The Dao of Habitus： Laozi on Daniel Simeoni on PierreBourdieu on the Submissive Translator

Abstract： The article examines the habitus-based model developed by Daniel Simeoni（1998） as a social ecology of translation， by drawing on Robinson （1991）， to which Simeoni too alludes， but also on the ecological tendencies of ancient Daoist and Confucian thought. It reads Simeoni on “the act of translating … as the main locus precipitating mental， bodily， social and cultural forces” in terms of Laozi（51） on 勢 “propensity，” and Simeoni on the somatics of translation in terms of Mengzi （6A15） 心之官則思 “the heart’s organ thinks.”

Key words： Translation； habitus； social ecology； somatics

中圖分類號：H059 文獻標識碼：A 文章編號：1003-6822（2015）01-0052-20

The first translation scholar to reframe Pierre Bourdieu’s （see Nice， 1984， 1990） sociological theory of habitus， field， and capital for the study of translation was Daniel Simeoni （1998）， who set himself the task of building a model that would explain“the ability to perform translation in acceptable ways” （ibid： 1）. “Translating being an expertise whose enactment always occurs for particular reasons in a particular context，” he added， “it is worth inquiring into the acquisition of a translator’s style and skills in terms of their complex cognitive development” （ibid： 2）—and specifically into the cultural conditions that shape that cognitive development， including habitus， field， and capital.

In this article I propose to examine Simeoni’s model as（and expand it into） a social ecology of translation， by drawing not only on my own earlier work on the somatics of translation， to which Simeoni too alludes， but the ecological thought of the Laozi （老子）.

1. Precipitation and Propensity

In his seminal theorization of habitus for a putative“field” of translation， Simeoni begins with polysystem theory（as it evolves into Descriptive Translation Studies） in order to critique that theoretical tradition’s tendency to depersonalize norms. As he presents the theoretical contribution of Gideon Toury（1980， 1995） in particular， the translator is imagined in DTS norm theory as a kind of computer that downloads norms like software from some abstract repository， and then translates within the bounds they erect （see Robinson， 2003： ch. 6 for discussion）. Simeoni （ibid： 24）， by contrast， places special emphasis not only on the structured/structuring effects of norms—“Translators govern norms as much as their behavior is governed by them”—but on the conations（desires， inclinations， motivations） that drive translators to respond in certain ways to the structuring effects norms have on them and to push back in certain ways that（re）structure the norms in turn. “Social and specific habituses，” in particular， “provide form and substance to what， in turn， gives them substance and form： practical organizations of personalized skills， presenting themselves casually as native aggregates of skills to be taken for granted beyond the pale of rules and regulations. Hence the importance of the concept for theories of social action， of which translation is an undeniable part. The habitus is the true pivot around which systems of social order revolve. Without it， abiding by norms would remain a feat of magic” （ibid）.

By giving “the translator’s habitus” pride of place， Simeoni （ibid： 33） argues， we are effectively focusing attention on “the act of translating … as the main locus precipitating mental， bodily， social and cultural forces.” The odd mixed metaphor of an act as a locus （place， spot， position） that precipitates forces is worth unpacking a little. In chemistry， of course， to precipitate is to separate a solid substance from the liquid solution in which it has been suspended； the image of “mental， bodily， social and cultural forces” as a solid precipitated out of larger sociocultural conditions is an interesting one. It is a little harder to imagine that precipitation in the usual metaphorical sense， as the bringing about of undesirable events in a sudden or unexpected way：“mental， bodily， social and cultural forces” as a complex of crisis or other exigency precipitated by the act of translation as a locus. What， after all， is this locus， and what agency does it have to precipitate forces？ Isn’t a locus a rather static image for the agency Simeoni seems to be positing？ Wouldn’t it make more sense to passivize that sentence and， Laozi-style， picture“mental， bodily， social and cultural forces” being precipitated in or through the act of translation as a locus—or， better， a conduit—by some unnamed agency， some Dao？

Reading ancient Chinese texts like the Laozi in conjunction with claims like this also stirs up a tiny qualm as I parse Simeoni’s next sentence： “To talk of a habitus is to imagine a theoretical stenograph for the integration and—in the best of cases—the resolution of those conflicting forces” （ibid）. This seems to suggest that the “precipitation” in the previous sentence is actually an “integration” whose entelechy directs it toward “resolution”： if we understand “mental， bodily， social and cultural forces” as conflicting， and conflicts as a limitation on the translator’s ability to act in coherent ways， then to imagine action is to imagine an integration and ideally a resolved integration of those forces. Simeoni’s imagery here seems rather more muscular and managerial than the imagery we find in the Daoist（and Confucian） classics， where actions emerge ecologically out of communal interactions， and thematic conflicts （verbalized as paradoxes） ensure an entirely admirable complexity； but I suggest that there is no strenuous opposition between the two imageries. As Ames and Hall （2003： 48-49） write：

The developed customs and habits of mind of the Daoist are a resource that conditions， influences， and attempts to optimize the range of creative possibilities without in fact causally determining the crafting of novel experiences. Such aggregated habits are irreducibly social， and are the unannounced social propensity out of which individual hearts-and-minds express themselves as overt actions.

This is very close to Simeoni on Bourdieu： the “aggregated habit[use]s” at work in individuals are “irreducibly social， and are the unannounced social propensity out of which individual hearts-and-minds express themselves as overt actions”： the agency that wields them as a“propensity” in individual actions， in other words， is the society in which they were acquired， through the aggregation of social experience. But while that collective agency “conditions， influences， and attempts to optimize the range of creative possibilities” in the individual’s life， it does not “in fact causally determin[e] the crafting of novel experiences.” Creative possibilities are not determined causally but rather “precipitated” out of conflicting “mental， bodily， social and cultural forces.”

In the continuation of that passage， Simeoni （ibid： 33） again stresses the personalized quality of a Bourdieusian sociology of translation：

A highly personalized construct，[the habitus] retains all the characteristic imperiousness of norms. Indeed， norms without a habitus to instantiate them make no more sense than a habitus without norms. Incorporating conflict in one single construct attached to the person of the translator should also help us better understand the tension behind the individual choices during the decision process.

Right， but to the extent that habitus channels norms into “individual choices during the decision process” habitually， and so unconsciously， and to the extent that this unconscious functioning of habitus is precisely what gives it “all the characteristic imperiousness of norms，” it seems strange to call it “personalized.” It seems in fact that Simeoni means “personalized” in the rather impersonal sense of “attached to the person of the translator”： whatever the translator’s “person”—i.e.， body—produces is a “personalized” product of the translator’s habitus. The image of habitus as a “construct attached to the person of the translator，” as if by an articulated joint， seems a bit mechanical， perhaps， like a Rube Goldberg contraption； but of course the resulting mechanism is a metaphor， and the accreted understanding of that construct as incorporating not just conflict but conflict-becoming-integrated-becoming-resolved serves to remind us of the surging social life to which the metaphor points.

But again， rethinking these images through the Laozi complicates them usefully. In Chapter 51 we are given an image of the apparently spontaneous（uncaused） emerging of things and events out of a habitualized social propensity that Laozi too tropes“mechanically，” or at least with the submerged image of a farm implement：

道生之，德畜之，物形之，勢成之。是以萬物莫不尊道而貴德。道之尊，德之貴，夫莫之命常自然。

（Chapter 51）

Way-making （dao） gives things their life，

And their particular efficacy （de） is what nurtures them.

Events shape them，

And having a function consummates them.

It is for this reason that all things （wanwu） honor way-making

And esteem efficacy.

As for the honor directed at way-making

And the esteem directed at efficacy，

It is really something that just happens spontaneously （ziran）

Without anyone having ennobled them. （Ames and Hall， ibid： 156）

We recognize the propensity emerging there out of the field （道dao） and the focus （德de）， after which the book takes its popular name， Daodejing； we also recognize the shaping/shaped significance of the “things” that are “events” （物wu）， most familiar in ancient Chinese philosophy from the collocation “the ten thousand things/events” （萬物wanwu① ）. These all remind us of Simeoni’s Bourdieu： think of “The habitus is the true pivot around which systems of social order revolve” （Simeoni ibid： 24； cf. also Ezra Pound’s translation of 中庸Zhongyong as The Unwobbling Pivot， or even Ames and Hall’s [2001] as Focusing the Familiar）. But where are [1] the farm implement and [2] the specifically social propensity？

1. The farm implement is buried visually in the character which Ames and Hall translate as “having a function，” namely 勢shi： in its 力li “power/force/capability” radical， which pictographically represents a plow. （A tool that requires strength becomes the imagistic conduit of strength， power， force.） The other pictographic elements in the character are all earthy： 圥lu “mushroom” over 土tu “earth， dust， dirt” makes坴lu “soil， land”； 丸wan is a small round object， a pellet or a pill. Historically， in other words， 勢shi is the strength that plows a field， as well as the plow and the plowing and the field. Later， therefore， in what we are pleased to call “metaphorical extensions” but are actually just different situated/directed foci of the same cognitive field， 勢shi also comes to mean“situation/conditions”（events’ current environment）， “momentum/tendency/trend” （events’ entelechy）， and“power/force/influence”（events’ ability to shape other events or their situations/trends）. These translations highlight the“situated/emerging nature” of a thing or event， as would “function”； 勢shi can also be translated “outward appearances，” or “sign/gesture，” which would seem to point instead at the interpretiveconstruction of that nature by observers. Ames and Hall’s translation“having a function” stresses the gerundive relationship between the two， the existential act or fact of functionality， of serving a certain function or having been functionalized in a certain way. Whatever 勢shi is—and it “is” arguably all of these things， understood as a complex of forces and tendencies—it is 勢shi that 成cheng“completes” or “finishes” or “consummates” “them，” whatever they are. 成cheng， of course， is the phonetic of 誠cheng， which Ames and Hall argue persuasively should be translated “creativity”： it is not so much the completion of a thing as it is the completing， the creative process of moving a thing or an event toward a completion that may never arrive. In that sense 成cheng is close to Aristotle’s entelechy， which is not， mainstream Western readings to the contrary， a lockstep march to a predetermined end but the actuality of life as grounded in growth， change， transformation. Entelekheia is morphologically “the having of an end within” （en “within” + telos “end” + ekhein“to have”）， but that“having” propels the thing or the event in a certain direction—a situated tendency or trend as a potentiality that in Greek is a power， a 勢shi—with no guarantee that it will ever reach it. I assume， in fact， that Ames and Hall’s syntax in “having a function” is consciously or unconsciously modeled on Aristotle’s coinage for“having an end within”： Laozi and Aristotle are not theorizing exactly the same process here， but they are very close. The reigning idea is that the power that drives growth and change is a power that is loosely identified with the growing thing itself， and with its growth， and with the conditions in which it grows.

2. The social origins of the propensity that drives all this—by which the ten thousand things/events are birthed by or out of the plowing of dao’s field， nurtured by each insistent focus dao takes， shaped by other things and events， and nudged entelechially toward completion or consummation by that power that is also a shaping/shaped tendency or trend—is signaled by the close linkage between those propensities and social value： 尊zun“honor” and 貴gui“esteem.” Laozi makes it very clear that this value is not a conscious， deliberate， “propositional” value accorded to dao and de by humans； he says that 萬物莫不尊道而貴德， lit. “（of the） the ten thousand things/events there is none that doesn’t honor/respect dao and value/esteem de.” The 萬物wanwu“ten thousand things” would certainly include humans—it includes everything—but is not restricted to humans； and note how that implicit single negative （“not just humans”） is intensified by an explicit double negative （莫不mobu “there is none that doesn’t”）. Like the double negative that hints at Laozi’s anarchistic ideal for government—無不治wubu zhi “not not govern②” —this莫不尊mobu zun “not not honor” strategically undermines our tendency to ascribe honoring as an action to the deliberate agency of a rational agent （cf. also 莫之命mo zhi ming “without command”）. It happens “spontaneously” （自然ziran）， which is to say that we have no idea who or what causes it to happen， what the agency is behind the honoring. But valuing is a core social activity—and indeed， the core regulatory channel of what I call“icosis”： the socioecological “plausibilization” （icosis is derived from Greek eikos“plausible，” ta eikota “the plausibilities”） of normative “opinion” （Greek doxa） through persuading-becoming-believing （Greek pistis） into broad-based acceptance as truth， as reality， as the way things are. Valuing is an affect-becoming-conation that， circulated through a community as “honor” or “esteem” for actions and attitudes approved by the group and as “dishonor” and “shame” for actions and attitudes disapproved by the group， collectively brings attitudes and beliefs into conformity with group norms. The 萬物wanwu “ten thousand things” are more than human， but in circulating social value they are modeled on humans in groups， and may in fact be primarily the emerging effects of （largely unconscious） social processes. Mengzi uses 天tian “heaven” in this much same sense， as a vague collection of forces that include sociocultural pressures and， as龐樸 Pang Pu （as quoted and discussed in Ames and Hall， 2001： 27， 116n2③ ） insists， are mainly social in origin. In both Laozi and Mengzi the circulation of 尊zun honor is vaguely attributed to forces that could be more than social， but could also be entirely social—just circulated somatically， and therefore so unconsciously that it is easy to understand how people could ascribe the circulation to biological or supernatural forces.

Might we take all this Chinese reflection on social propensities as a“friendly amendment” to Bourdieu’s more rigid—more structuralist—images of habitus？ When Simeoni pictures habitus as “mental， bodily， social and cultural forces” precipitated out of social conditions as conflict that is first integrated and “attached to the person of the translator，” then （at least ideally） resolved， are we justified in reading that vitalistic perfectionism slightly more loosely， daoistically？

Perhaps not yet. It’s too soon.

2. Somatic Habituses

Still， Simeoni （1998： 28） is also saturated in the somaticity of Robinson （1991）：

Too much routine of course is likely to reactivate the pain， as aptly noted by Douglas Robinson （1991）. An area of research in which psychologically oriented experimentation might contribute a better understanding of the translator’s task， relates to the bodily inscription of many such routines. How is it that we can experience pleasure in translating texts commonly described as difficult？ What does the repetitiveness of the task contribute to the feelings in question？

These questions begin to direct us toward the icotic grounding of the translator’s normative submissiveness （see section 4， below）， Simeoni’s （1998） main source of puzzlement： it’s not just that an individual translator may idiosyncratically （or “idiosomatically，” as I reframed it in Robinson 1991） experience pleasure in translating a text that is “commonly” （“ideosomatically”） considered difficult； the feeling of pleasure in the translating of a difficult text may itself be an ideosomatic regime.

I don’t mean by this anything so crassly mechanistic as afferent conditioning， or the “programming” of translators and other social beings as if they were meat computers. I simply mean the sense in which “a human being in classical Confucianism is ultimately an aggregate of experience”（Ames and Hall， 2001： 45）， and specifically an aggregate of social experience， of shared， collective experience， an aggregate of life in groups. Or， again， the sense in which“the developed customs and habits of mind of the Daoist are a resource that conditions， influences， and attempts to optimize the range of creative possibilities without in fact causally determining the crafting of novel experiences” （Ames and Hall， 2003： 48）. If even one admired colleague takes pleasure in the translation of a difficult text， that pleasure may be contagious—may have what I have elsewhere④ called a“somatomimetic” effect， which in turn may reticulate through an entire community （or profession）. If repetitiveness is endemic in most professional translation， translators’ affective-becoming-conative responses to that repetitiveness are likely to converge to some fairly widespread （if at once subtle and varied） extent. It will almost certainly become an “occupational hazard，” something professional translators have to learn to deal with， and tend to deal with in similar ways： by gritting and bearing it； by habitualizing it； by mechanizing it， through translation memory software， etc. “Such aggregated habits，” as Ames and Hall （ibid： 48-49） go on， “are irreducibly social， and are the unannounced social propensity out of which individual hearts-and-minds express themselves as overt actions.”

Or as Simeoni （ibid： 27-28） himself puts it：

Field structures in general， whether loose or rigid， complex or simple， gain in comprehension as soon as they are perceived as felt structures. Structure as a nexus of social norms is embodied and customarily somatized in daily routines. Try opposing a structure （external or internal）； it will resist. This is what makes the social world as experienced a vector of common violence either suffered， accepted， channeled or under certain circumstances， obviously enjoyed. In individual situations， an easing of the tension felt while translating may be construed as evidence for a greater availability of internalized options on the scale of one’s native and acquired skills and a concomitant decrease in felt pressure. An elevation of the tension on the other hand might be testimony to stronger pressure to comply with external—i.e. not （yet？） internalized norms—a situation accompanied by a feeling of relative unnaturalness.

Among all the attention Simeoni （1998） has received among sociologically oriented translation scholars⑤， this powerfully somatic/icotic framing of habitus has been almost entirely overlooked. Why exactly will a “structure” resist if we try to oppose it？ What is it exactly about the “feltness” of social structures that makes it a viable explanation of that resistance？ What is at work in the homeostatic titration （increase/decrease） of “the tension felt while translating” that will account for the “feeling of relative[un]naturalness” that we experience while translating different kinds of text， with different levels of （normativized） skill？ We in the West are so accustomed to associating feelings with transient private emotional states that it seems wildly counterintuitive to many to theorize them as our main channel and signal of ideological conformation； but not only did Simeoni follow Bourdieu in recognizing and reaffirming the bodily basis of habitus， but Bourdieu himself followed Wittgenstein and Merleau-Ponty in reaffirming that basis. And of course in China 心xin is precisely the root （根gen） of all thought and all ethical growth. Mengzi， for example， writes that the organs of the eyes and ears cannot think， and so are easily deceived， but 心之官則思， 思則得之， 不思則不得 （6A15）， literally “The heart’s organ thinks， thinks and engages， doesn’t think doesn’t engage.” 官guan is specifically a bodily organ， making“heart” the most obvious translation of 心xin； and indeed Lau （1970/2003： 259） translates the passage as “The organ of the heart can think. But it will find the answer only if it does think； otherwise， it will not find the answer.”

Shun （1997： 150） notes that in the Mengzi as well as in other Warring States Confucian texts， 思si “think” specifically means“to direct the attention to，” especially to a thing that one regards favorably， something one feels inclined to do， implying the work of affect， and especially affect-becoming-conation （feeling-becoming-motivation）， in the directedness of this thinking. This conception of 心xin is not exclusively Chinese， I would argue， but very close to Western understandings of affect and conation as guides to cognition—as in common English phrases like “the heart knows better than the head，” which we take to imply that the cold cognitive logic we trope as “the head” is weak and ultimately powerless without the guiding force of the affects and conations that we trope as “the heart.”

In fact， this is not just a“folk” or prescientific conception. Modern neuroscientists， mutatis mutandis， might even agree with Mengzi here—that is， once they had established that the autonomic nervous system， which regulates， channels， monitors， and signals emotional response， actually spans the central nervous system or CNS（“the brain”） and the peripheral nervous system or PNS （“the body”）， and has important signaling pathways running between the“head” and the“heart.” Paying close attention to the region of the heart， for example—the center of the chest—may give us far more accurate information about what we truly feel about a thing than trying to analyze our feelings “coldly” “in the brain alone” （whatever that might mean）. The autonomic nervous system often signals our feeling-based orientations to situations and courses of action by giving us a feeling of painful constriction， or hot swelling， or warm relaxation， in what feels like the heart. The feeling may technically “begin” in the head， in the limbic system （the amygdala or the hypothalamus， say）， but may “begin to be felt” in the heart area （or the “stomach，” where enteroceptive signals are perceived， or chills up and down the spine， or sweat on the palms of the hands， etc.）. In other words， in the “wiring diagram” established by neurophysiologists， the CNS generates the feeling， then sends signals to the PNS， where they are read by the CNS—a head-heart-head loop， or head-stomach-head loop， or whatever. Phenomenologically， though， these loops feel like feeling-becoming-thinking.

Indeed the neo-Jamesian tradition in contemporary neurophysiology understands “feelings” to be becoming-cognitive mappings of body states called“emotions”； to map an emotion as a feeling is to become aware of it， to attend to it， to presence it， to become able to distinguish it from other body states. Feeling in that sense is the leading edge of the emergence of thinking from an organism’s homeostatic self-regulation， and it does begin to emerge as directed attention， as an enhanced awareness of our priorities， of what is important， of what concerns us. As thinking continues to emerge from feeling， ever subtler maps are sketched in—comparing， remembering， imagining， and so on—until we reach what we in the West take to be the pinnacle of thinking， various logical operations （categorizing， sequencing， hierarchizing， and so on）. In this scientific tradition emerging out of the work of William James（1890）， cognition is always affective-becoming-cognitive； even at its most rarefied， its most coolly abstract and anti-emotional， it remains saturated in affect， which only rarely emerges into the stream of consciousness. The famous“somatic-marker hypothesis” of the neo-Jamesian neuroscientist Antonio Damasio（1994， 1999， 2003） postulates that somatic markers-neuroelectrical impulses measurable with a skin-conductance test， and experienced phenomenologically as various physiologically localized sensations of pleasure or pain， well-being or unease， like the kind of intense somatic sensations in the chest that make us trope emotion as “the heart”—powerfully condition and enable our decision-making processes， to the extent that patients with damage to the part of the autonomic nervous system that controls such“marking” are unable to perform very simple cognitive tasks such as prioritizing two courses of action.

3. Who Is Suited to Be a Translator？

Simeoni （ibid： 17） also writes of the “attunement” of an individual’s habitus to a field， mainly in terms of possession of the requisite capital， but in terms that make me wonder whether that capital might also be partly bodily—whether the motivating or conative force of pleasure and other affects might be considered capital as well. Motivation as conative capital. Attunement as interactive embodiment. The rule， he notes， is： “Don’t even think of entering a field if your habitus does not match the requirements. The more restricted the field， the better attuned the habitus. The fields of mathematics and opera performance are clear examples. Without the required capital， the notion does not even make sense.”

The first concern I have while reading that is that the full complexity of the actor’s habitus in relation to the field of interest may be largely unknown to the actor her/himself—indeed may at first be primarily a bodily orientation， a motivating pleasure. “I love to sing， and I think I’m pretty good at it； maybe I’ll become an opera singer.” “I’m good with numbers； I think I’ll study math.” “I love foreign languages， and my Spanish is getting pretty good； maybe I’ll become a translator.” These are vague inclinations， based on a partly inchoate feeling for possible conations. Even the conative capital is fuzzy here， in other words. Any professional in any of those fields will tell you that a vague inclination is probably not enough： you have to be brilliant at singing， brilliant at math， and brilliant not only at foreign languages but at bridging between foreign and local languages to be successful in these fields. “Don’t even think of entering a field if your habitus does not match the requirements.”

But does that mean that you have to be brilliant at the thing when you first get the idea of trying to prepare yourself for the profession in question？ Of course it doesn’t. Simeoni is wrong. No one can possibly know， without trying， whether a fuzzy kind of conative capital will be sufficient to carry him or her through training all the way to the successful pursuit of the profession. A teacher may say on the first day of class， or at the end of the first semester，“Give it up： you’ll never make a singer/mathematician/translator.” But how reliable is that prediction？ Is“the required capital” [1] a stable possession that empirically exists in the actor and can reliably be recognized by the teacher or other expert， [2] a situationally variable entity that can be accumulated， or[3] a matter of perception only， and determined primarily by power-brokers in the field？ If 1 there would be the positivistic substance-based approach that has tended to dominate Western philosophy， and 3 would be the cynical Nietzschean dismissal of 1， 2 corresponds to progressive theories of education in the West that come out of nineteenth-century Romantic-becoming-pragmatic traditions（for example， Emerson>Peirce>Dewey） that were in turn heavily influenced by ancient“ecological” Chinese thought. “Situationally variable” means both that [2a] the social actor may acquire more of the relevant capital over time， and [2b] the social actor’s “possession” or “command” of the relevant capital may vary in the present from situation to situation， context to context， relationship to relationship—learning-styles theory. The folklore is full of stories of international stars in various fields who were told by teachers early on that they would never amount to anything in those fields—and who either（2a） improved brilliantly over time or（2b） only began to blossom when they found the right teacher， or the right employer， or the right task.

It may well be， of course， that even 2a happens only very rarely. Statistically it may be highly unlikely that someone who isn’t certain whether s/he even has the motivation to be an opera singer or a mathematician or a translator， let alone the aptitude， will make it. Statistically， therefore， that person is probably wasting his or her time. But not definitely. Statistically there is still a chance that a fuzzy kind of conative capital will be enough—that the candidate has an undiscovered aptitude for the field， and will accumulate not only professional but intensified conative capital as well. The better s/he gets at the work， the more pleasure s/he will feel； the more pleasure s/he feels， the more motivated s/he will feel to work hard at it； the harder s/he works， the better s/he will get. And if that possibility exists， the relationship among habitus， field， and capital is nowhere near as rigid or exclusive as Simeoni suggests.

My second concern is that Simeoni’s conception of “the field of opera performance” or “the field of mathematics” seems to be somewhat monolithic， without gradations for different levels of ability. After all， a singer who is not good enough to be an international opera star may be good enough for a regional opera company， or for a local amateur production； and a singer who is not good enough for any of those may still perform for friends at a party. A mathematician does not need to possess the same professional capital to teach math to first-graders that s/he would need to be a math professor at MIT. And as for translators， grammar translation is assigned to very low-level foreign language learners； would we not want to call them “translators”？

These concerns arise predominantly because， as Simeoni notes， Bourdieu’s concept of habitus is a “stenograph” for a very complex and fluid set of social organizations. Simeoni （ibid： 17-18） tries to clarify the concept by distinguishing between “social” and “special（ized）” or “specific” fields：

But the extension of the concept is such that it applies not only to the state-national fields of cultural production or， for that matter， economic production， but to the social environment at large and to the circumstances of everyday consumption， lifestyles or preferences. In such an environment， influences are so entangled on account of the fuzziness of field borders and the relationships within， that the larger social constituency can hardly be called a “field” or， at least， it should be viewed as a much more complex and messy system， where most participants are not even aware of the rules， or， worse， misread them as being similar to those in force in the specialized fields in which， in the best of cases， they happen to be active professionally.

Bilinguals， and people with varying degrees of interlingual competence in a bilingual cultural setting， end up doing a lot of translating even then they aren’t“translators，” and don’t know the “rules” of translating—in fact even when they aren’t aware that they are translating. My bilingual kids began “translating” at around the age of 3， as when I would say to one of them， “go tell Mama that breakfast is on the table.” There are“rules” at work in that sort of exchange， and thus also criteria for success—if the kid goes upstairs and tells Mama something else， the translational task has not been completed—but they are， as Simeoni suggests， social rules and criteria， general communicational rules and criteria， which are probably quite different from their counterparts in a specialized “translation field.” Simeoni’s cautionary “worse， misread them” is presumably directed at would-be professional translators who mistakenly believe that the same rules apply in the translation marketplace as govern ordinary （bilingual） social communication， and so fail to perform in accordance with the field’s professional norms.⑥ If my youngest daughter， who at the age of five translates my instruction to tell Mama that breakfast is ready as “ìàì， èè洙酣川え？” （Mama， come eat）， grows up to apply the same loose periphrastic norms to a technical translation job， she will face a project manager’s anger. If she grows up to be a translator， she will need to learn the different norms governing technical translation， advertising translation， poetry translation， back-translation， and so on， and apply the appropriate ones in each professional context.

Still， I remain concerned about Simeoni’s inclination to binarize： “social field” as “a much more complex and messy system， where most participants are not even aware of the rules，” vs. “special/specific field，” where the rules are clear and all qualified professionals act in strict accordance with them. All“special” or “specific” fields， I would say instead， are also social fields， and the complex messiness of all social communication and other behavior flows through them， in ways that we try to regulate （治zhi “govern”） but don’t always even recognize， let alone understand—precisely because we tend primarily to“govern” them unconsciously， through collectivized habits， so that it seems as if the Laozian double negative 無不治wubu zhi “not not govern” applies. Simeoni mentions the example Bourdieu gives， that not only would we never buy a magazine at random， one grounded in a habitus that is alien to our own， but “we do not really ‘understand’ how such items can find buyers” （ibid： 18）. If our own habitus is largely unknown to us， in that we don’t understand that it even exists， that it is there guiding our choices， let alone how it achieves that guidance， an alien （other group’s） habitus is unknown to us in an entirely different way， in that it seems just barely human. Our own habitus is“human nature”； anyone who is that different from us seems like an anomaly. Habitus as Dao.

Or as Simeoni （ibid： 14） writes：

The process of “naturalization” whereby a translator comes in possession of those precious native skills amounts， indeed， to an internalization of outer norms—or“socialization as concerns translating” （[Toury 1995] p. 250）. The problem is that socialization is no smooth process. In the first place， fields are far from even. Considering only the simplest case， even when the socialized agent is envisioned in relation to a particular field of activity excluding interferences from other parties or areas， skill acquisition requires no small degree of symbolic and often socio-economic violence. As happens whenever some special cultural capital is required for a task， some holders have an edge.

The scalar hedges in that passage all point to the“habitus as Dao” principle：“no smooth process” （but how and where is it rough， and how rough？），“far from even” （but how are they unevenly distributed and bounded？）， “no small degree” and “often” （what degree， and how often？）， “some holders” （which？）. The answer to every one of those questions is we don’t know. We would like to predict that the holders of the greatest accumulation of that cultural capital that we call “skill” or “proficiency” in the relevant area will have an edge； but of course sometimes the holders of social capital like the right educational background or powerful support from well-placed connections have the edge instead. “Translating being a form of writing，” Simeoni （ibid： 19） notes， “we ought to be able to say on this basis that becoming a translator is a matter of refining a social habitus into a special habitus”； but that would be an ideal model that cannot reliably form the foundation of a sociological study of translation. Or， to put that differently， it can“reliably” form the foundation of a sociological study of translation only if we are willing to suppress any evidence that doesn’t fit the model—a counternormative but not unheard-of way of conducting sociological research.

The other problem Simeoni （ibid： 20） identifies here is that Bourdieu tended to conceptualize the habitus within“the borders of the nation-states or state-societies， wherein the struggle for distinction in local fields applies， to the extent that everything outside those fields can be made invisible，” but translators are by definition people whose habituses have been shaped by at least two cultures， typically across the borders of nation-states.⑦ Translators are not unique in that respect—any individual’s or group’s professional activities may straddle fields within a culture， leading to similar analytical difficulties， and the straddling of fields from different cultures that is typical of translators is especially widespread among a vast array of professionals in an age of globalization—but they are exemplary cases of such crossovers， and so excellent test cases for any sociological theory of habitus or habitus-based methodology.

A typical freelance translator， for example， may translate texts from ten or twelve domains： pharmaceutical inserts， medical reports， legal depositions， tenders， technical specifications， owner’s manuals， advertising campaigns， and so on. In each case s/he is attempting to bring into rough alignment the professional norms （registers， vocabularies， ethical principles， audience conceptions， worldviews， etc.） not only from two different language communities but from a specialized professional group in each of those communities—and typically a different professional group with each new job. Actors may play doctors， lawyers， engineers， advertising agents， and so on， in a series of roles， but all from the same national culture （including perhaps immigrants to that culture）； translators play doctors， lawyers， engineers， advertising agents， and other professionals from two national cultures at once.

How is the ability to perform such complex social roles formed？ How are translators（self-）selected for the task of performing such roles？

4. The Submissive Translator

Now—belatedly， perhaps， since Simeoni asks this question（4， below） early on in his article， as the source point of the argumentative trajectory（5>6） that leads him to his call for a Bourdieusian sociology of translation—let us turn to the issue of the translator’s submissiveness or subservience. For easy reference， I’ll number his argumentative steps：

[1] First observation. Translators are rigorously subject to norms：“It has been observed that a translator’s style and performance tend to be new more on account of their novel combination of competing norms（whose explication it is the translator scholar’s responsibility to bring to light）， than as a result of genuine ‘creation’” （Simeoni ibid： 6）. Translators， “faced with a plurality of possible decisions in the real time of practice， nearly always opt to go along with existing norms” （ibid： 7）.

[2] Second observation. This translatorial subjection to norms means widespread subservience： “To become a translator in the West today is to agree to becoming nearly fully subservient： to the client， to the public， to the author， to the text， to language itself or even， in certain situations of close contact， to the culture or subculture within which the task is required to make sense. Conflicts of authority cannot fail to arise between such masters but， in the end， the higher bidder carries the day. The translator has become the quintessential servant： efficient， punctual， hardworking， silent and yes， invisible” （ibid： 12）.

[3] Third observation. Translators remain creative， innovative， imaginative agents who make decisions， but their agency is severely circumscribed： “The only space left for creativity and innovation is in the ways chosen for achieving the goals of subservience（nothing to sneer at for sure， but clearly a substitute for higher ambitions）， the means selected and the proper training for‘la balle’ to be best placed in a field consistently designed for other purposes” （ibid）.

[4] The big question to ask of 1-3.“Are translators just plain submissive？”（ibid： 7）—i.e.， is their submissiveness just a character trait， perhaps innate？

[5] First sociological answer to 4. Prescribed social relations have conditioned translators’ submissiveness： “Translators， not unlike the scribes of ancient or premodern civilizations， have always occupied subservient positions among the dominant professions of the cultural sphere” （ibid）.

[6] Second sociological answer to 4. To explain translators’ submissiveness we need Bourdieu’s sociological theory of habitus， field， and capital：

In this perspective， it is not so much the activity of translating， nor the translator himself， nor objective norms as such， but the internalized position of the translator in his field of practice which may turn out to be the single most determining factor. For historical reasons turned structural， this position has been consistently relegated backstage. Significantly， the more vocal calls for translatorial emancipation have not originated in the ranks of translators as such， but among peripheral observers. As we well know in our capacity of teachers and researchers， not only many professional translators but quite a few translation scholars qua translators continue to resist the suggestion that the particular forms taken by the pressures and constraints exerted by the client or the reader， let alone the language， are all relative， should be historicized and crucially， are neither universal nor necessary. （ibid）

First， a quibble： it seems problematic to me to argue that 1 entails 2. After all， isn’t there also a “subjection to norms” that makes a social actor powerful？ Don’t CEOs and powerful politicians rise to their positions of power through subjection to norms？ The key difference that is conventionally cited is that strong leaders’ overt valuation is in terms of strong leadership rather than subjection： translators are supposed to be submissive， and take considerable risks by showing independence or creativity. But don’t CEOs and political leaders have to show “initiative” or “creativity” within the overarching framework of “serving the company” or “serving the people” as well？ This is especially true in their apprentice years， but even as CEOs and heads of state they have to employ the rhetoric of servitude in public. In private they can be mavericks and openly despise the constituencies they are required to serve； but isn’t that true of translators as well？ Non-literary translators very often privately ridicule the source authors they translate， in the company of other translators that they consider friends； even outwardly submissive literary translators who mostly translate bestsellers will complain in private about their source authors’ writing. Anthony Pym’s（1993： 131， 149-50） distinction between internal and external perspectives applies not only to translators but to CEOs and politicians： just as it is not generally a good idea for a translator to strut about his or her“creativity” to a client， so also is it not generally a good idea for a CEO to strut about her or his contempt for the company to a shareholder， or for a politician to brag about venality and self-aggrandizement to voters.

Contrary to Simeoni’s claim that the translator’s high degree of subjection to norms makes him or her submissive， then， I would argue that（1′） all successful professionals are subject to norms to a very high degree， both [a] in public and [b] in private， and （2′） submissiveness is simply one of the supernorms governing translation. （I call this a quibble because it only effects the transition from 1 to 2； 3-6 remain unaffected by it. The key observation in Simeoni’s argument， in other words， is not （1） that translators are unusually subject to norms， but（2-3） that they are normatively submissive.） Corollaries might be that（1′a） public behavior tends in all professions to be more normative than private behavior， but that （1′b） “model citizens” in all professions tend to surrender to norm-subjection in private as well， and that the social power of submissive norms for translators tends to enforce that submissiveness both （1′a） in public and （1′b） in private—though as I noted above there is slippage in private， and as Simeoni himself noted， （6） “quite a few translation scholars qua translators continue to resist” norms of submissiveness in public as well.

Given that I have been one of those resistive translation scholars since Robinson （1991）， and that Simeoni identified me as one in private conversation right around the time this 1998 article came out， it may be worth lingering on this point for a moment longer：

We may suppose also that， just as the emancipation of writers originated out of the most hierarchically differentiated nation-states of Europe， the fact that the current trend for resistive translation has been generated in the United States is no coincidence. Here is a country which arguably stands at the most coercive decision centre in terms of contractual agreements， at the expense of all those who come later in the hierarchy of editorial orders—including translators. （ibid： 13）

Presumably Simeoni is thinking of Lawrence Venuti there as well. The interesting question for me is why he thinks it is“no coincidence” that our resistive theories of translations came out of the United States. The second sentence in that quotation would seem to suggest that he is thinking of simple push-back： authority cracks down， and their oppressed subjects resist. The coercive nature of centralized decision-making in the US is too much for us to bear， and we fight back. That may not be what he means， but he doesn’t say what he means， and I do think that that reading is a reasonable guess. And perhaps Simeoni would be right about Venuti. I don’t know， never having been inside his head； but certainly Venuti frames the issue in terms of American capitalist power on high and Marxist resistance from below. The foreignizing translator as dissident.

As I experience my own resistance， however， it’s rather more complicated than that. As I see it， to the extent that as the world’s most coercive capitalist power the US“stands at the most coercive decision centre in terms of contractual agreements，” that“decision centre” is located in each American capitalist’s head. It is what Nietzsche calls“internalized mastery”—or what Simeoni calls being “subjected to norms.” Not only that： the capitalist“decision centre” is located in the heads of Americans who would consider themselves non-capitalists as well， like me， and of non-Americans， and of those who would consider themselves anti-capitalists. What makes capitalism so powerful is precisely this broad-based internalization of mastery， which makes it difficult to fight the power： what one finds oneself resisting is oneself， one’s own hegemonic attitudes and beliefs about reality. （Capitalism is an extremely well-established icosis.）

I assume， in fact， that Venuti has been no more victimized by American capitalism than I have. It’s always possible， of course， to construct a victimization scenario； but successful， well-published and well-received professors ill fit the role of victim. Certainly it’s hard to imagine either Venuti or me responding to our “victimization” by American capitalism with resentment—the emotion that， as Aristotle noted in Book 2 of the Rhetoric， people feel when it seems to them that they themselves are being treated unjustly. At most we may feel indignation， the emotion that people feel when they empathize with others’ unjust treatment. Certainly I feel that indignation as a liberal， and assume that Venuti feels it as a Marxist. But the channeling of indignation into public resistance is not a “natural” （push-back） response to capitalist power. It is just as ideologically（ideosomatically） shaped as submission to that power is.

So the first question I have for Simeoni is： what ideological/ideosomatic force might have pushed Lawrence Venuti and me into outward resistance to submission norms for translators？ In Venuti’s case there is an easy answer， namely， Marxism. But that easy answer is complicated by his determination—for going on three decades now—to hitch his Marxist wagon to the star of a bourgeois nationalist like Friedrich Schleiermacher. Surely there have been Marxist theorists of foreignization， like Bertolt Brecht （whose Verfremdungseffekt might well be translated as “foreignization effect”）， that might have offered a radically different model for Venuti’s resistant theorization of translation？ Not only did Venuti not initially gravitate to a radical Western Marxist like Brecht； he has shown no interest at all in Brecht’s Marxist theories of foreignization. It’s all Schleiermacher， the Romantic theologian. （See Robinson 2013 for discussion.）

In my case， there is no easy answer—no single overriding ideological attachment—but all of the thinkers who shaped my early work， and continue to shape my later work， have been Romantics or post-Romantics， Idealists or post-Kantians： Herder， Kant， Blake， Hegel， Emerson， Nietzsche， Peirce， James， Bakhtin， Burke， Wittgenstein， Austin， Lacan， Derrida. There are（post-）Romantic and post-Kantian thinkers whose work I have resisted—Schleiermacher， Schopenhauer， Benjamin， Heidegger， Gadamer—but even my resistance to them has shaped me along Romantic lines.

And， of course， this Romantic（anti-technocratic， anti-capitalist） countericosis was powerfully influenced by Sinological studies and translations of the Daoist and Confucian classics from the early seventeenth century on. Leibniz was reading Chinese philosophy late in life， while writing his Monadology and other metaphysical works. Swedenborg was reading Chinese philosophy—and Kant was reading Swedenborg. The Romantics and the later Idealists were all reading Kant. Herder， Goethe， Schlegel， and Hegel all read Chinese literature and philosophy in translation， and mostly—especially at first—responded negatively， calling Chinese thinkers unimaginative mummies； but Herder and Goethe caught fire on the Daoist and Confucian classics late in life （Linder， 2003： 251-53）. Emerson and Thoreau in America were avid readers of the Daoist classics in Guillaume Pauthier’s French translations and the Confucian classics in Joshua Marshman’s 1809 translation The Works of Confucius and David Collie’s 1828 translation in The Chinese Classical Work Commonly Called the Four Books （both of which Emerson had in his library and Thoreau found there upon first staying in the house in 1841） （Cheng， 2000）.

No wonder， then， that when I moved to Hong Kong in 2010 and immersed myself in English translations of Laozi and Mengzi， and increasingly began to compare the translations with the Chinese originals， it seemed to me that I was among old friends. My post-Romantic forebears had prepared me to feel a strong spiritual kinship with the antinomianism of the Mengzi in particular， but later the Laozi as well. The kinship is almost certainly itself an ideosomatic construct， of course， a product and projection of the Western Romantic thought in which I have long been steeped； and when， to my great surprise， Chinese scholars of the ancient texts have responded to my Western readings of those texts with interest and approval， it may well be that their positive response has itself been conditioned by exposure to these global （counter）icoses of Western thought as well.

My second question for Simeoni is more complicated. It seems to me， in fact， that there have also been idiosomatic pressures nudging me into resistance to norms of submission for the translator—namely， a felt sense that I as a translator actually have more power than I am conventionally allowed to have. To a large extent， perhaps， those pressures are ideosomatic first—I am inclined to feel my own creative and imaginative power because I have been shaped by collectivized forces of Romanticism in intellectual culture—but I would argue that there is something irreducibly idiosomatic （idiosyncratic， ideologically“deviant”） about those feelings as well. I like to tell the story about a translation job I did for a Finnish professor of leisure science， very early in my translating career， before I had begun studying translation， let alone theorizing it； he was going to a conference in Poland， and had written a horribly incoherent paper in Finnish. When he came to pick up my translation I told him candidly， without shame， that I had rewritten his paper fairly radically， leaving some things out， expanding others， moving paragraphs around， etc.—and he responded to this with gratitude. “You never know what you were trying to say，” he said， “until you have your work translated.” That frankness on my part was born out of an irritation with badly written source texts， and ultimately， I suppose， out of the arrogance of a young man in his late twenties who felt he was a better writer than many of the people who hired him to translate their work. Was that a Romantic attitude？ The Translator as Romantic Genius？ Maybe—but not consciously. Was it a systemic experience， something endemic to the field of professional translation， which trains translators to love language far more than the doctors， lawyers， engineers， and so on who typically write the texts that are sent to us to translate？ Perhaps. Perhaps it only felt idiosomatic because my fellow translators were always so shocked when I expressed my rebellious sentiments in public.

Whatever the source was of those countericotic attitudes， in any case， they arose out of the phenomenology of translating—the somatics of what Simeoni （in section 2） called responses to “felt structures.” “Try opposing a structure （external or internal），” he continued there； “it will resist. This is what makes the social world as experienced a vector of common violence either suffered， accepted， channeled or under certain circumstances， obviously enjoyed.”“Common violence”： would that include the irritations felt by a language-loving translator in response to badly written source texts？ Would it include the norm of submission to such source texts， and in particular the double-binds informing that norm⑧ ， so that the translator of a badly written source text is expected at once to submit to “the text” （what， and reproduce its infelicities in the target language？） and “the author” （the idealized/imaginary shadow-author who actually does know what he means）？ Is the “submissive” translator really expected to “honor” the source author by “reproducing” the text accurately—even if that means rewriting it in accordance with some imaginary coherence-construct and then pretending that that construct accurately represents “what the author meant”？

The important larger point to make here is that both submission to norms and resistance to norms are icotic responses， shaped by the sociosomatic ecologies that train， vet， hire， and reward （or punish） translators. Since icoses are the felt social ecologies of specific groups， which“icotize”or “plausibilize” certain experiences as true and real and valid and condition us not to notice certain others at all， and individual social actors belong to different groups， the same icotic impulses may have radically different effects on two translators who have been shaped by different groups： though both belong to the group of translators， one may have been powerfully shaped by exposure to Romantic thought， or Marxist thought， say， and the other may have been brought up to respect and obey authority. As Simeoni （ibid： 23） writes：

Clearly there is servitude—subjection to norms—in the translator’s task but this servitude is not passive. Unwittingly， it takes the shape of servitude volontaire playing naturally into the hands of custom and order. In other words， we are responsible as translators for the conservative decisions we make， not only because we wish to avoid“negative sanctions”（Toury， 1995： 163） but also because those choices are the ones we know and fully assimilate during our training periods， and our practice， given also the relational character of our highly personalized backgrounds. Our trajectories in the particular social space（s） in which we find ourselves active are guided by models that we try more or less successfully， more or less consciously， to emulate. Without this social impulse or libido for emulation， norms would lose much of their strength.

By“naturally” （“playing naturally into the hands of custom and order”） I read Simeoni to mean “icotically”： the functioning of icosis feels natural， universal， “human，” making it seem natural to call it “natural.” By “those choices are the ones we know and fully assimilate during our training periods” I assume he means not only what Peirce would call deduction—theoretical and methodological precepts taught overtly by instructors and memorized for later use by students—but also practical “experiences” that are tested inductively and organized deductively so far beneath the level of conscious awareness that we don’t even notice ourselves habitualizing them， turning them into what Peirce calls “instinct.” If that kind of practical experience is “known” and “fully assimilated” during training， it far more commonly is “known” and “fully assimilated” in “our practice” outside of institutional training， where“the relational character of our highly personalized backgrounds”—icosis par excellence—shapes our attitudes， beliefs， and behaviors. Our backgrounds are“highly personalized” in the sense that no one else has exactly the same background： everyone is the product of a different mix of experiences， most of them organized icotically by groups， some “idiosomatic” in the sense of deviating from group icoses. I would only want to add that “Our trajectories in the particular social space（s） in which we find ourselves active are [also] guided by models” of which we never become conscious， and therefore are unable to try to emulate consciously， but which we emulate nonetheless. That“social impulse or libido for emulation” that drives us to emulate others sometimes consciously， but mostly unconsciously—what for a century was called the Carpenter Effect， which Damasio’s team has reframed as the mimetic transfer of somatic markers from person to person—lies at the very core of icosis. Somatic mimesis alone is not enough—it has to be “pressurized，” conatized， rendered collectively normative， for it to serve as the primary channel and medium of social regulation—but without it， none of the rest of this would work.

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作者簡介：道格拉斯·羅賓遜（Douglas Robinson）， 男，香港浸會大學文學院院長，教授，翻譯家及翻譯理論家，國際知名學者，主要從事文學、語言學和翻譯學等領域的研究。

E-mail： robinson@hkbu.edu.hk

（責任編輯：熊兵）