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Gundissalinus didn’t read Arabic: philosophy translated through spoken Castilian

The mechanics of translation are my daily bread, so I can't stop thinking about a detail I've just learned about the twelfth-century Toledo translations.

Dominicus Gundissalinus, the archdeacon who put Ibn Sina's work on the soul and parts of his Healing into Latin, apparently did not read Arabic. He worked with a collaborator, identified in the sources as Avendauth, often taken to be the Jewish philosopher Abraham ibn Daud, though that identification is debated, or else a Johannes Hispanus. The dedication to the Avicenna translation describes the method: the collaborator spoke each word aloud in the vernacular, and the archdeacon turned each into Latin.

So some of the most important philosophy to enter Latin Europe passed from written Arabic through spoken Castilian into written Latin. Two translations, one of them oral, between languages of three faiths.

As a working translator, three things strike me:

  1. Spoken intermediate translation tends to flatten technical terms, because you reach for the everyday word.
  2. Word-by-word rendering preserves structure but can lose sense, especially in Arabic, where so much hangs on roots and patterns.
  3. And yet it worked. Latin scholasticism built a vocabulary out of this process that lasted centuries.

Has anyone looked at what this did to specific terms? And does anyone else work in two-stage translation and recognise the problems?

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5 replies

  1. Layla Sfeir

    Fellow

    One term that went through this process changed European philosophy. Ibn Sina's maʿnā, roughly "meaning" or "what is meant", was rendered in Latin as intentio. The scholastics built a whole theory of intentions on it, and centuries later Brentano revived "intentionality" as the mark of the mental, drawing on that scholastic vocabulary. When people today talk about intentionality in philosophy of mind, they're speaking a Latin word chosen in twelfth-century Toledo to translate Arabic.

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  2. Vũ Quốc Bảo

    Fellow

    Vietnamese used to have a two-stage problem of its own: much modern Western vocabulary arrived through Chinese or Japanese coinages first. Words for "philosophy", "society", "freedom" came that way. Tal's first point is exactly right: the intermediate language decides which everyday word gets attached, and then the attachment sticks for generations.

  3. Rafael Lucena Prieto

    Fellow

    A footnote from Andalusia. Visitors to Toledo are told about a "School of Translators" with a building and a curriculum. Historians mostly prefer to speak of a translation movement around the cathedral and its archbishops, with individuals and partnerships rather than an institution. The Gundissalinus–Avendauth partnership is the best example: two men, two languages and a conversation, not a school.

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  4. Claire Dubois

    Fellow

    As a literary translator I'd defend the oral stage a little. Saying a sentence aloud forces you to commit to a meaning; you can't hide behind a calque the way you can on the page. The flattening Tal describes is real, but the oral stage may also have made the Latin more intelligible to its first readers than a scholar's literal rendering would have.

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  5. Tal Rosen

    Fellow

    Layla, intentio is the example I was hoping for, and it's dizzying: a word chosen while someone spoke Castilian aloud in a cathedral town ends up in every philosophy of mind syllabus. Claire, I take the point. Sometimes the voice understands what the pen would have copied.

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