中式英语之鉴

emily

When I first encountered the concept of “Chinglish,” I imagined it as a quaint linguistic bridge between Chinese and English. But as I delved into the translation guides, I realized it was more like a labyrinth of well-intentioned verbosity, where every redundant noun and superfluous verb acted as unnecessary twists and turns. The lessons here weren’t just about grammar—they were about liberation, freeing sentences from the weight of words that added nothing but noise.  

The examples struck me like a series of revelations. Take the phrase “to make an improvement in our work.” At first glance, it seemed perfectly serviceable. But when pared down to “to improve our work,” the sentence shed its bureaucratic armor and stood tall, direct, and unapologetic. It was like watching a sculptor chip away at marble to reveal a statue underneath. The lesson was clear: in English, less is often more. This resonated with my own struggles. I recalled drafting emails laden with phrases like “conduct an analysis of” instead of “analyze,” as if padding sentences with extra syllables would make them sound more authoritative. But authority, I learned, comes not from complexity but from precision. Revisions such as “to implement rationing” becoming “to ration,” or “to give approval to” transforming into “to approve” were masterclasses in efficiency. Each edit felt like removing clutter from a crowded room, leaving space for meaning to breathe.  

Among the most eye-opening sections was the discussion of “category nouns”—those generic terms like “work,” “task,” or “situation” that precede specific actions. The example “a serious mistake in the work of planning” versus “a serious mistake in planning” illustrated how these nouns act as pointless signposts. They reminded me of tour guides who overexplain: “Here is a tree, which is a type of plant…” Of course it’s a plant—we know that! Similarly, “planning” doesn’t need “work” to define its category; its meaning is self-evident. I chuckled at the analogy comparing “hardships are temporary in nature” to stating “the Chinese flag is red in color.” It underscored how adjectives alone suffice. Why tack on “in nature” when “temporary” already describes the essence? This section made me hyperaware of my own drafts, where phrases like “rapid in speed” or “small in size” had crept in unnoticed. Now, I hunt them down like grammatical weeds.  

The guide’s treatment of passive voice was another revelation. Passive constructions like “approval should be given” felt formal but flabby. Their active counterparts—“approve”—were lean and muscular. I realized passive voice often disguised accountability, like a bureaucrat hiding behind paperwork. For instance, “grain rationing was implemented” became “grain was rationed,” shifting focus from the vague act of “implementing” to the concrete action of “rationing.” But the true villains were the “all-purpose verbs”—make, have, give—paired with nominalized actions. “Make a decision” versus “decide”? The latter was a verb in its purest form, unburdened by a noun middleman. It reminded me of a chef using pre-packaged sauce instead of fresh ingredients. Sure, both get the job done, but one tastes distinctly better.  

Applying these principles to my own writing felt like upgrading from a clunky typewriter to a sleek keyboard. For example, I revised a sentence in a recent report: “The committee will conduct an evaluation of the project’s outcomes” became “The committee will evaluate the project’s outcomes.” The difference was stark. The revised sentence wasn’t just shorter; it was sharper. It conveyed urgency and agency, qualities often diluted by unnecessary verbs. I also began noticing patterns in others’ writing. A colleague’s draft stated, “We need to have a discussion about the implementation of new policies.” My inner editor whispered: “We need to discuss implementing new policies.” The edit saved five words and zero meaning.  

Beyond grammar, these lessons taught me that concise writing is a form of respect—for the reader’s time, intellect, and patience. Flabby prose forces readers to wade through murky waters, while crisp sentences act as stepping stones, guiding them effortlessly to the point. In a world drowning in information, clarity is kindness. The guides also highlighted a cultural bridge. Chinese often employs category nouns and nominalizations for formality, but direct translation risks alienating English readers. By embracing verbs and ditching redundancies, translators honor both languages’ strengths.  

Editing used to feel like a chore, but now it’s a treasure hunt. Each unnecessary “method of” or “practice of” I delete is a small victory. The process mirrors pruning a bonsai tree: cutting away the excess to reveal elegance beneath. These pages didn’t just teach me how to write better English—they taught me to think in verbs, to wield words with intention, and to treat every sentence as a minimalist masterpiece. As I close this chapter, I carry a newfound mantra: Simplify, clarify, and let the action speak. After all, in writing as in life, the most powerful statements are often the simplest.