Twitter, an exclusively written forum of language with fixed parameters and functions, is propelling a linguistic phenomenon.

The phenomenon involves lexis, grammar and voice (i.e./e.g. hashtags): how information is made and communicated, among other things.

“Speaking” of the hashtag: it is one of Twitter’s key functions—a term which has been almost universally adopted.

And regarding universality, the forum has just about achieved it, for it might be described as transcending both space and language.

However, it may be limited, for a tweet cannot exceed 140 characters.  Although, every link/article/word above was found using Twitter.

A parameter and function: search the hashtags #language and #Twitter to find the articles above.

A question: how will Twitter’s influence extend beyond its limits, beyond its (seemingly) exclusively written composition?

Another: how has it already affected modern language—both spoken and written—as we know it?

One of the most common reasons to learn a language is travel, for knowing the native language of a new place can undoubtedly deepen one’s experience while there, whether it’s reading about the place’s history or contemporary culture, conversing with the locals, or hearing passing voices in the street.  For many, in fact, the relationship is actually inverted: travel is predicated by a desire to learn a foreign language.

That said, the majority of travelers to foreign places are not motivated by such desire, and have little interest in learning the language beyond in the most basic communicative sense. As many such travelers will attest, travel of this nature can be exciting, confusing and funny—sometimes, simultaneously.  It can also be, unfortunately, quite frustrating: from asking directions to ordering food in restaurants, this negative aspect often deters would-be travelers from going to places where unknown languages are spoken.

Globalization, though, and other forces, are motivating travel hotspots to work toward limiting this sense of frustration, to bridging the communication gap.  Besides the arguably preferred method of travel industry workers learning the most popular language(s) of their clients, cities and governments (above all) employ methods not rooted in traditional language.  We experience the most popular of these everyday, regardless if our location is domestic or foreign—that is, pictographs.  Ranging from road signs to product instructions, these seek to communicate information without words.

US National Park Service Pictographs

Some have suggested that pictographs, in fact, could have larger implications beyond an improved level of communication between speakers of different languages, that the rising use of visual units of communication might complicate future language predictions. This positions pictographs as rather innovative in nature.

But, two things to consider: first: pictographs have existed for thousands of years—they predate written and spoken language, according to many experts; and second: globalization in general and specifically some of its most integral tools—above all, the Internet—are not exclusively rooted in language.  What’s more, the language used is almost always brief. Like travelers who encounter foreign languages, so too are Internet users’ encounters with foreign languages necessarily fleeting and functional.  The language exposure may be wider, sure, but usually it is very shallow.

The Internet as a tool is notable here above all because it has become such a dominant one when researching and planning travel—and likewise while traveling, as both a reference and communication tool, for most.  It, along with pictographs and other travel tools that seek to limit foreigners’ linguistic frustrations, might be considered contradictory to foreign language acquisition.

Are these speculations extreme, unfounded, or does the increasing influence of non-language-rooted communication tools and methods indeed threaten whatever foreign language travel traditions existed before?

As any person who’s traveled outside of his or her native country (or often dines in foreign-food restaurants) knows, the translation of food items names can vary widely, producing a diverse range of responses—excitement, confusion, humor and fear, among others.

Free image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

For foreign restaurants, it seems there are above all three options when it comes to written item translation.  The first and undoubtedly least common is to make little to no effort to translate item names and descriptions.  You’ll most often see this in restaurants that view translation as unnecessary, above all because of the restaurant’s location, i.e. its patrons, who ostensibly understand the foreign language or are familiar-enough with the items to not need translations of them.  Occasionally, though, you’ll encounter untranslated menus in particularly posh restaurants as well, motivated by something like staunch authenticity.

The second most common option is similarly extreme: every name and description is translated as literally and thoroughly as possible.  The most obvious motivation for this is to reach a wider audience, for with a complete lack of translation, patrons unfamiliar with the language and dishes might be less open to try the food.  Of course, this isn’t universally true, but it’s understandable that many people prefer to orient their food choices around ingredients/items they already know they like.  As a result of such exhausting translation, though—especially if the original language is erased completely—these restaurants will often retain a minimal sense of authenticity, and even repel those seeking a genuine meal from whatever region or culture supposedly represented.

Finally, there’s the moderate and most common option of providing translations in addition to the original menu language.  This may be considered an effort to both encourage and reciprocate the sort of open-mindedness the foreign patrons will demonstrate in dining at the restaurant.  There is no formula on how to appropriately achieve this balance, and the efforts undoubtedly vary, sometimes with hilarious results.  Whether by providing completely bilingual menus or simply retaining the original names of the dishes, these restaurants seek to provide authentic cuisine to as many people as possible.

This final option, though, raises some questions that go beyond the translation of food items, extending to the crux of translation in general: that is, above all, how does linguistic distance affect our understanding and experiencing of authenticity? Does translation in some ways work against true authentic experience?  An example: an Italian restaurant decides to start calling its manicotti Noodles Stuffed with Cheese and Meat and Covered with Tomato Sauce, but you know the recipe had been left completely untouched: would you feel as though the meal/restaurant/your experience had changed? If so, would that decrease the possible of your returning to the particular restaurant?

As a translator—regardless of what kind of texts—, are there are certain parts of language (besides names, perhaps) that you simply won’t translate? If so, what are they, and why do you refuse? Is it because you view it as impossible, or because doing so would cross some boundary of authenticity?

If translation is an effort in faithful recreation, a translator must consider as thoroughly as possible the medium of the source, its essence, and work toward achieving it as the foundation of the translation.  For a written text, this can seem (deceptively) simple, for written language has a static quality once on the page, supposedly, distinct from its author.  One simply needs to reproduce the language and tone.

But with films or television, this “recreation of essence” is not such a seemingly straightforward endeavor, as the words are real voices originating from real, visible people. A crucial decision must be made: whether to dub the voices or add subtitles.

The first option is a sort of usurpation, while the second is a concession.  To dub is to fundamentally alter the work, to silence true voices for others that cannot escape artificiality.  It suggests that “meaning” is distinct from that which makes it, and implies that meaning or content is translation’s most important aim.  It denies voice. It understands translation as static, to be inevitably achieved.

Subtitling, on the other hand, takes a markedly different view of translation.  For these translators, the speaker is essentially linked with his or her spoken words (as an author with his or her written words) and thus, any translation that replaces it with another is an inherent failure.

However, there are of course more practical questions to be considered, as most viewers, regardless of the particular TV program or film, won’t likely be concerned with the issues above.  Above all, it becomes a question of enjoyment, and although enjoyment varies, translators have generally worked toward translations that will be enjoyed by as many people as possible.

In the Americas, the vast majority of foreign films are not dubbed for theatrical release, although many are afterward released on DVD in both dubbed and subtitled versions. In Spanish-speaking countries, most foreign language TV programs are dubbed and highly popular, whereas the U.S. above all rarely shows foreign language programs. Those that are shown are normally not dubbed or subtitled, as they are expected to appeal to a small and highly specific audience.

What do these trends suggest about the regions’ ideas and opinions of television/film entertainment, foreign languages, culture exchange, and translation?  Should they be criticized, and if so, what is a better alternative?  Among all of this, what are the responsibilities of the translator?  What aim(s) should he or she strive toward?