The term drifted out of linguistics into a vague social metaphor. The technical meaning is the better story and I want it back.
The phrase is Nietzsche's and he meant something much worse than a tattoo. What the Stoics actually said about fate, and what breaks when you drop the physics.
I disagreed with Nefeli about excrucior, so I translated the poem into Arabic to test it. The root fought back and she turned out to be partly right.
I went looking for research on losing a language and found that the field's main term excludes me by definition. What that turns out to explain.
Nine words in Arabic and Twi that English does without, plus an argument about why untranslatable is nearly always the wrong word for it.
How the Meditations read on a night shift. Book 5.1 is written for people who choose when their day starts. 8.36 is the one that gets me to five in the morning.
Fourteen words, eight of them verbs, not a single noun. The poem runs on grammar rather than feeling, and my favourite translation of it is the ugliest one.
Who I am, what I teach, the things I refuse to post about, and a standing invitation to tell me my translations are wrong.
You've read everything.