Let’s start with something simple. In English, a "gift" is something delightful, almost heavenly. "I’ve brought you a gift!"—and that means joy, a ribbon, a pleasant surprise. It’s all light and fluffy and tied with a bow. It’s nice to receive a gift. You get shivers down your spine—not from fear, but from warmth.
But step across the border into Germany, my friends, and Gift means something else entirely. It means poison. And if a smiling Berliner hands you a glass and says sincerely, "Here is a Gift for you," to an English ear it sounds lovely, but structurally, you've just been handed cyanide. Such is the dialectic of language. One nation rejoices, the other reaches for an antidote.
And now, about how a single word divides people into two categories: those who walk the earth, and those who stare into the sky.
For an ordinary person—let’s call them the "pedestrian"—the phrase "I hope everything folds neatly into place" sounds like the best possible blessing. "Folding into place" means it worked out: smoothly, seamlessly, like a well-made piece of origami. The budget folded neatly, the relationship folded neatly, life folded neatly—magical! The pedestrian takes a sip of their drink, nods, and feels a comforting warmth in their chest.
Now, look at the paraglider. For him, this exact same word is not a blessing, but a diagnosis. Because "to fold" in his world is when the canopy suddenly stops being a wing and becomes a useless rag. When the sky, which was just holding you, decides that you are now a rock. A "fold" for a paraglider means clenching your teeth, the ground rushing up at terrifying speed, and the frantic thought: "Will I have time to throw the reserve?"—and even that only for a split second, because after that, there’s no time for thinking.
So, if someone, even with the utmost sincerity, tells a paraglider: "I hope things fold perfectly for you," the pilot will, at best, give a crooked smile. At worst, he’ll start nervously checking his risers and lines. Because for him, a "fold" is not a success; it’s a catastrophe. He’d much prefer the opposite: "May you never fold." That’s how a single word can be a flower for one and a falling rock for another.
And here we arrive at the water. Take the word "swim." For an athlete or a beachgoer, "we are swimming" is a triumph, a sunny afternoon in the waves. But for a sailor? For a sailor, "we are swimming" means the ship has gone down, the hull is breached, and it’s a fight for survival. Language remembers what the mind sometimes forgets: the line between a blessing and a disaster is paper-thin.
Which brings me to my current predicament. They say the English language is full of "underwater rocks"—hidden pitfalls and treacherous currents. I might not know every single underwater rock yet, but I definitely know about them. I know they are lurking just beneath the surface of the text. And I find myself asking: how am I, a 66-year-old, supposed to translate my book into English now? In a sea of gifts that are poisons, folds that mean freefall, and swims that mean shipwrecks... how do I swim out of this? How do I stay afloat?
The moral? There is no moral. There’s only the question: who are you clinking glasses with? The pedestrian who will praise you for a neat "fold"? The sailor who will panic at the word "swim"? Or the paraglider who will check his canopy just because you spoke? Choose wisely. And honestly, it's probably best not to clink glasses with psychos at all. ;)
As for me, I wish you... actually, I won't wish you anything. Because a word is a sharp blade.
But I mean it with good intentions, of course. Only the best.
Oh, I've come up with the moral: watch who you drink with! (applause) or rather watch who hands you the shot glass.