Can You Ever Really Say the Same Thing in Another Language?

A Lesson from Umberto Eco and a Strange Cloud in Hamlet

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As a translation and interpretation student, I’ve learned that finding the equivalent in the target language is sometimes an invisible, artistic endeavor. Translation is about making choices, bridging words between languages, and connecting with the reader. I wrote this essay after encountering Umberto Eco’s discussion of Hamlet; this passage perfectly summarizes why translation is always an act of interpretation. Umberto Eco’s book Mouse and Rat contains many examples of this art of translation. But perhaps the most striking is a short dialogue from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, tiny in length but enormous in interpretive depth.

Animals and the Game of Language

In the third act of Hamlet, there is a short dialogue between Prince Hamlet and the court advisor Polonius. This speech, which seems ordinary on the surface, is actually one of the most brilliant examples of Shakespeare’s mastery of language:

HAMLET: Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in the shape of a camel? POLONIUS: By th’ mass, and ‘‘’tis‘’’ like a camel, indeed. HAMLET: Methinks it is like a weasel. POLONIUS: It is backed like a weasel. HAMLET: Or like a whale? POLONIUS: Very like a whale.

Why Is This Scene So Important?

The power of this dialogue lies in the complexity that underlies it. Here, Hamlet is testing Polonius, exposing his lack of ideas and his obedience. Polonius indifferently says yes to whatever the prince says; he sees camels when the prince says camels, weasels when the prince says weasels, and whales when the prince says whales.

But the real magic of the scene lies in Shakespeare’s choice of words: camel, weasel, whale. These three animals create a certain rhythm and contrast in English, both in sound and meaning. Camel two syllables, weasel two syllables, whale one syllable. The camel is on land, the weasel is on land but small, the whale is in the water and huge. These words, which begin with three different consonants (c-w-wh), resonate at various points in the language.

Eco’s Dilemma: Saying the Same Thing, But How?

When Eco translated this scene into Italian, he faced a significant challenge. The Italian words cammello, donnola, and balena accurately convey the animals and preserve the dramatic logic of the scene. Hamlet’s manipulation of Polonius remains intact. Yet Eco openly acknowledges that something is lost; this loss is structural.

In Italian, these animals are like this:

• Camel → Cammello
• Weasel → Donnola
• Whale → Balena

Eco’s translation would be:

AMLETO: Guardate quella nuvola lassù. Non vi pare che richiami la forma di un cammello? POLONIO: Sacripante. È un cammello davvero. AMLETO: O piuttosto una donnola… POLONIO: Infatti ha la forma di una donnola. AMLETO: Ma non pare una balena? POLONIO: Tale e quale. Una balena.

It looks perfect at first glance. The meaning is preserved, the dialogue flows, and the characters say the same things. But Eco knows that something is missing here. The cammello-donnola-balena sequence in Italian does not play the same music as the camel-weasel-whale sequence in English. The sounds, syllable structures, and mouthfeel are different.

What Eco is trying to show with this example is this: Translation can never achieve complete equivalence. Translation is always an interpretation. There is such a thing as “saying almost the same thing, but “saying the same thing” is impossible.

Sound or Meaning? Translator Selection

The translator has to make a choice here. Eco’s solution illustrates a crucial principle: not every formal element of a text is equal. In this scene, the animals function primarily as tools of psychological exposure, not as poetic devices. Preserving alliteration at the cost of semantic contrast would weaken the scene’s logic.

If Eco had chosen different animals to preserve the sound similarities in English, for example, if all three animals started with the same letter, the rhythm would have been preserved, but the meaning would have been lost. Because camels, weasels, and whales are not random animals: they are carefully selected examples of contrasting size and habitat.

Suppose Eco had written in Italian:

• Cane (dog)
• Capra (goat)
• Cavallo (horse)

Yes, the rhythm would have been maintained and, as you can see, alliteration would have been achieved. All three words begin with the letter c. But no more whales, no more weasels crawling on land, and no more camels. The scene’s visual splendour is lost. The absurdity of Polonius is reduced because the transition from a dog to a goat is not as absurd as the transition from a camel to a whale.

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Fidelity or Creativity?

There are two primary schools of translation theory: fidelity and creativity. Fidelityists argue that the translator should stay as close as possible to the original text. The pro-creativity side says that the translator must act freely to achieve the same effect in the target language.

Eco’s famous formulation — dire quasi la stessa cosa (“to say almost the same thing”) — does not describe failure, but realism. Each decision foregrounds certain elements while allowing others to recede.

The camel-weasel-whale dialogue in Hamlet is a perfect example of this principle. Eco uses the exact Italian words because the dynamics of meaning and character demand it. But he also knows that the sound game in English has been lost. And he accepts it. Because translation is not an exact copying process, it is a process of re-creation.

The Power and Fragility of Alliteration

Alliteration is a sound technique often used in poetry and theatre. The succession of words beginning with the same sound creates a rhythm, a musicality in language. Shakespeare is a master at this. Lines like “to be or not to be”, “fair is foul, and foul is fair” show the power of alliteration.

But alliteration is one of the most fragile elements in translation. Because the sound structures of languages are very different. The w sound in English does not exist in Turkish. The th sound in English is absent in Italian. When these sounds disappear, so does the alliteration.

What should the translator do? Should we sacrifice meaning for alliteration? Or should alliteration be ignored for the sake of meaning?

Eco’s answer is clear: context is everything. If alliteration is an essential element of the text (e.g., in a poem or a drama), then it should be preserved; if necessary, the meaning should be slightly twisted. But if alliteration is a secondary element, as in Hamlet, for example, then meaning takes precedence.

The Relativity of Translation: Right According to Whom?

Another striking point: translation is not an objective process. Each translator reads and interprets the text differently, making different choices. Eco’s translation of Hamlet into Italian may be different from that of another translator. And both can be “true.”

For example, another translator might think: “No, I want to preserve the sound game. I will change animals.” And they write:

AMLETO: Guardate quella nuvola lassù. Non vi pare che richiami la forma di un cane? POLONIO: Sacripante. È un cane davvero. AMLETO: O piuttosto un coniglio… POLONIO: Infatti ha la forma di un coniglio. AMLETO: Ma non pare un corvo? POLONIO: Tale e quale. Un corvo.

(Dog — Rabbit — Raven, all start with c)

This translation preserves alliteration. But the camel-weasel-whale loses its contrast. There is now a transition from a dog to a rabbit, from a rabbit to a raven. Absurd? Yes. But to the same degree? Maybe not.

It is precisely here that translation becomes an art. Because there is no absolute truth. There are only preferences, interpretations, and strategies.

Eco’s Message: Be Humble, But Brave

The essence of Mouse and Rat is this: translation is an attempt to achieve the impossible. No translation can be perfect. But a good translation can capture the spirit of the original text and bring it alive in the target language.

Eco tells translators: Be humble. Face it, you cannot say the same thing as the original text. But be brave. Using the possibilities of your own language, you can say almost the same thing.

Conclusion: Our Responsibility as Translators

The camel, the weasel, and the whale remind us that translation does not replicate meaning; it repositions it. Translators, like Hamlet, look at the same cloud and must decide which shape matters most.

Eco’s example of Hamlet shows us what translation is: a dance. A complex, complicated, sometimes sad dance. But it is also a beautiful, meaningful, and vital dance. Without translation, languages are islands cut off from one another. With translation, these islands are joined by bridges, dialogue begins, and meaning flows.

And perhaps we translators do the same thing when we look at Hamlet’s clouds: We dance. Camel, weasel, whale? It doesn’t matter. The important thing is to keep dancing.