I can remember vividly the moment when I first had the notion to create a positive cross-cultural lexicography, the project on which this book is based.1 It was a summer day in 2015, and I was standing in my parents’ kitchen in London, chatting with my mum. In retrospect, though, its seeds were planted years before, way back in 1998.
I was nineteen and had gone to teach English in China for six months before starting university. The adventure was every bit as eye-opening and horizon-expanding as you might expect for a naïve, unworldly young man like me. It was challenging at every turn, testing my skills and character to the limit. But at the same time, it was thrilling and intoxicating. My world was enriched daily as I encountered new and unfamiliar people, practices, experiences, sights, sounds, tastes, and, above all, ideas. I was especially intrigued by the Taoist and Buddhist monasteries, and I sought out books and people who might explain these traditions, unknown and mysterious to me.
I soon became bewitched by terms such as Tao* and yīn-yáng, nirvāṇa, and saṃsāra. The meanings of these concepts were opaque at best, in fact mostly unfathomable. But they seemed deeply significant. I was struck, unnerved even, by the realization that these words lacked an exact English equivalent. But they were not just untranslatable. They seemed beyond my linguistic and cognitive universe. I was radically challenged. I became aware, really for the first time, that some concepts and practices which belong to cultures not my own are veiled to me.
This realization stayed with me as I entered university in Edinburgh to study psychology. I found the field fascinating, and during my studies was introduced to a wealth of interesting ideas and theories. But I still felt that the concepts I had encountered in China remained outside my frame of reference, indeed beyond the ken of Western psychology. One would be unlikely to find even a passing reference to nirvāṇa in a textbook, let alone a serious analysis of it.
Why, I wondered? In numerous cultures, the state of nirvāṇa is considered the peak of human development. It couldn’t be unimportant to psychology. However, academic psychology, as I was learning it, seemed at best incomplete. It is rooted—understandably, given the context in which it emerged and developed—in philosophies and epistemologies that are and have been dominant in Western cultures. This is fine, as far as it goes. But it does mean that psychology has largely overlooked the deep insights into the mind that other cultures have cultivated over the centuries.
(Following Edward Said’s warnings about Orientalism2—his critical term for the construction of “the East” in a way that homogenizes and moreover disparages Asians, Middle Easterners, and North Africans as “Other”—I hesitate to use the terms “Eastern” and “Western,” and moreover to ascribe particular concepts and attributes to these two hemispheres. That said, these labels have a ring of truth for me, capturing my initial unfamiliarity with ideas I experienced as culturally “other”—in an essentially positive way, I hasten to add.)
My impressions of psychology’s cultural bias lingered. After some years working as a musician and a psychiatric nursing assistant, in 2008 I obtained a PhD scholarship to study the impact of meditation on men’s mental health. It was a dream project, since after my return from China I had personally developed a meditation practice and a keen interest in Buddhism. Moreover, the PhD brought me into further contact with concepts and practices that were culturally unfamiliar to me but seemed relevant to psychology.
My study centered on a group of meditators in London. In a spirit of ethnography, I joined their Buddhist community. I found myself dwelling further on terms that could be regarded as untranslatable, and on the phenomena they signify. For instance, my study participants attested to the importance of the saṅgha, a Pāli word for community, generally used within Buddhism to denote an established group of practitioners. Saṅgha provided the warmth of connection and friendship, but it was also a “community of practice.”3 The men felt it was pivotal in introducing them to new ideas, activities, and “ways of being” that were beneficial to their well-being.4 One of these was the meditative and behavioral cultivation of mettā, a Pāli term usually rendered in Western contexts as “loving-kindness.”5 Of particular fascination to me was that untranslatable terms such as mettā were not merely intellectual curiosities. These men were engaged in a heartfelt effort to bring these concepts into the center of their lives, where they would be part of everyday discourse and influence their behavior.
The possibility of thoughtfully harnessing untranslatable words in this way would have a strong effect on my subsequent conception of the lexicography presented in this book. That project, however, would wait another few years. I wrapped up my PhD in 2012 and soon after gratefully took up a lectureship at the University of East London in the arena of positive psychology. I felt at home in this exciting and relatively new branch of academia—developed since the late 1990s—which can be regarded as the science and practice of improving well-being.6 I spent the next couple years immersing myself in the field, which proved a garden of delights. That brings me back to my parents’ kitchen.
I had just returned from the biennial International Positive Psychology Association conference, where I enjoyed a week of fascinating talks and inspiring conversations. Ideas were bubbling away in my mind. One presentation in particular made a mark on me. It was a talk by a Finnish researcher, Emilia Lahti, on the concept of sisu, which she described as a form of extraordinary inner courage and determination in the face of adversity. Sisu, she explained, was understood in Finland as a quality integral to its culture and people, enabling them not only to survive but also to thrive in the face of hardships encountered over their long history. But Lahti also suggested sisu was not only a strength manifested by, or available to, Finns. It was potentially within reach of all people, regardless of their background, even if their own language lacked a term to signify it.
When I got to my parents’ house, my mum asked about the conference. With much enthusiasm, I told her about sisu—and its intriguing lack of a precise English equivalent, even as there are conceptually similar terms. The train of conversation led us to reflect that most languages may have similarly untranslatable words. I now know that there is a considerable academic literature on this topic. However, being a psychologist rather than a linguist,* at the time I wasn’t aware of the concept of untranslatability per se, notwithstanding my earlier experiences in China. As such, this conversation yielded something of an epiphany. My mum and I spent a while drumming up possible examples from among our own pool of languages: we both speak French, though my skill is sadly limited and fading fast; my mum is fluent in German, and has some knowledge of Arabic; and I have an abiding interest in Chinese, courtesy of my formative months there, as well as Sanskrit and Pāli, thanks to my interest in Buddhism.
At some point during this conversation, the thought occurred that it would be wonderful to collect as many untranslatable words as possible—doing so in a respectful and appreciative spirit that does justice to the richness of the terms and the cultures that created them. Given my professional and personal interests, I hoped to focus on well-being. In this way was the idea for a positive cross-cultural lexicography born, although the term “lexicography”—the compiling of dictionaries—did not present itself to me until sometime later. We realized immediately that, were I to undertake this endeavor alone, it would be very limited in scope. Rather, I would need to harness the collective wisdom of a global community of speakers, each of whom could bring unique lexical and cultural knowledge to bear. I imagined a crowd-sourced platform, which people from around the world could use to create the lexicography together.
However, at that point, I didn’t have my own website, let alone a way of attracting attention and contributions to it. I would need a catalyst to jump-start the endeavor, so I embarked on an initial quest for words myself. Using the “quasi-systematic” search procedure I detail in chapter 1, I obtained a modest but promising haul of 216 terms. I then analyzed these thematically and published the results in the Journal of Positive Psychology in January 2016.7 At the same time, I created a website (not an easy task for a neophyte such as me), which included a platform for what I hoped would soon become the burgeoning lexicography.* There was certainly something of an “If you build it, they will come” spirit animating my efforts.
Quite soon the outcome I had been hoping for began to crystallize. The paper received some positive coverage in high-profile publications, such as the Psychologist in the United Kingdom, and the New Yorker and Scientific American in the United States. These articles provided the spark the project needed. My website started to receive visitors from many different countries, who generously suggested words and recommended ways to refine existing definitions. (I am always conscious that my definitions are partial, provisional, and improvable. The project is the epitome of a work-in-progress.) The list has since grown to about 900 entries over the past year and a half. That leaves a long way to go: the list currently includes samples from nearly one hundred languages, a tiny minority of the 7,000-odd “living” languages in the world.8 And that’s before you get to the further complexity of regional dialects and linguistic subcultures.
Still, it’s a decent start. Moreover, it’s a start that encourages my belief in the project. My hope is that the lexicography could help foster cross-cultural appreciation, both in academic psychology and in society more broadly. The lexicography showcases the richness of cultural diversity and the unique contributions different languages can make to our understanding of the world. At the same time, I also believe the lexicography can be a powerful reminder of our common humanity: despite our apparent differences, most of us share similar feelings, dreams, hopes, and loves. As I reflect on the words and their meanings, I find many that resonate: I know the feeling or experience in question, even if I hadn’t previously been able to put a name to it.
This brings me to my final point regarding the potential of the lexicography: I believe it has the power to enrich people’s emotional understanding and experience. Untranslatable words are not merely intellectual curiosities or informative vis-à-vis the culture that created them. Rather, just as learning another language can be a valuable endeavor, I submit that we can personally engage with these words—in a way that is sensitive to their cultural origin and significance—using them to give voice to feelings and experiences we may have had, but which were previously unconceptualized and unarticulated. In fact, this kind of “borrowing” is central to language development. As I explore in chapter 1, as many as 41 percent of English words appear to have been brought in from other languages, often because these words filled what Adrienne Lehrer calls a “lexical gap”: “the lack of a convenient word to express what [the speaker] wants to speak about.”9
The experiential value of untranslatable words does not end with convenience, though. Like the meditators I studied, we can all, by encountering new words, find our way to new feelings, behaviors, and activities. A word that signifies an unfamiliar aspect of life is an invitation to inquire into the phenomenon it specifies and to explore the possibility of bringing it into one’s life. A beautiful example of this process is the West’s recent surge of interest in mindfulness. Millions have been engaged in an experiential exploration of sati, the Pāli term for which mindfulness is a somewhat imperfect “loan translation,” as I discuss in chapter 2. I am hopeful that people will engage with other terms in this lexicography in a similar way. In this manner, experiences of well-being that have been “hidden” to them—either vaguely known but veiled by lack of a signifying word, or completely unknown and shrouded in darkness—may become visible.
Which brings me to this book. I am thrilled and honored to have the opportunity to publish with the MIT Press. The lexicography on my website is an evolving resource, which I hope people will find interesting and useful. However, in terms of setting out the conceptual and theoretical case for the project, there is no better forum than a monograph, and no finer publisher than MIT. I have many goals for the book. I want to set out the theory behind the lexicography. I would also like to analyze a good selection of its words in some depth, exploring connections between them and existing psychological concepts, and in the process enriching the current nomological network in Western academic psychology (i.e., the constructs comprising the field).10 I further aim to put forward ideas for future research and for testing my propositions. Finally, I hope readers will think about how they can use these words to enrich their own emotional understanding and experience.
It remains to thank some special people without whom this book would not have been possible. First, Kate, my wife, soul mate, and best friend. Aside from providing continual love and support, of which I rarely feel deserving, she also listens with patience to my random ideas and digressions, and tolerates my restless mind and messy habits. I’m ever grateful for the eternal sunshine and warmth she brings to my life. Similarly, I would be nothing without my wonderful family, who are always my rock of support, and my closest and dearest companions. And a particular thank-you goes to my mum, the co-creator of the project. On that note, a grateful shout-out also goes to Emilia Lahti.
I’m ever thankful to a whole cast of people who helped build, energize, and disseminate the lexicography and then facilitated the development of this book. I’m grateful to Jon Sutton and Christian Jarrett at the Psychologist, Emily Anthes at the New Yorker, and Steve Mirsky and Gareth Cook at Scientific American, who thoughtfully propelled my initial article to public attention. Thanks also to Joana Patrasc and Maynard Russell, who generously gave their time and skills to create the interactive online lexicography. With respect to the book itself, my immense gratitude goes to Amy Brand, Phil Laughlin, Anne-Marie Bono, Judy Feldmann, Simon Waxman, Yasuyo Iguchi, and all the team at the MIT Press, who took a chance on me and provided the best academic platform I could wish for to substantiate the project. Thanks too, as always, to my fantastic agent, Esmond Harmsworth, who has continually been a source of guidance and support in realizing the book. The writing process was greatly helped by a team of bilingual experts, who advised on my interpretations and definitions of some of the words. These include Antonella Delle Fave, Itai Ivtzan, Francisco José Eiroa-Orosa, Paul Wong, Oscar Kjell, Natalia Gogolitsyna, Yannis Fronimos, Nico Rose, Seph Fontane Pennock, and Nick Brown, the last of whom also graciously read through an early draft of the book. Of course, any errors or inconsistencies in my treatment of the words are my fault alone.
Finally, my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has contributed to the lexicography: my family, friends, colleagues, students, and all those people whom I’ve never met but who nevertheless have generously written to me offering suggestions, advice, and enthusiasm for the project. You give me faith to continue working on it, knowing that my efforts are appreciated. Thank you so much to all of you; I would be nowhere without you. And to everyone, I hope that you enjoy the book.