Two words in different languages cannot be expected to overlap perfectly in meaning. — tim wood
And behind the words, which constitute conceptual boundaries, is an unbroken continuum of meaning which is common to all languages.
It’s like color, the various shades of which are laid out on a continuous unbroken spectrum. But the eye must break this continuity up into many different segments in order to comprehend it, for the colors are really infinite in number. We must set artificial boundaries between the various colors, therefore, in order to recognize them. Different ppl however set these boundaries at different places along the spectrum, and what looks red to me therefore often appears orange to someone else.
Likewise, regarding language, words are each language’s effort to impose boundaries of discrete meaning upon a continuous unbroken universal conceptual spectrum...
...for example, consider the English phrase, “a coat of paint”. In translating the same concept literally from another language into English I might write “a skin of paint”, or, “a film of paint”, or, “a layer of paint”, etc, depending on the source language’s idiom. The common area of the conceptual spectrum upon which all these different words intersect is that of a “covering”, but they also branch in different directions to include areas of the spectrum outside that one...
...so “coat” subsumes also “hide”, and “mantle” or “cloak”, as “film” does “motion picture”, and “layer” may generally mean “stratum”...
...but whatever idiom a ppl use to describe in their language what the English call a “coat” of paint, all understand it to be the same thing, have the same ontology, display the same characteristics. Furthermore I would suggest that, were I reading in English what I knew to be a literal translation, and should I encounter a phrase such as “a skin of paint” or “a film of paint”, I would instantly know what was meant, even if the phrase “coat of paint” didn't occur to my mind...
...and if it didn’t, what would that mean? It would indicate to me that I had succeeded in immersing myself in the original language by means of literal translation into my own.
Literal translation may be clunky; it may be confusing; it may even be misleading (footnotes, however, can be employed to clear this up), but the one great advantage it has over looser translations is that the judgement of the translator is largely removed; and, if the reader is willing to as though retranslate his native language into the source one through the translation, he can almost as though read the original through his native tongue.
This is particularly important for the contemporary student of philosophy, who cannot be expected to be familiar with the several languages in which the heritage of philosophy resides, and who is therefore prone to depend upon translations which are largely interpretive. Several key terms down through the tradition, which were faithfully translated throughout it, have been obscured in modern translations...
...one of these is Greek psyche, Roman animus, English soul: a contemporary translator of Greek or Latin might choose “self” to translate these words, but the self is a construct of modern philosophy, which broke from and attempted to supersede ancient philosophy. So what is accomplished by the translator in this instance other than to obscure an ancient concept under the guise of being up-to-date?
Reading literal translations of ancient literature has the salutary effect on the reader of making him want to learn to read the original languages. Reading interpretive modern translations however encourages nothing but adherence to the status quo. Behind such translations is the notion of progress: that we know better now than they did way back then. Why then bother to translate the ancients at all? Why not just forget them and move on?