This is a really good post. It made me think about lots of things.
In his essay "The Task of the Translator", Walter Benjamin makes a fascinating distinction between what a word means, and how a word means. — StreetlightX
The idea of translation has always been interesting to me. It seems that translating a document, especially fiction or poetry, would be harder than writing it. And yes, the difference comes down to how meaning is expressed, but it's more than that. Maybe getting the literal meaning would be relatively easy, but how to get that to match the rhythm, tone, connotation, and feeling of the text seems impossible. Then again, I guess all that
is the meaning.
I think this is relevant, not sure - my children were involved in a French immersion program in elementary school. From kindergarten through third grade, they were taught entirely in French so that they became fluent quickly. We went to France when my daughter was seven and people thought we were from Quebec. What struck me then and still fascinates me now is that it feels like when you get two languages, you get two minds.
For Benjamin, the differences between languages are, at base, differences between how words mean. That is, what any one expression means can remain identical between languages, but what differs between them is 'how' a particular language goes about "meaning" (taken as a verb). — StreetlightX
I'm not sure if I agree with this. Maybe I don't get it. Maybe it's this:
if we take language as a way of meaning, rather than as that which 'has' meaning. Wittgenstein himself says as much: "What expresses itself in language, we cannot express by means of language" (4.121): sense or meaning is always anterior to language, even as it is expressed 'in' it. Hence the famous mutual exclusivity of 'showing' and 'saying': "What can be shown, cannot be said" — StreetlightX
I've been thinking about what "meaning" means for a while, especially in the context of what art means. I've come to the conclusion that art doesn't really mean anything. It's one of a class of things the experience of which is their only meaning. Music is another. This is a (long) quote from "October Light," a book by John Gardner. I've used it before. I'll hide it so I won't scare people away.
RevealThen it had come to him as a startling revelation-though he couldn't explain even to his horn teacher Andre Speyer why it was that he found the discovery startling-that the music meant nothing at all but what it was: panting, puffing, comically hurrying French horns. That had been, ever since- until tonight- what he saw when he closed his eyes and listened: horns, sometimes horn players, but mainly horn sounds, the very nature of horn sounds, puffing, hurrying, . getting in each other's way yet in wonderful agreement finally, as if by accident. Sometimes, listening, he would smile, and his father would say quizzically, "What's with you?" It was the same when he listened to the other movements: What he saw was French horns,. that is, the music. The moods changed, things happened, but only to French horns, French horn sounds.
There was a four -note theme in the second movement that sounded like ..Oh When the Saints," a theme that shifted from key to key, sung with great confidence by a solo horn, answered by a kind of scornful gibberish from the second, third, and fourth, as if the first horn's opinion was ridiculous and they knew what they knew. Or the slow movement: As if they'd finally stopped and thought it out, the horns played together, a three-note broken chord several times repeated, and then the first horn taking off as if at the suggestion of the broken chord and flying like a gull-except not like a gull, nothing like that, flying like only a solo French horn. Now the flying solo became the others' suggestion and the chord began to undulate, and all four horns together were saying something, almost words, first a mournful sound like Maybe and then later a desperate oh yes I think so, except to give it words was to change it utterly: it was exactly what it was, as clear as day-or a moonlit lake where strange creatures lurk- and nothing could describe it but itself. It wasn't sad,. the slow movement; only troubled, hesitant, exactly as he often felt himself. Then came- and he would sometimes laugh aloud- the final, fast movement.
Though the slow movement's question had never quite been answered, all the threat was still there, the fast movement started with absurd self-confidence, with some huffings and puffings, and then the first horn set off wit h delightful bravado, like a fat man on skates who hadn't skated in years (but not like a fat man on skates, like nothing but itself), Woo-woo-woo-woops! and the spectator horns laughed tiggledy-tiggledy tiggledy!, or that was vaguely the idea- every slightly wrong chord, every swoop, every hand-stop changed everything completely ... It was impossible to say what , precisely, he meant.
My conclusion - "meaning" means putting things into words. There are many experiences, communications, that don't mean anything. For me, this is the essence of Taoism.
But if language itself is a way of meaning, then languages - in the plural - are similarly varying ways of meaning. — StreetlightX
I think this is what I meant when I said having two languages is like having two minds.
I may have gone a bit off topic. If so, sorry.