“But, like, what do you actually do?” This seems to be a universal question faced by modern languages students. Contrary to popular belief, we do not merely spend our days perusing Quizlet and revising obscure grammar rules. While I do my fair share of both, the view that studying a language revolves entirely around, well, the language aspect is a misconception, which may partly stem from experiences at GCSE, or equivalent. In some ways, we’re taught to think of reading, writing, listening and speaking as the four pillars on which language learning rests. At the university level, however, this is only half the story.
For a lover of the humanities, choosing a degree subject can present a challenge. Having studied History, Geography, French and English Literature at A Level, I hesitated over which to pursue further. Ultimately, French came to feel like the one subject that would encompass the others, enabling me to keep something of them all. This is precisely because the study of a language brings together the humanities, pulling in strands of history and geography, philosophy and politics, film studies, linguistics and, above all, literature (with Oxford’s languages courses being renowned for their literature-heavy nature).
But what does an Oxford languages degree look like in concrete terms? The workload is admittedly dense, partly due to the whistlestop nature of the Oxford three-term system, and partly because many languages students do joint honours. This means we are inevitably made to juggle two things at once (while boldly endeavouring to get the faculties to cross-communicate). Timetable-wise, a modern languages student has more contact hours compared to other humanities subjects. While they spend plenty of time independently reading for essays, they also attend grammar, summary, oral and translation classes alongside the usual lectures, seminars and tutorials.
In theory, there is a 50/50 split between language and literature (and/or linguistics), however, in reality, the scales tip. On one hand, literature takes more time than you think, since it can take tens of hours to read even one text – and there are plenty of them. Language learning, on the other hand, is cumulative; it can’t be crammed, but, like playing an instrument, seems primarily to rely on practice:little and often.
One of the idiosyncrasies of the languages degree at Oxford is its sheer breadth. This is true both temporally, with topics spanning from the medieval period to the modern day, and in terms of content. Translation passages, for instance, vary significantly, from pearl stringing and cow herding to the inner lining of a jacket, and so on. Sometimes, I suspect the themes are chosen precisely because they are so unpredictable.
Even so, there’s something intensely satisfying about translation, like slotting puzzle pieces into place. As a problem-solving exercise, it necessitates holding two languages, and thus two ways of thinking, in your mind at once and deciding how best to construct a bridge between them. In The Translator’s Task, the German philosopher Walter Benjamin argued that the figure of the translator comes closest to accessing a universal language; in the very act of translation, they have the impression of reaching a kind of ‘third language’, an intermediary space which represents our shared humanity.
As for the greatest challenge of the modern languages degree? In my case, it was undoubtedly organising my year abroad. Brexit, French bureaucracy and poor guidance conspired to make this feel much more difficult than necessary. Yet, this ultimately led to one of the best years of my life (cliché but true).
Still, you might wonder, in the long term, what is the point?
Upon learning that I study French, people often ask if I want to live in France or be a French teacher. For what else could learning a language possibly be useful for? Not only are communication, translation, improvisation, writing, critical reading and cross-cultural exchange transferable skills, but the modern languages student resists complacency in the face of the dominance of the English language and fulfils a niche that employers may not find elsewhere. Our strength surely lies in their very adaptability.
Language studies do not happen in a vacuum. They necessitate engagement with cultures, ways of life and structures of thought that lie outside one’s immediate field of reference. To study a language, then, is to be perpetually thinking outside the box. What’s at stake is empathy, the ability to see through another perspective, to communicate your own worldview while having the humanity to comprehend someone else’s. It’s a reminder that just because someone does not share the same background, reference points or even words as you, does not mean that they are any less real.
In the end, we’re all a lot more alike than we think.