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// Chapter IV: Aspect 
// Story: Subjunctive 
// by Integral Archer 
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	Yes and no.

In a language that does not use articles, they are the most commonly used words in the said language’s entire lexicon. Their sounds differ but slightly from language to language, and they very rarely are longer than one syllable each. They’re the first words infants learn when they begin to speak, for they are among the easiest to say and write. Entire spoken games are constructed solely around them. They’re so simple; yet, they convey so much meaning, these two words, only a syllable each.

“They’re not words,” one of my students had blurted out in the middle of one of my lectures.

I had smiled and said: “How so?”

“Because they can’t be classified,” she had said. “They’re not substantives, adjectives, adverbs, gerunds, participles, not anything; you cannot put them into one of these categories.”

It was true. I could not have put it better myself. In fact, if we were to take the definition of a word in the strictest sense, they are not words. For a word to be a word, it must have a part of speech. What then, I ask you, are these words classed as? Nothing! Yet not a dictionary exists that does not include both these words in their most common usage. Is this due to our internal contradictions, our hypocrisies, our tendencies toward inconsistencies (especially in language), or our complacent impreciseness? Or a combination of the four?

I digress.

Yes and no—my native language has no such equivalents.

So what do we use instead? Short answer: nothing. Longer answer: by adverbially modifying the postulated sentence. More realistic answer: entreaties and demands are always naturally phrased in a way such that a single word affirmative or negative answer would not provide the sufficient information to the interrogator. In addition, certain adjectives, adverbs, and verbs can usually be negated with a mono- or double-syllabic particle. In summary, there is no need for these words.

Thus from this short, informal, and very rough lesson, perhaps an inkling of our language—and, by extension, our nature—may be able to be gleaned. More insight may be able to be gleaned from reading my translations; but to understand fully, to understand why a seemingly simple three or four word sentence contains a meaning more profound than the greatest philosophical essay, a deeply intimate relationship with our language is required. In the meantime, a translation will have to do. But, exactly as a message passed from ear to ear is muddied, a little bit of information is lost in the process of translation. A translated pun lacks the poignancy and wit of the original regardless of the skill of the interpreter, and reading one is like overhearing the vague whispers of close friends sharing an old inside joke.

With this being said, there may be some discrepancies apropos of the dialogue hitherto and onward, namely, the conversations I have with my brothers and sisters. When translating them, I have done my best to preserve the peculiar word choice and order that make each sibling unique, but when such faithfulness would cause confusion or difficulty in reading, I will deviate for the purpose of making clear the discrepancy—or, in extreme cases, append an explanation, especially in the cases of idioms or specific definitions. I may or may not have interpreted our shrills with these unplaceable words, yes and no, and I may or may not do so in the future. As I have said, translations cannot preserve all, and I will openly admit that I have taken liberties in their literal meanings.

Some of my older colleagues will find this abhorrent. They will say that I have made a mockery of our native language, that the words I used in places of others are not equivalent, that I’ve destroyed the purity of our language; that by my faulty interpretation, I’ve misrepresented our species, our customs, and our manners. The purists, who believe in linguistic stagnation, obsolete and archaic rules, also believe that word-for-word accuracy should be the goal of any translator.

I could not disagree more. Read any book translated by such a linguistic philosopher; it will read like a swamp. Complain, and the translator will laugh at you. He will say that your primitive, unilingual mind will never be able to grasp such concepts, that you will never be able to see that his translation is a work of art—while the author of the work will sulk and try to apologize to you, for he knows that he was grotesquely misrepresented. But since you do not speak his language, you can only assume from his frantic gestures and the way he speaks vehemently with his translator that he agrees with him. What you don’t know is that those gesticulations are the despairs of a creature who merely wants to be understood by all.

What is language? It is not words; it is not grammar; it is not syntax. It is intent. Grammar, syntax, word order—all these things have been constructed simply for making one’s intent more clear, in other words, to make clear that integral part which matters the most. Thus, it is the goal of any translator to preserve intent. All of the translations of the conversations between me and my brothers and sisters have been made with the express purpose to preserve intent. And I like to think that I’ve done a faithful job.

Allow me to quickly add that though I disagree with the older translators on this accord, their arguments are not inherently flawed, and such arguments are right in other contexts. In those contexts, which will make themselves apparent later on, it might be perceived that I’m as haughty and dogmatic as them. This is unfortunate, but—more unfortunate!—it is beyond my ability to elucidate such apparent hypocrisies. I can only hope that all becomes clear in the future.