Any translator that ventures to represent a decently complicated text in a different language (which obviously also implies a different culture) gets stuck between two extremes: the pole of “There’s no way I can find a good equivalent for this behemoth of a pun” and the pole of “How on earth is that even a problem?” It’s pretty straightforward—until these areas of bewilderment, endless search, and eureka moments meet (which I’m pretty sure poles are not supposed to do).

Hi, Alexandra the Translator is back—with more wordweaving, bits, and pieces.

Notkin? Not kin to whom exactly?

***

How are “Authorities” different from “Powers”? In Russian language they actually aren’t—the word «Власти» incorporates a huge set of connotations of both worldly and somewhat less palpable nature. The main distinction between “power” and “authority” lies in the fact that, unlike authority, power is intangible and inherent. Authority is granted and taken away; power belongs to the person or thing it emanates from. So it makes sense that in plural, “authorities” refer to the government, while “powers” are more likely to be deities or other godlike beings. (Both words can be used in different contexts, of course; this is just the core of their semantics.)

Well, Russia used to be a monarchy for a very long time, with the tzar’s power supposedly coming directly from God. Later, during the USSR years, the disconnection between the higher-ups and the common people was still very much present. So it’s no wonder that the word «власти», that simply means “the authorities”, i.e. the bureaucratic structure, the higher ranks, officials, etc—has almost reverent undertones in Russian. Unlike “authorities”, «власти» are all-knowing, omnipresent, and depersonalized; it’s not a group of people, but a somewhat amorphous entity that defies regular social laws.

Those of you who have finished the original Pathologic know that the game plays with these connotations. In Pathologic, Власти, located who-knows-where and having their own obscure agenda, are indeed a faceless entity that sets certain goals for some characters and gets reinterpreted later. Some characters see them as Authorities, but they are definitely Powers to others. So which option is correct?

As is often the case with binary choices, the answer is neither. After some brainstorming we’ve decided to go with “the Powers That Be”—a literary umbrella term that can refer to anyone and anything in power, from a government to God. The term comes from the New Testament, where the worldly authorities are called “the powers that be”—as opposed to the power of God. Which is exactly what we’re going for: Власти are supposed to be the ultimate echelon of power rather than the ultimate power itself. The fact that the biblical “powers that be” are simply «власти» In the Russian translation of the New Testament doesn’t hurt either. And the hint of sarcasm that always comes with grandiloquence can work in our favour if we keep it in mind.

***

In the world of Pathologic, some people are less equal than others. Simon Kain, the spiritual leader of the Town, had chosen several allies to become his circle, or “taglur”. They weren’t necessarily Simon’s friends (some of them are outcasts and criminals), but rather the people he envisioned important roles and grand future for. During the course of the game your playable character becomes responsible for the fates of some of them.

They’re called «Приближенные» in Russian, with the most literal translation being “the Adherents” (and that is what they used to be called in the old translation) or simply “the Close Ones”. That’s because they were close to Simon, simple as that. But the Latin origins of “adhere” are out of tune with the notion of a game—and Simon’s choice had been masked for one—and the literal meaning of the word has dubious connotations. No, Приближенные were not glued to him, and neither were they unnecessarily sticky. Not all of them, anyway.

So for the new translation we’ve decided to tackle this from a completely different angle. Simon had the fate of his Приближенных envisioned—and these are the people that are destined to die for the player’s cause if he fails his tasks. They’re not truly in charge of their own lives, but are rather parts of a bigger scheme. The English word “bound”—the past tense of “bind”—incorporates both aspects we are looking for: it means “tied to [something or someone]”, but also “destined to”. And this is how Приближенные become the Bound.

Because they’re bound to Simon, to you, and to the fate of the Town—but also because they’re bound to die unless you intervene.

One of the Bound is called Eva Ian. Or maybe Eva Yan. Eva Yahn? What do you mean “Eve is also a word”?

***

Warning! Medium-sized spoilers for the Bachelor’s story ahead. Jump to the next section if you’d rather avoid them.

Dealing with direct puns is always the toughest—and, of course, the most engaging—part, especially when we’re not talking about a name, but rather of a concept. Внутренний покой, a concept invented by the Kains, is both a place and a state—simply because «покой» means both “serenity” and “chamber”. Even more so, the term «внутренний покой» exists in Russian and means “inner chamber”, so when we learn that someone has gone to a внутренний покой, it doesn’t raise any red flags (and lends itself oh so well to a subsequent plot twist—the twist that I have already spoiled to you). It is much later that we learn that внутренний покой is also a state of inner peace, a meditation that can take many shapes and sizes, including that of a nut.

Pole One signing in: how do you even translate that? The answer, once again, is you don’t; you recreate the concept by thinking hard about the major points you’re trying to make and looking for a workaround.

Simon’s research was heavily based on optics—which is why the Polyhedron is made of mirrors. He saw lenses and mirrors as a good tool to work with the soul (perhaps even capture it); in the new Pathologic we’ll delve deeper into his findings. Luckily for us, the Latin word “focus” means “concentration” in both literal and metaphorical sense; you can focus both sunrays and attention. Coupled with its obvious optical origins, “Focus” works here. With careful rephrasing, capitalization helps make Focus seem like a place, or at least keep the ambiguity. “Pray tell, where were you yesterday from 7 to 9 PM?” “You’ve got nothing on me, officer, you don’t; I went to Focus at exactly 7.”

See? Totally believable.

***

The untranslatability of «Горны», the Kains’ mansion, has become somewhat of a running gag in the studio (I’ve explained the issue in a comment to my previous update oh so long ago). Even funnier is the fact that they used to be simply “the Horns” in the old translation—even though the place has nothing to do with horns, it’s just that the words sound kinda similar. (Alright, okay, yes, if we represent the Town as a bull, «Горны» is indeed situated more or less where the horns would be—but the actual horns are the Polyhedron.)

A «горн» is a forge, so “the Forge” would be the word-for-word translation. The Kains, the Faustian magi that they are, are forging a new reality in the depths of their mansion. But the Russian term also bears semblance to the expression «мир горний», that basically means “heavens”, and missing that part would be doing a disservice to the Kains’ lifework. Marrying the forge and heavens took me a year.

I tried “the Empyreal”; it means «горний» and also has a “pyre” in it. The Kains are not really known for their humanism, and it can be argued that their lifework is actually creating a huge pyre for their beloved deceased.

Nikolay said that no sane person without clinical delusions of grandeur would ever call their home an “Empyreal”. The Kains, however ambitious, are trying very hard to fit into the world of men—for the time being, at least.

I tried “the Still”—as in an apparatus that distills the essence of something. (I’ve also tried it for the «внутренний покой» from the previous section.) “The Still” as in “a snapshot” also plays in tune with their desire to capture a glimpse of the improbable and even unnatural world of beauty. But the world “still” itself means “the calm” first and foremost, and that’s too passive, too apathetic for the Kains. They are inspired creators, restless and burning with an overwhelming desire to change the world. They’d never settle for “still”.

My current go-to translation is “the Forenace”, a hybrid of “the furnace” + “fore-” (an affix, as in “foretell” or “foreboding”). It’s a relatively minor spelling change that hopefully serves to highlight the fact that the Kains do not live to fulfill their everyday needs. Their whole life is something that teeters on the tipping point between “before” (the glimmering future they’re trying to make happen) and “after” (the demise of their truly talented predecessors). Their mansion is the furnace never exists in the now, but is always before—before an entirely different paradigm of thought is brought to life.

And I believe that would be “a forenace” in Punnish.

Globular trees work well with parabolic houses

***

It’s not always about the shades of meaning or the innuendoes. Sometimes a word captures a sound, an emotion, a vector—and there’s no need for an equivalent at all. You just have to let those images go and then trap them back.

This is how брадобрей Брага, one of the local bandits, becomes Barley the Barber. It’s our sheer luck that “barber” actually sounds akin to «брадобрей» (which it is a direct translation of)—and that only reinforces the notion that there’s no need to translate his name; what we need is a word that simply sounds cool in the context. There are certain limitations, of course; «брага» is a type of homebrew beer, so the word has to be common and low-brow. Something, you know, a bandit would call himself.

Which is accidentally why I decided against simple transliteration, even though “braga” is indeed a word. Barley’s name is simple; there shouldn’t be a need for you to google it up. “Braga” was tempting me, of course, since it sounds so similar to “brag” or “braggard” (which is fitting for a bandit’s nickname), but there’s another aspect to it: since it’s a minor character, it would be best for his name not to sound glaringly feminine (which isn’t confusing in Russian, where the grammatical gender is reflected by the verb form). The choice was surprisingly not so trivial (see Pole Two), but in the end I’ve decided to go with Barley.

***

Gender has become a recurring issue with the translation. You may probably know that in the Russian language the grammatical gender is represented morphologically—which means that it’s really easy (almost obligatory) to express the character’s gender even if they go by a monicker rather than a name. It’s obvious in Russian that Changeling is a girl and that Mistresses are female—you can simply use any feminine noun to reflect their sex. In English, however, we have to look for concepts denoting females when it's important to highlight someone's gender. (It’s imperfect with Changeling, but we’ve decided to go with her being a child—which the concept of a changeling does indeed entail. Also the word provides fertile grounds for endless puns.)

It becomes even harder when we deal with personal names rather than concepts (those can at least be explained). So let us study the case of Оспина (who I think was simply transliterated into Ospina in the old translation).

An «оспина» is a feminine noun that means “a poxmark”. Оспина herself is exactly that—a lady of mysterious nature that has been living in the Town since the First Outbreak of the plague, seems to know a lot about it, and serves as a reminder, like a poxmark left of the Town’s face by the disease. The word «оспина» also makes a believable name: Марина, Алина, Оспина… (even if you don’t read Cyrillic, you can probably see that the words look kind of similar, and the first two are ordinary girl's names; not to mention the fact that many Russian female last names end with “-ina”). So when you read «Оспина», what you think to yourself is, “Okay, so that’s a lady.” And your thoughts are supported by the feminine form of the verb.

Now, does “Poxmark” remind you of a lady? Of course it doesn’t—if anything, you’d think of a man, seeing how Mark is a boy's name. And there’s no verb in English to rescue us too. I believe that ambiguity is actually more forgivable for children—the archetype of a child if often sexless (which is why in many languages the words for “a child” or “a baby” belong to the neutral gender). But it doesn’t work with Оспина; she’s an adult woman. More importantly, she’s connected with the Plague somehow—and the femininity of the Plague and its personification, shabnak-adyr, is crucial to the world of Pathologic. All in all, it would be nice to make Оспина’s name sound at least remotely feminine. And also, you know, like a name.

Well, it turned out there isn’t a word in English that could fulfill our mad ambition—or at least I’ve failed to find it. When you’re at a loss for words, the only salvation is inventing your own.

And that is how Оспина (pronounced OH-spee-na) became Aspity. This chimera of a word is a combination of “asp”, “spit”, “spite”, and “pity”; she is indeed a lady of a rather poor temper, full of spite and poisonous sarcasm, but she does take pity on the butchers and other steppe people who do sometimes get abused by the townsfolk. It may not be obvious, but she cares for them; there is a reason why her in-game location is called “a doss house”.

I transformed it into “Aspity’s Hospice”, by the way. It’s not a direct translation, sure, but it rhymes. And that sealed the deal with Aspity’s name too.

***

The tributaries of the Gorkhon river are called Жилка and Глотка in Russian. Жилка—”the Sinew”—cuts through the Town’s guts; Глотка—”the Throat”—corresponds with the neck of this gargantuan bull. While both words exist in the Russian language on their own, they also sound exactly like river names. That’s because «-к-» (as in «…-ка») is a productive affix that’s often used to turn a quality of a landmark into a name, abbreviating it (adjective + «ка» → “adjectка”). And—once again—«Жилка» and «Глотка» rhyme (I’m using the loose definition of rhyming here), looking good together.

The differences between the Russian and the English morphology strike back: there’s no shortcut here; we simply need to find the words that would make believable tributary names. We need corporeal, fleshy words, words that have to do with body or bodily functions; and it would be a very nice bonus if they also could be connected with water or rivers somehow.

“The Gullet” seemed like a spot-on option: it means both an oesophagus and a “channel of water”. Moreover, it starts with the same letter as the Gorkhon itself… so hey, the second tributary needs that capital “G” too. I’ve decided to go with “the Gargle”—the word possibly etymologically derived from the sound a liquid makes in the throat. (And even if it’s not, it’s still visceral and appropriate; it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that the locals used to believe this tributary to be the result of the bull town gargling with water.)

And if we keep in mind that there is an opening in the Abattoir called “the Gorge”, we will make a very important ethnographic discovery: the native Steppe people really loved to grrrr.

And didn’t have a bridge naming tradition

***

Is it Klara or Clara?

Yulia or Julia?

Artemy or Artemiy?

Victoria Olgimky or Victoria Olgimskaya?

Or is she Viktoria?

There was a famous Russian poet called Alexander Blok; is Alexander Blok the Commander the same—or is his last name Block?

The Olgimskys or the Olgimskies?

How are all these questions even problematic?!

But they are. Most of these choices are probably very minor (although some are less minor than others), but together they determine the tone of the tune we’re trying to sing—specifically the degree of its Slavic-ness. It’s still a very fine line to walk, without losing the oh so crucial cultural background of Pathologic or turning it into a karikature of ze Russian kulture. I think—I hope that we’ve managed to freeze this scale in the delicate equilibrium of just right.

It’s hard to get the just right right. But we don’t really have a choice.

Failure is not an option—for those who fail are destined to let the shabnak loose.

And I’d rather see a verbally adept shabnak than a tongue-tied one.

The Russian version of the update is here. Русская версия апдейта — здесь.