disturbs our social or linguistic norms and gradually changes our societies, our identities and our languages. Translators are bilinguals who are placed right at the boundary between two languages to facilitate cross-cultural or intercultural communication. Accordingly, a trace of translanguaging found in translated texts serves as a snapshot evidence of a bilingual’s translanguaging practice that has been shaping our societies and languages. This monograph has brought translation studies and applied linguistics together. It has introduced a translanguaging approach to the field of translation studies. A translanguaging approach to translation includes and goes beyond the Venutian sociopolitically motivated foreignization approach: a translanguaging approach to translation is only the manifestation of bilinguals’ natural language practice, a concept that has emerged in applied linguistics. Therefore, as any bilinguals do, translators creatively and critically use all features in their linguistic repertoire and provide needed linguistic and contextual scaffolding to ensure intelligibility. This allows the readers of translated texts to directly sense visual, auditory and semantic features of the source language elements in the pragmatic and sociocultural contexts in which they occur. As a result, the readers of translation can engage in enhanced intercultural communication rather than cross-cultural communication, and virtually experience the culture of the source language. On the other hand, this monograph has introduced, to the field of applied linguistics, a research methodology where translated literary texts 225

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serve as primary data to investigate the nature of language and language use. Through examining the traces of translanguaging found in words, onomatopoeias, metaphors, puns, scripts and other pivotal linguistic elements within translation, we can delineate a wide variety of sociolinguistic issues. English translations in monolingualized societies and English translations in multilingual societies sharply contrast with respect to the degree of translanguaging even though the same language, English, is the target language of translation. Similarly, translanguaging across interlingual or intralingual boundaries crucially reveal sociohistorical issues such as unresolved conflicts between former colonizers and colonized over decades and centuries. Translation practices shape our societies, but our societies also shape our translation practices. The implication of this study is not limited to the dynamic nature of our languages and societies but also includes language teaching practices. Just as a translanguaging approach to translation can enhance intercultural communication, a translanguaging approach to language teaching can effectively enhance language learners’ communicative potential and their understanding of the nature of their target language and its culture. Such an approach is compatible with the Vygotskian learning-throughinteraction approach, where people with different resources naturally collaborate to communicate with one another and foster their language development. After all, a translanguaging approach to language teaching simulates our linguistic reality where everyone speaks his own idiolect, and everyone uses all of the linguistic features that they have in their linguistic repertoire.

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Primary Sources

Translated texts and the source texts analyzed in this book are listed in this section. They are separated by the family name of the author of the source text and the literary work (novel, poem or story). Arishima, T. 有島武郎 (1878–1923): Oborekaketa Kyodai 溺れか けた兄弟

Cited in Section 4.4.4. Source text written by Takeo Arishima in 1921: Arishima, T. Oborekaketa Kyodai [Siblings Who Almost Drowned]. Aozora Bunko. Online document: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/ cards/000025/card215.html (Originally written in 1921). Translation by Anne McNulty and Eriko Sato: McNulty, A. and Sato, E. (2018) Japanese Stories for Language Learners: Bilingual Stories in Japanese and English. Boston: Tuttle. Capote, T. (1924–1984): Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Cited in Section 2.5. Source text written by Truman Capote in 1958: Capote, T. (1993) Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Three Stories. New York: Vintage Books (Originally written in 1958). Translation by Haruki Murakami: Capote, T. (2008/2015) Tifanī-de Chōshoku-o [Breakfast at Tiffany’s] (H. Murakami, Trans.). Tokyo: Shinchōsha. Translation by Naotaro Tatsunokuchi: Capote, T. (1968/1997) Tifanī-de Chōshoku-o [Breakfast at Tiffany’s] (N. Tatsunokuchi, Trans.). Tokyo: Shinchōsha. Ishikawa, Y. 石川好 (b. 1947): Sutoroberī ストロベリー

Cited in Section 5.3.2. Source text written by Yoshimi Ishikawa written in 1987: Ishikawa, Y. (1992) Sutoroberī [Strawberry]. Tokyo: Bungei-Shujū. Translation by Eve Zimmerman: 238

Primary Sources  239

Ishikawa, Y. (1991) Strawberry (E. Zimmerman, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha International. Kawabata, Y. 川端康成 (1899–1972): Yukiguni 雪国

Cited in Section 4.5.2. Source text written by Yasunari Kawabata in 1935–1948: Murray, G. (2007) Exploring Japanese Literature: Read Mishima, Tanizaki and Kawabata in the Original. Tokyo: Kodansha International. Translation by Edward G. Seidensticker: Kawabata, Y. and Seidensticker, E.G. (1956/1966) Snow Country (E.G. Seidensticker, Trans.). Tokyo: Tuttle. Translation by Giles Murray: Murray, G. (2007) Exploring Japanese Literature: Read Mishima, Tanizaki and Kawabata in the Original (G. Murray, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha International. Kim, S. 김소월 (1902–1934): Jindallae kkoch 진달래꽃

Cited in Section 4.4.4. Source text written by Sowol Kim in 1925: Kim, S. (2018) Gim Sowol Sijib Silbeodeul Jindallaekkoch [Kim Sowol Poems Silvers Azalea Flowers]. ebook. Star Books. Translation by Peter H. Lee: Lee, P.H. (1974) Poems from Korea: From the Earliest Era to the Present. London: Allen and Unwin. Kim, C.S. 김춘수 (1922–2004): Kkoch 꽃

Cited in Section 4.4.4. Source text written by Chun-Soo Kim: Song, J.P. (2013) Korean Poetry in Translation. Online document: https:// jaypsong.blog/category/kim-chun-soo/ Translation by Jong-Gil Kim: Kim, C.S. and Kim, J.G. (1998) The Snow Falling on Chagall’s Village : Selected Poems by Kim Ch’un-Su (J.G. Kim, Trans.). Ithaca, NY: Cornell University. Translation by Chae-Pyong Song and Anne Rashid: Song, J.P. (2013) Korean Poetry in Translation. Online document: https:// jaypsong.blog/category/kim-chun-soo/ Li, Bai 李白 (701–744): Huánghèlóu Sòng Mèng Hàorán zhī Guǎnglíng 黃鶴樓送孟浩然之廣陵

Cited in Section 3.3.1.

240  Translanguaging in Translation

Source text written by Li Bai in 730: Pound, E., Billings, T.J. and Saussy, H. (2019) Cathay: A Critical Edition. New York: Fordham University Press. Translation by Zong-Qi Cai: Cai, Z.Q. (2008) How to Read Chinese Poetry: A Guided Anthology. New York: Columbia University Press. Translation by Ezra Pound: Pound, E., Billings, T.J. and Saussy, H. (2019) Cathay: A Critical Edition. New York: Fordham University Press. Liu, Z. 柳宗元 (773–819): Jiangxue 江雪

Cited in Section 4.1.1. Source text written by Zongyuan Liu: Gu, M.D. and Schulte, R. (2014) Translating China for Western Readers: Reflective, Critical, and Practical Essays. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Translation by Witter Bynner: Gu, M.D. and Schulte, R. (2014) Translating China for Western Readers: Reflective, Critical, and Practical Essays. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Translation by Gary Snyder: Weinberger, E. and Williams, W.C. (2004) The New Directions Anthology of Classical Chinese Poetry. New York, NY: New Directions Pub. Corp. Miyazawa, K. 宮沢賢治 (1896–1933): Gingatetsudo no Yoru 銀河 鉄道の夜

Cited in Sections 3.1.1, 3.3.5, 3.3.5, 4.5.1 and 4.6.2. Source text written by Kenji Miyazawa around 1927: Miyazawa, K. (1969/1991) Gingatetsudo no Yoru [Night on the Galactic Railroad]. Aozora Bunko. Online document: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/ cards/000081/card43737.html (Originally published in 1934). Translation by John Bester: Miyazawa, K. (1987) Night Train to the Stars and Other Stories (J. Bester, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha. Translation by Sarah Strong: Miyazawa, K. (1991) Night of the Milky Way Railway (S. Strong, Trans.). Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe. Translation by Roger Pulvers: Miyazawa, K. (1996/2009) Kenji Miyazawa’s Night on the Milky Way Train (Bilingual edition; R. Pulvers, Trans.). Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō. Translation by Joseph Sigrist and D.M. Stroud (1): Sigrist, J. and Stroud, D.M. (1996) Milky Way Railroad. Berkeley, CA: Stone Bridge Press.

Primary Sources  241

Translation by Joseph Sigrist and D.M. Stroud (2): Sigrist, J. and Stroud, D.M. (2009) Milky Way Railroad. Berkeley, CA: Stone Bridge Press. Translation by Paul Quirk: Quirk, P. (2013) Night on the Milky Railway by Kenji Miyazawa (Kindle edition). Little J Books. Translation by Shelley Marshall: Marshall, S. (2014) Night on the Milky Way Railroad by Miyazawa Kenji (Kindle version). Smashwords. Translation by Julianne Neville: Neville, J. (2014) Night on the Galactic Railroad & Other Stories from Ihatov. Long Island City, NY: One Peace Books. Miyazawa, K. 宮沢賢治 (1896–1933): Sero-hiki-no Gōshu セロ弾 きのゴーシュ

Cited in Section 3.1.2. Source text written by Kenji Miyazawa: Miyazawa, K. (1989/1994) Sero-hiki-no Gōshu [Gōsh the Cellist]. Aozora Bunko. Online document: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000081/ card470.html (Originally published in 1934). Translation by Anne McNulty and Eriko Sato: McNulty, A. and Sato, E. (2018) Japanese Stories for Language Learners. Tokyo: Tuttle. Translation by Yoko Matsuka: Matsuka, Y. (2005) Gorsch the Cellist. Tokyo: Matsuka Phonics Lab. Translation by John Bester: Miyazawa, K. (1972/2001) Gorsch the Cellist (J. Bester, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha International. Translation by Roger Pulvers: Miyazawa, K. (1998) Gauche the Cellist (R. Pulvers, Trans.). Tokyo: Labo Teaching Information Center. Murakami, H. 村上春樹 (b. 1949): Rēdāhōzen レーダーホ－ゼン

Cited in Section 5.3.3. Source text written by Haruki Murakami: Murakami, H. (1985/2004) Kaiten Mokuba no Deddo Hīto [Carousel Dead Heat]. Tokyo: Kodansha. Translation by Alfred Birnbaum: Murakami, H. (1993) The Elephant Vanishes (A. Birnbaum & J. Rubin, Trans.). New York: Vintage International. Self-back translation by Haruki Murakami: Murakami, H. (2005) Zō no Shoumetsu [The Elephant Vanishes] (H. Murakami, Trans.). Tokyo: Shinchosha.

242  Translanguaging in Translation

Natsume, S. 夏目漱石 (1867–1916): Botchan 坊ちゃん

Cited in Sections 4.5.1 and 5.2.3. Source text written by Sōseki Natsume in 1906: Natsume, S. (1992/1998) Botchan [Botchan]. Aozora Bunko. Online document: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000148/card752.html (Originally written in 1906). Translation by Yasotaro Morri: Natsume, S. (1918) Botchan (Master Darling) (Y. Morri, Trans.). Tokyo: Ogawa Seibundo. Online document: https://archive.org/details/botchanmasterdar1918nats/page/n4. Translation by Umeji Sasaki: Natsume, S. (1968/2013) Botchan (U. Sasaki, Trans.). Rutland, Vermont, and Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing. Translation by Alan Turney: Natsume, S. (1972) Botchan (A. Turney, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha International. Translation by Joel Cohn: Natsume, S. (2005/ 2012) Botchan (J.R. Cohn, Trans.). London: Penguin (First published in 2005 by Kodansha International). Translation by Glenn Anderson: Natsume, S. (2013) Botchan (G. Anderson, Trans.). Long Island City, NY: One Peace Books. Translation by Matt Treyvaud: Treyvaud, M. (2009) Botchan by Natsume Sōseki (Kindle edition). Richmond, IN: Ontko & Co. Natsume, S. 夏目漱石 (1867–1916): Kokoro こころ

Cited in Section 4.5.3. Source text written by Sōseki Natsume in 1914: Natsume, S. (1991/1996) Kokoro [Heart]. Aozora Bunko. Online document: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000148/card773.html (Originally written in 1914). Translation by Ineko Kondo: Natsume, S. (1941) Kokoro [Heart] (I. Kondo, Trans.). Tokyo: Kenkyūsha. Translation by Edwin McClellan: Natsume, S. (1957/2000) Kokoro [Heart] (E. MacClellan, Trans.). Chicago: Henry Regnery. Online document: http://www.ibiblio.org/ eldritch/ns/k1.html Translation by Meredith McKinney: Natsume, S. and McKinney, M. (2010) Kokoro [Heart] (M. McKinney, Trans.). New York: Penguin.

Primary Sources  243

Natsume, S. 夏目漱石 (1867–1916): Wagahai-wa Neko-de Aru 吾 輩は猫である

Cited in Sections 3.2.2 and 4.5.4. Source text written by Sōseki Natsume in 1905–1906: Natsume, S. (1887/1994) Wagahai wa Neko de Aru [I Am a Cat]. Aozora Bunko. Online document: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000148/ card789.html (Originally written in 1905–1906). Translation by Aiko Ito and Graeme Wilson: Natsume, S. (1972/2002) I Am a Cat (A. Ito & G. Wilson, Trans.). Boston: Tuttle Publishing. Pound, E. (1885–1972): Hugh Selwyn Mauberley

Cited in Section 5.3.1. Source text written by Ezra Pound: Pound, E. (1921) Poems 1918-21: Including Three Portraits and Four Cantos. New York: Boni and Liveright. Online document: https://archive. org/details/poemsincludingt00poungoog/page/n18/mode/2up Translation by Shuri Kido: Pound, E. and Kido, S. (1998) Paundo Shishū [Collection of Pound’s Poems]. Tokyo: Shichōsha. Premchand (Dhanpat Rai Shrivastava) प्रे म चं द (1880–1936): Godaan गोदान

Cited in Sections 4.1.3, 4.2.1, 4.2.2, 4.2.3, 4.5.4 and 6.2.1. Source text written by Premchand in 1936: Premchand. (2009) Godaan. Online document: http://www.hindisamay. com/premchand%20samagra/godan/Godan-1.htm (Originally written in 1936). Translation by Jay Ratan and P. Lal: Premchand. (1957/2008) Godan (Jay Ratan & P. Lal, Trans.). Mumbai: Jaico Publishing House. Translation by Gordon C. Roadarmel: Premchand. (1968/2002) Godaan: The Gift of a Cow (G.C. Roadarmel, Trans.). Bloomington & Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press. Translation by Anupa Lal: Premchand. (2000) Godan (A. Lal, Trans.). Delhi: Ratna Sagar P. Ltd. Translation by Anurag Yadav: Premchand. (2009) Godaan (A. Yadav, Trans.). New Delhi: Cedar Books.

244  Translanguaging in Translation

Rowling, J.K. (b. 1965): Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

Cited in Section 4.4.1. Source text written by Rowling, J.K. in 1997: Rowling, J.K. (1997) Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. London: Bloomsbury. Translation by Yuko Matsuoka: Rowling, J.K. (2003) Harī Pottā to Kenj- no Ishi [Harry Potter and the Wise Man’s Stone] (Y. Matsuoka, Trans.). Tokyo: Seizansha. Shakespeare, W. (1564–1616): Romeo and Juliette

Cited in Sections 2.5.1, 3.3.2 and 5.2.2. Source text written by William Shakespeare in 1597: Shakespeare, W. (1597/1993) Romeo and Juliet. Online document: http:// shakespeare.mit.edu/romeo_juliet/full.html (Originally written in 1597). Translation by Keizō Kawashima: Shakespeare, W. (1886/1887) Romio to Jurietto [Romeo and Juliet] (K. Kawashima, Trans.). National Diet Library. Online document: http:// dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/896945 Translation by Shōyō Tsubouchi (1): Shakespeare, W. (1910/2011) Romio to Jurietto [Romeo and Juliet] (S. Tsubouchi, Trans.). Tokyo: Waseda University Publication. Online document: http://dl.ndl.go.jp/info:ndljp/pid/877441/1 Translation by Shōyō Tsubouchi (2): Shakespeare, W. (1933/1990) Romio to Jurietto [Romeo and Juliet] (S. Tsubouchi, Trans.). In Za Shēkusupia [The Shakespeare] (pp. 669–696). Tokyo: Dai-san Shokan. Translation by Yoshio Nakano: Shakespeare, W. (1951/2015) Romio to Jurietto [Romeo and Juliet] (Y. Nakano, Trans.). Tokyo: Shinchosha. Translation by Tsuneari Fukuda: Shakespeare, W. (1964/1977) Sheikusupia Zenshu 3: Romio to Jurietto [Shakespeare Collection 3: Romeo and Juliet] (T. Fukuda, Trans.). Tokyo: Shinchōsha. Translation by Masao Hirai: Shakespeare, W. (1988/1996) Romio to Jurietto [Romeo and Juliet] (M. Hirai, Trans.). Tokyo: Iwanami Bunko. Translation by Shōichirō Kawai: Shakespeare, W. (2005) Romio to Jurietto [Romeo and Juliet] (S. Kawai, Trans.). Tokyo: Kadokawa Bunko. Translation by Kazuko Matsuoka: Shakespeare, W. (1996/2014) Sheikusupia Zenshu 2 [Shakespeare Collection] (K. Matsuoka, Trans.). Tokyo: Chikuma Bunko.

Primary Sources  245

Translation by Yūshi Odashima: Shakespeare, W (1983/2008) Romio to Jurietto [Romeo and Juliet] (Y. Odashima, Trans.). Tokyo: Hakusuisha. Takamura, K. 高村光太郎 (1883–1956): Bansan 晩餐

Cited in Sections 4.3 and 5.1.3. Source text written by Kōtarō Takamura in 1914: Takamura, K. (2007) The Chieko Poems (J. Peters, Trans.). København: Green Integer. Translation by Shoichi Furuta: Takamura, K. (1978) Chieko’s Sky (S. Furuta, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha international. Translation by Hiroaki Sato: Takamura, K. (1980) Chieko and Other Poems of Takamura Kōtarō (H. Sato, Trans.). Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. Translation by John Peters: Takamura, K. (2007) The Chieko Poems (J. Peters, Trans.). København: Green Integer. Translation by Paul Archer: Takamura, K. (2012) The Chieko Poems by Takamura Kotaro (P. Archer, Trans.). Online document: http://www.paularcher.net/translations/ kotaro_takamura/the_chieko_poems.html Takamura, K. 高村光太郎 (1883–1956): Chidori-to Asobu Chieko 千鳥と遊ぶ智恵子

Cited in Section 3.2.1. Source text written by Kōtarō Takamura in 1937: Takamura, K. (2007) The Chieko Poems (J. Peters, Trans.). København: Green Integer. Translation by Shoichi Furuta: Takamura, K. (1978) Chieko’s Sky (S. Furuta, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha international. Translation by Hiroaki Sato: Takamura, K. (1980) Chieko and Other Poems of Takamura Kōtarō (H. Sato, Trans.). Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. Translation by John Peters: Takamura, K. (2007) The Chieko Poems (J. Peters, Trans.). København: Green Integer. Translation by Paul Archer: Takamura, K. (2012) The Chieko Poems by Takamura Kotaro (P. Archer, Trans.). Online document: http://www.paularcher.net/translations/ kotaro_takamura/the_chieko_poems.html

246  Translanguaging in Translation

Takamura, K. 高村光太郎 (1883–1956): Hitoni 人に

Cited in Section 3.3.3. Source text written by Kōtarō Takamura in 1912: Takamura, K. (2007) The Chieko Poems (J. Peters, Trans.). København: Green Integer. Translation by Shoichi Furuta: Takamura, K. (1978) Chieko’s Sky (S. Furuta, Trans.). Tokyo: Kodansha international. Translation by Hiroaki Sato: Takamura, K. (1980) Chieko and Other Poems of Takamura Kōtarō (H. Sato, Trans.). Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. Translation by John Peters: Takamura, K. (2007) The Chieko Poems (Bilingual edition; J. Peters, Trans.). København: Green Integer. Translation by Paul Archer: Takamura, K. (2012) The Chieko Poems by Takamura Kotaro (P. Archer, Trans.). Online document: http://www.paularcher.net/translations/ kotaro_takamura/the_chieko_poems/to_a_woman.html Wang, W. 王維 (699–761): Húlǐguǎn竹里館

Cited in Section 4.1.2. Source text written by Wei Wang: Yu, P. (1980) The Poetry of Wang Wei: New Translations and Commentary. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Translation by Gary Snyder: Weinberger, E. and Williams, W.C. (2003) The New Directions Anthology of Classical Chinese Poetry. New York: New Directions Publishing. Translation by David Hinton: Weinberger, E. and Williams, W.C. (2003) The New Directions Anthology of Classical Chinese Poetry. New York: New Directions Publishing. Translation by Ezra Pound: Weinberger, E. and Williams, W.C. (2003) The New Directions Anthology of Classical Chinese Poetry. New York: New Directions Publishing. Translation by Pauline Yu: Yu, P. (1980) The Poetry of Wang Wei: New Translations and Commentary. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Yun, D.J. 윤동주(1917–1945): Byeol Heneun Bam 별 헤는 밤

Cited in Section 3.2.3. Source text written by Dong-Ju Yun in 1941: Lee, M.H. (2014) Yi Myŏng-Hyŏn ŭi Pyŏl Henŭn Pam [Lee MyeongHyon’s Starry Night]. Sŏul-si: Tong Asia.

Primary Sources  247

Translation by Go Ibuki: Yun, D.J. (1984/2002) Sora to Kaze to Hoshi to Shi [Sky, Wind, Stars, and Poetry] (G. Ibuki, Trans.). Tokyo: Kage Shobo. Translation by Yun Don-Ju Shihi Konryū Iinkai: Yun Don-Ju Shihi Konryū Iinkai [Yun Dong-Ju Poem Monument Committee]. (1997) Hoshi Utau Shijin: Yun Donj- no Shi-to Kenkyū [A Poet Who Sings Stars: Yun Dong-Ju’s Poems and Their Studies]. Tokyo: Sangokan. Translation by Nihon Kirisuto Kyōdan Shuppankyoku [Japan Christian Organization Publisher: Yun, D.J. (1995/2008) Shinu Hi-made Ten-o Aogi [Looking up the Sky until the Day I Die] (Nihon Kirisuto Kyōdan Shuppankyoku, Trans.). Tokyo: Nihon Kirisuto Kyōdan Shuppankyoku. Translation by Kyung-Nyun Kim Richards and Steffen F. Richards: Yun, D.J. (2003) Sky, Wind, and Stars (K.N.K. Richards and S.F. Richards, Trans.). Fremont, CA: Asian Humanities Press. Yun, D.J. 윤동주(1917–1945): Sŏsi 서시

Cited in Section 5.4. Source texts written by Dong-Ju Yun in 1941: Yun, D.J. (1984/2002) Sora to Kaze to Hoshi to Shi [Sky, Wind, Stars, and Poetry] (G. Ibuki, Trans.). Tokyo: Kage Shobo. Translation by Go Ibuki: Yun, D.J. (1984/2002) Sora to Kaze to Hoshi to Shi [Sky, Wind, Stars, and Poetry] (G. Ibuki, Trans.). Tokyo: Kage Shobo. Translation by Yun Don-Ju Shihi Konryū Iinkai: Yun Don-Ju Shihi Konryū Iinkai [Yun Dong-Ju Poem Monument Committee]. (1997) Hoshi Utau Shijin: Yun Donj- no Shi-to Kenkyū [A Poet Who Sings Stars: Yun Dong-Ju’s Poems and their Studies]. Tokyo: Sangokan. Translation by Nihon Kirisuto Kyōdan Shuppankyoku [Japan Christian Organization Publisher: Yun, D.J. (1995/2008) Shinu Hi-made Ten-o Aogi [Looking up the Sky until the Day I Die] (Nihon Kirisuto Kyōdan Shuppankyoku, Trans.). Tokyo: Nihon Kirisuto Kyōdan Shuppankyoku. Translation by Kyung-Nyun Kim Richards and Steffen F. Richards: Yun, D.J. (2003) Sky, Wind, and Stars (K.N.K. Richards and S.F. Richards, Trans.). Fremont, CA: Asian Humanities Press.

Appendices

Appendix 1: Abbreviations for Grammatical Terms

ACC: accusative marker DAT: dative marker EMP: emphasis particle GEN: genitive marker PRT: particle Q: question particle QUO: quotation particle TOP: topic marker Appendix 2: Examples of SL Words in Anurag Yadav’s English Translation of Godaan Published in 2009 in India

aarti: a Hindu religious ritual of worship achkan: a long high-collared coat worn by men angocha: a small towel bhajans: devotional songs with a religious theme bhang:  a narcotic preparation from hemp which is often mixed with food or drink bidi:  a type of cigarette made of unprocessed tobacco wrapped in leaves binola:  cotton seeds charpoy:  a bed made of a frame strung with tapes or light rope chillum: a clay pipe daal:  dal, pulse or lentils, somewhat similar to the split peas dhoti:  men’s lower garment made of a rectangular piece of unstitched cloth ekka:  a horse-drawn carriage ghee: clarified butter gullidanda: a game for children halwapuri:  the combination of Indian sweet, poori bread and chana masala jhau: a kind of tree kabaddi:  a contact team sport, played between two teams of seven players each 248

Appendices 249

kajri: folk song sung during the rainy season khadi:  a homespun cotton cloth from the Indian subcontinent khichri:  a South Asian preparation made from rice and lentils koel: a cuckoo (bird) kurta:  a long loose-fitting collarless shirt for men and women laddoo: sphere-shaped sweets lathi:  a stick made of bamboo and used as a weapon or for walking support mahua: a flowering plant makoy: a type of herb with medical benefits mirjai:  an under jacket with long loose sleeves and open cuffs mynah: a type of bird neem:  a tree noted for its shade, timber and medicinal properties paan:  a stimulating treat that combines betel leaf, areca nut and others including tobacco pagri:  a turban made of a long plain unstitched cloth for men’s hair pakoda:  a deep-fried snack, usually vegetable fritter panna:  a drink made of green mango peepul:  an Indian moraceous tree roti:  a flatbread saree/sari: Indian woman’s garment shamiana:  a tent shelter, commonly used for outdoor parties, marriages, feasts, etc. sherbet: chilled drink made of syrup tonga (taanga): a type of horse-drawn carriage tulsi: holy basil zari: golden silver work on cloth

Index

acquisition 5–7, 153, 162, 210, 214 ACTFL 25, 214, 216, 219, 222–223 adaptation 14–15, 24, 40, 59, 81–84, 88, 93, 97, 116 addressing, terms of 2, 24, 98, 127–128 applied linguistics 2, 22, 225 ateji 当て字 35, 36, 38, 40

deconstruction 152 Derrida, J. 23, 77, 152, 202 Descriptive Translation Studies (DTS) 21 dialect 4, 12, 172–176, 178–180, 203 Direct-literation 90–91, 94–97 domestication 20, 79–84 education 1, 3, 9, 11, 45, 47, 89, 108, 175, 180, 194, 203, 212–213, 216, 219 equivalence 14–16, 18, 21 ethnic 23, 59, 64, 73 etymology 2, 57, 65, 68–70, 76, 151

Bakhtin, M. 98, 180, 213 Baybayin 26 Benjamin, W. 14 bilingual 1–2, 8–11, 22, 29, 75–76, 80, 124, 139, 179, 201, 209–210, 214–216, 219, 221, 225 bilingualism 1, 8–9, 215 borrowing 2, 14–15, 41–42, 47, 53, 153, 206–208

first language (L1) 5, 7, 153, 215 foreign language 9, 103, 210, 213–219, 223 foreignization 2, 20–21, 83–84, 225 French 15, 57, 64–65, 79, 85, 122, 138, 142, 181–182 furigana 振り仮名 24, 50–56, 73, 78–79, 170–171, 179, 182, 192, 196–201, 204

calque 14, 21, 156, 163–164, 201 Cantonese 4, 26 Cherokee 26 Chinese 2, 5, 10–11, 24, 26–27, 28–39, 41, 43–44, 47, 50–51, 53, 56, 60–61, 65–68, 72–77, 89–96, 98–101, 107, 122–123, 127–128, 142, 152, 156, 165, 175, 194, 204–205, 208–209, 215 Chomsky, N. 4, 6, 15, 209 Cicero 14, 23 classroom 1–2, 9, 22, 210, 214, 215, 216, 218, 219, 221–222 cliché 159–160 code-switching 2, 7–9, 182, 201, 210, 212 colonize 18, 26, 75, 82, 212, 226 competence 6–7, 26, 139, 214–215, 217–218, 221 Critical Period Hypothesis (CPH) 6 cultural transplantation 79, 80, 84 cultural turn 21

gairaigo 外来語 41–44, 47–48, 50, 53–55, 205–206 García, O. 1 gender 3, 12, 23–24, 33–35, 46, 56, 59, 79, 109, 117–127, 209, 225 geographic xi, 3–4, 12, 23, 59, 65, 83, 142, 174–176, 203, 225 gesture 5–6, 11, 13, 126, 215 globalization 48, 88, 180 grammatical borrowing 206–209 Greek 11, 14, 17, 23, 180, 181–182 Halliday, M.A.K. 16, 21 hegemony 18, 21, 180, 210 heritage 3, 102, 175 250

Index 251

heterolingual 2, 8, 154, 171, 173, 176–177, 179, 180–193, 220 Hindi 2, 4, 24, 26, 57, 90, 99, 102, 109–110, 129–130, 139, 211, 213 hybrid 12, 27–32, 34–35, 48, 50, 67, 90, 93–97, 205, 209 identity 12, 24–25, 33, 59, 69–70, 82, 93, 97, 117–121, 195, 200, 201, 209, 218 ideology 2, 11, 18–19, 25, 35, 108, 203 ideophone 140, 142, 144–145, 152 idiolect 3–4, 12–13, 175–176, 221, 226 instinct 6, 9–10, 160 interaction 3–7, 23–24, 98, 193, 210, 216, 219, 221 intercultural communication 2, 25, 98, 108, 133, 201, 210, 213, 224, 225–226 interlingual 12–13, 42, 151–154, 197, 209, 226 internationalization 88 intervention 5, 19, 21, 84 intralingual 12–13, 24–25, 34, 49, 118–121, 151, 153–154, 197, 199–201, 226 Jakobson, R. 13–14, 165 Japanese 2, 7, 10–12, 24, 26–57, 60–86, 88, 96, 99, 107–108, 113–119, 121–122, 123–125, 128, 130, 133, 136–145, 149–153, 155, 160–163, 166–167, 170–171, 173, 175–177, 180, 182–187, 190–201, 203–209, 219–223 jukujikun 熟字訓 35–38, 40 kanbun 漢文 24, 27–29, 32, 51, 55–56, 76 kanbun-kundoku 漢文訓読 24, 27–29, 32, 51, 55–56, 76 kango 漢語, also see ‘Sino-Japanese’ 39–48, 50, 52–53, 171, 194, 197–198, 204–206 Kannada 19 kokuji 国字 35, 38–39, 204 konshugo 混種語 48, 50, 205 Korean 2, 7, 24, 72–75, 82–83, 117, 119, 125–126, 152, 194–201, 208–209

kundoku 訓読 24, 27–29, 32, 51, 55–56, 76 kungana 訓仮名 30 kun’yomi 訓読み 27–30, 35–37, 39, 51 language variety 4, 12, 118, 176, 203, 209 lexicalized 86, 143–152, 154–155, 158, 164 Li, W. 1 loanwords 24, 28, 42, 48, 53–56, 204–205 localization 88, 95, 107–108 logograph 26, 29, 33, 35, 42, 60, 65, 75, 79, 90 Lyotard, J. F. 59, 69 manipulation 16, 18, 60, 85, 154, 193–200 man’yōgana 万葉仮名 29–33, 35–36 measurement, units of 2, 24, 69, 98, 109, 113–117, 160, 211, 213 metaphor 2, 19, 25, 151, 154–165, 170, 200–201, 206, 223, 226 metaphorization 154–156, 158, 164 migration 3, 180, 183–184, 186 mimetic 24, 98, 140–153, 155, 164, 194 mimeticity 143–145, 151–152, 155 monolingualism 4, 9, 180, 210 monolingualize 1, 7–9, 23, 210, 226 morpheme 2, 7, 25, 34, 39, 92, 139–140, 153, 172, 177, 185–186, 202, 205, 209, 211, 213 multilingual 1–2, 4, 11, 22, 25, 180, 193, 201, 210–213, 219–221, 226 multilingualism 2, 25, 180, 210, 211, 212 name 2, 15, 17–19, 24, 32, 44, 47, 49–51, 53, 55, 57–97, 112–113, 119, 124, 126–128, 130, 132, 137–140, 142, 152, 155–156, 174–175, 188–189, 195, 223 named language 1, 4, 9, 11–13, 42, 44, 55, 156, 179, 215–216, 221 nationality 59, 61, 64, 86 native speaker 2, 4, 7–9, 45, 143, 152, 221, 224 neo-borrowing 2 Newmark, P. 15, 154, 159, 160, 162, 166

252  Translanguaging in Translation

Nida, E. 15–16 Niranjana, T. 18–19 non-verbal 5, 11 okurigana 送り仮名 28 ondoku 音読 27, 76 ongana 音仮名 30 onomatopoeia 2, 5, 64, 71, 86, 140, 142–145, 148–149, 151–152, 155, 206, 215, 226 on’yomi 音読み 27–30, 35–36, 39–41, 43–44, 52–53, 67, 76–78 orthographic 24, 26, 49, 58–60, 65–68, 71, 90–91, 94, 96–97, 182, 209 pedagogy 214–216, 219, 221 phonograph 26, 33, 35, 38 pronoun 2–3, 12, 24, 70, 98,117–127, 136, 184–185, 207–209 pun 2, 25, 165–180, 200–201, 226 renaming 90, 92–93 resistance 18–21, 73, 82–83, 147, 195 rewriting 16–18 rhetorical 2, 32–34, 88, 147–148, 150, 168, 170, 187, 201 Schleiermacher, F. 13–14, 20, 104 script 2, 4, 11–12, 24, 26–28, 32–35, 42, 48–50, 52, 56, 60, 65, 90–91, 96–97, 99, 108, 179, 182, 190, 194, 201, 226 second language (L2) 7, 27, 29, 76, 153, 179, 187, 193, 210, 212, 215

semiotic 6, 9, 11, 13, 22, 24, 50, 56, 88, 155 Sino-Japanese compound 35, 42, 198 Sino-Japanese, see also kango 39–40 Skopos theory 17, 90, 92 socioeconomic 3, 9, 24, 48, 60, 97, 109, 114 sociolinguistic 1, 22, 226 sociopolitical 1, 3–4, 9, 18, 21, 24–26, 33, 35, 48–49, 60, 72–75, 83, 112, 180, 194–195, 213 textbook 2, 166, 218–221 trace 1–2, 10, 12, 22–24, 99, 204, 213, 224–226 translation studies 2, 12–22, 150, 154, 225 translationese 208 Tymoczko, M. 19, 59 Urdu 4, 26 Venuti, L. 1, 20–21, 83, 150 Vermeer, H.J. 16–17 Vygotsky, L. 219 wago 和語 39–40, 42–48, 50, 197–198, 205–206 wasei-kango 和製漢語 40 Weinreich, U. 4 Welsh 1 Zone of Proximal Development (ZPD) 219