Many grad students at the department where I work (Saint Louis University, philosophy) are fluent Latinists. In the hallways they make constructions such as these for fun in Latin (I am unfortunately not so endowed, so I’ll give you my approximation in English):
Q: Whether it is true that there are alligators in Florida?
A: It might seem there are no alligators in Florida, for such reports are no more than hearsay…
In this respect, my department is somewhat of an outlier. Even passive competence in a second language at anglophone departments is at an all-time low, and language requirements at universities are being cut back or altogether axed. This lack of linguistic competence presents a problem: it cuts us off from our own rich philosophical traditions and it prevents serious and deep engagement with other traditions where the primary texts are in languages other than our own.
Christoph Harbsmeier, at a conference in Singapore I attended just now, lamented this loss of language. He is a senior German scholar of Chinese, and spent time in multiple countries. He worked at the University of Oslo, where he spoke with the legendary Arne Naess in Norwegian. In addition, he not only speaks Mandarin fluently (and reads classical Chinese as one might expect from a scholar in Chinese history and linguistics), he also knows Latin, Greek, some Sanskrit, French, German (of course), Polish (which he said he took with the sole aim to better understand Tarski—given the notorious complexity of this language I hope for his sake Tarski was worth it for him), and, of course English.
Each of us ESL speakers has at least two languages, a fact that is curiously regarded as an impediment rather than an advantage because of the worry of non-idiomatic English (see some more thoughts on English as a lingua franca by Eric Schwitzgebel, here).
In Harbsmeier’s view, any philosopher who is only competent in English (or any other language for that matter), suffers a severe cognitive and epistemic disadvantage. The starting point for his talk was W.V.O Quine’s problem of radical translation (discussed in Word and Object, 1960) where a native speaker exclaims “Gavagai!” and you, a linguist, wonder whether this word might mean “rabbit.” In a similar vein, should we translate the crucial Confucian concept of cheng as sincerity, authenticity, or wholeheartedness? The holism inherent in Quine’s conception of language and thought threatens any adequate translation of cheng because to really understand this idea it you must know that Confucianism is among others about self-authentication, getting rid of doxastic and motivational conflicts, and become whole within yourself as you avail yourself of the finely-honed cognitive technology of the rituals of the sage kings of the Western Zhou.
Closely connected to linguistic competence is cultural competence. Harbsmeier agreed with someone during the Q and A that some translations are relatively speaking straightforward, for instance, as his interlocutor said, “a rose is a rose is a rose”—this is, allegedly, a straight botanical fact. However, as Gertrude Stein already implied when she penned that famous line, the point is that a rose is not just a rose. A rose is a flower with rich cultural connotations that vary across cultures.
In a recent public address, Harvey Lederman argues for the disciplinary autonomy of Chinese philosophy. He argues that such work involves, necessarily, a close, patient, unglamorous engagement with the primary sources in their original language, reading them with “rigor, care and precision.” Herein lies an enormous difficulty for those who, like me, merely dabble in Chinese philosophy and only have a bit of Mandarin and even less classical Chinese.
The severe difficulty of relying on translation was recently brought vividly to me in a graduate seminar where my students and I looked at Wang Yangming’s responses to questions posed by students on the Great Learning (da xue), a chapter in a pre-Qin Confucian text. Wang Yangming, a Ming dynasty neo-Confucian author, objects to Zhu Xi’s interpretation of the relevant lines in Great Learning. He says:
And so, enlightening one’s enlightened Virtue must find expression in loving the people, and loving the people simply is the way one enlightens one’s enlightened virtue. (Trans PJ Ivanhoe)
Wang, unlike his predecessor Zhu Xi, does not think enlightening one’s enlightened virtue (ming ming de) lies in renewing the people but in loving the people. He objects to Zhu Xi’s innovation in this text which had snuck in since the Song dynasty. Wang preserves the older meaning. But how could renewing and loving the people be two such different readings of the same text?
One of my grad students who is Chinese and visiting from mainland China explained that it is a confusion or perhaps deliberate emendation on Zhu Xi’s part where loving the people (qinmin 親民, where the sense of love is specifically proximate or familial) became to renovate or renew (xinmin,新民), that is the same character as for New Years (xin nian). This and other subtleties you will not get if you do not study classical Chinese.
So much of our competence in other languages is down to linguistic luck. You have moved as a child or as an adult, or as in my case, grew up in Belgium where it is obligatory to learn the three national languages (French, Dutch/Flemish, and German) and the education is of good quality. Beyond that, there is a genuine problem of investing in another language even in graduate school. Learning a language is slow, unrewarding, and unproductive for a significant period. You must submit obediently (as Iris Murdoch, I believe, pointed out) to the peculiarities of the language. In that respect, learning a language in its slowness and lack of immediate reward mimics the model of Chinese philosophy as Lederman puts forward: patient, unglamorous, slow.
Our students are already expected to do so much. It is unsurprising that language and logic and other such requirements that emphasize a certain well-roundedness are disappearing as the pressures mount to publish. Whereas it was fine to just focus on coursework in the first years (I’m taking the American context here, I know it differs between countries) they must now also already do “their own” research so as to get ahead in the publication game (as this question by Lila Graham makes clear).
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