Self-Expression

Writing in one’s second language (Part III)

Some people prefer writing in their second language to writing in their first — not, or not only, because of pragmatic reasons such as an increased reach, but for more personal ones. In my previous posts (part I & part II) on this topic I ventured two guesses as to why writing in one’s second language might sometimes feel more adequate: reflective and therapeutic distance. By “reflective distance” I meant a less habitualized and more playful way of using a language that promotes self-expression. By “therapeutic distance” I meant a certain degree of detachment from one’s thinking habits that facilitates engagement with difficult or painful topics. There’s certainly some overlap between both kinds of distance, and I suspect that both have a role to play in “finding one’s voice” — the subject of this post.

I so fear the word of men.
They pronounce everything so distinctly.
And this is called dog and that is called house,
and here it begins and the end’s over there.

(R. M. Rilke 1897/1899, translated)

Finding your voice is hard, especially if you’re not exactly the opinionated type to begin with or tend to second-guess yourself. Each sentence you put down on paper (or screen) might strike you as too confident, too definitive. And how can you ever hope to capture subtle moods or shifts thereof by words such as “happy” or “sad”, “angry” or “frustrated”? Putting things into words can feel confining, as if it thwarted rather than fostered one’s striving for authenticity and sincerity.

When I first started blogging, all my posts felt wrong. And I remember the same feeling regarding my early diary entries, which preceded any eventual blogposts, and which mostly dealt with horses. Sometimes the products of blogging and journaling still feel off to me, but less so. In part, that is certainly due to the shedding of my preconceived notions of what a decent piece of writing looks like — no, you don’t really need a big idea; and no, your sentences don’t have to be complicated; and yes, there may be repetitions; and no, uncommon words ain’t essential. If you really, really like dashes and brackets, go for it, keep them. Dash the fuck out of your keyboard!

More importantly, however, I allow myself a different perspective on what I have written. I now like to think that our sentences don’t define us, they reflect a momentary stage of our lives, they are snapshots. I once called myself a “futility maximizer”. Do I really see myself that way? Sometimes, maybe. I also once wrote a somewhat pathetic rant about small towns and an accusatory piece called “bitter pill”. It’s okay to exaggerate. We all have our more dramatic moments. Why not own them?

Another thing to let go of: fear of imitation. Our own voices are a distillate of a wild mixture of influences. Our selves emerge through engagement with and in distinction from others. And this, finally, forges a connection to the topic of this little trilogy, second languages. Because if your most cherished authors — those, whose voices you admire, whose writings inspire you — write in a language different from your native one, this might quite naturally yield a desire to emulate.

Writing in one’s second language (Part II)

Why would someone choose to write in his or her second language? In my previous post I speculated that a second language shapes the writing process in a way that admits of something I called “reflective distance”.

I think that writing in a second language allows for a different kind of distance as well: distance from our former selves. In a certain sense, a second language provides the means to become someone else — without having to undergo plastic surgery or a brain transplant first. Yay to that!

Maybe one could call the kind of distance I have in mind “therapeutic”. Some writing, especially autobiographical writing, is a way of coming to terms with one’s own history. But one’s mother tongue is inextricably linked with one’s family (and often also one’s place) of origin; and because of its close ties to painful memories or trying life events we might feel as if our first language renders us speechless. Certain words or phrases might even send us down a spiral staircase of obsessive rumination. That’s probably not be the best place to start creative work from. Therapeutic distance, it seems, is what the Iraqi writer Abbas Khider is getting at when he says that he felt compelled to switch from Arabic to German during the Iraq War.

A big part of any therapeutic process is to let go of some of one’s entrenched beliefs, to discover, inspect, and — eventually — discard certain mantras one has taken over from one’s parents, peers, or society at large. In order to do so, some amount of detachment from our own thinking habits is needed. A different language, I suspect, can facilitate the process. It allows us to view ourselves from a second-person standpoint: By temporarily speaking or writing in a different voice we become “someone else”, which, in turn, enables us to get a sense of our own embeddedness.

 

Writing in one’s second language (Part I)

The German pop band Tocotronic has a song called “Über Sex kann man nur auf Englisch singen” — “only in English can one sing about sex”. And although I wouldn’t agree with this particular example — what about “voulez-vouz coucher avec moi, ce soir”, after all — something about the song title certainly rings true for me. I’d like to understand why. What follows is a first stab, but I plan on adding two further posts on “becoming someone else” and “finding one’s voice”, respectively.

My first language is German. I first encountered my second language, English, when I began grammar school at the age of ten. Our teacher, Mr. Kaum (or “Mr. Hardly”, as he called himself jokingly), began his first day of teaching our class with the words “This is a hedgehog”, pointing to a corresponding small stuffed animal. I have loved English ever since. I wonder if I would have loved it as much had our teacher been someone else, or had Mr. Kaum begun our first lesson with another sentence, or another stuffed animal.

Most of the time, our use of a second language is not exactly a choice. English, by now, is the standard language for scientific publications, and many or most prestigious journals are anglophone — so if you want your work to have an impact, you better not write in German (or Danish, or Turkish — you get the gist). And immigrants, of course, are often required to use some other than their native language in their communication with administrative authorities. Et cetera.

So I was somewhat surprised to learn how many writers, serious and accomplished writers, chose and choose to write in some language other than their mother tongue. Now, I wouldn’t call myself a writer, much less a serious one, but I could relate. Over the past years, I gradually switched to writing more and more of my occasional diary entries, (nonsense) poems, and aphorisms in English. And I chose to do so not only because of my undeniable soft spot for the English language, but because writing in English often feels more authentic or sincere to me. As if this particular language provided the means to express my thoughts more adequately, as if it allowed me to tap into my emotions and put them on paper — or screen — comparatively unobscured. Maybe I delude myself. But suppose my impression is correct. Why is that? How is that even possible?

A partial answer to this question, I suppose, is: reflective distance. My choice of words, my way of putting things in English is not quite as automatic, not as habitualized as if I were to write in German. If I have a vague feeling, say, and I would like to put this feeling into words, a German word might immediately come to mind. Maybe, probably, I would be content to use this word if my text were to be written in German. If I plan on writing in English, however, I frequently look up the German word’s English (rough) equivalent, take note of its close and not-so-close relatives, and I actively search for the term that most accurately represents my experience. Our mother tongue offers many well-trodden paths, and this, I suspect, comes with a downside: the danger of cliché.

Also, and relatedly, the element of playfulness seems more pronounced in one’s use of a second language. And this might have something to do with the fact that the way we learn a second language differs considerably from the acquisition of our first. First-language acquisition equals immersion into a practice, while in learning a second language we experience and are compelled to reflect on words as tools.

As to why I love this particular second language, English, I think that it lends itself to a distinct style that I would describe as terse, or lapidar. So I often feel as if by using English I can safeguard myself against pretentiousness. No idea if it works, though.

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