Expanding Consciousness Through Language: A Conversation with Talbot Hook
What does it mean to carry a poem across centuries, cultures, and languages? In this thoughtful conversation, poet, translator, and educational psychologist Talbot Hook reflects on translation as an “imperfect bridge” between worlds, the imaginative act of conversing with voices from the past, and the beauty of uncertainty in literature. From classical Chinese poetry and literary friendship to the delicate balance between academic rigor and creative freedom, Hook offers a deeply reflective look into the art of language, meaning, and human connection. Join us as we explore the spaces between words—and the stories waiting to be discovered there.
1. As a translator of both Chinese and Spanish literature, you've described translation as building an “imperfect bridge” between worlds. What first drew you to translation, and what continues to fascinate you about carrying a poem from one language into another?
Answer: Honestly, probably a deep sense of confusion. I remember studying abroad in China for the first time, curled up in bed (which happened to be a children’s bunk bed in our apartment—I’m 6’3” for reference) reading Chinese poetry in translation. I was reading Li Qingzhao’s “Mourning the Dead,” and I was struck by the poem’s intimacy and immediacy, even in English. But something about it—one of the words or turns of phrase—didn’t sit quite right with me. I remember thinking: “I probably would’ve said it this way instead.” And that was when I realized that translation wasn’t as inviolable as I previously had thought; someone was on the other side, enacting decisions, crafting sentences, and making sense between languages. I thought to myself that night: Why not? I’ll give it a try. Of course, with only intermediate Chinese skills and never having written a line of poetry in English, I was hopelessly unprepared to translate that poem at that time, but I tried—and, importantly, I found that I enjoyed the process.
I still find translation an improbable activity, and I maintain that true communication, even in one’s mother tongue, is impossible.
Reality remains beyond the blanket of language we throw upon it.
Of course, I still attempt the improbable, cultivating my language abilities and poetic sensibilities, even though I know that the most I ever create is an imperfect bridge. And even that isn’t what’s happening, because I’m not even sure the rickety bridge I’ve created reaches the opposite shore. It’s more that I build imperfect bridges to places I’m only somewhat sure about.
That said, what keeps me going is really wanting to expand my consciousness into other time periods and other lives. Something about classical Chinese poetry especially holds power over me, and I find myself continually returning to certain authors with whom I feel some kinship. I guess I want to get to know those people better.
2. In your essay on Wang Wei's poetry, you write with remarkable intimacy about literary friendship across centuries. Do you feel that translation is, in some sense, a conversation with the dead—and if so, what have these conversations taught you about poetry and yourself?
Answer: It’s more like an internal conversation between the imagined self and the imagined dead. It’s not just that the person is dead and you are trying to give them life in your head, you are also imagining yourself into that space. So, the whole thing is a creative exercise. This requires a lot of imaginative flexibility and openness, because you don’t really know what will happen.
When you try to enter the headspace of someone long dead and from a different cultural setting, you will inevitably fail in some ways, but I think that there is ultimately something there to grasp. You ultimately learn things about yourself in the projection, because you are having to, in a sense, recreate yourself, stretching out particular attributes while withholding others from the imagined dead.
If you do this carefully, you can bring some things back to reality with you, and hopefully the imagined dead had something to say that makes a difference in your life—or at least in your understanding of their poetry. It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly is gained from this, and I think the process of doing it is ultimately just as important as the outcome, whatever it may be.
3. Your work often embraces ambiguity rather than certainty. In a world that constantly asks for clear answers, what value do you think uncertainty, silence, and open-endedness bring to literature?
Answer: My job is in the social sciences, which at least strive for clarity, objectivity, and no nonsense. This is good, but I don’t want to live my entire life that way, because I don’t think that all things are best understood in those terms. I like a little nonsense now and then, and I am perfectly comfortable sitting with tension, mystery, and muddiness. I think that’s why I like poetry and translation so much. I definitely don’t understand the creative process, but, then again, I don’t really need to. I can enter into that space, play around, get a bit muddy, and then re-enter the world having created something. If everything in that space were clearly spelled out, it wouldn’t be at all interesting. As to what this offers literature broadly, I think it is this messiness that keeps us guessing, which ultimately entertains and interests us for long stretches of time. This thought isn’t mine—I don’t know whose it is—but I also think that the only works to survive the test of time are those that are open to many interpretations and readings. I think this is the one of the clearest markers of great works. So, in this sense, we want things to embrace some amount of uncertainty, silence, and open-endedness. Otherwise, we grow tired of them. And something we’ve grown tired of is something quickly forgotten.
4. You are currently pursuing a PhD in Educational Psychology while also writing poetry and translating literature. How do your academic life and creative life inform one another, and do you find yourself approaching language differently as a researcher than as a poet?
Answer: I actually finished my Ph.D. as of last year (whew). Now I’m working as a professor of educational psychology. I think the two lives are nicely complementary, but not in the way you might expect. I actually don’t know how much the two overlap in terms of the skills I use in each. But each motivates the other: It’s like a pendulum swinging from academia to the imaginative and then back again.
If I spend too long in academia—engaging in analysis, argument, and design—I long to enter the world of words and images. But when I spend too long in that world, I again long to return to academia, with its relative clarity. So, it’s like having two motors in my life—both operate at different times, but both drive me forward.
As to my approach to language, I think I do view it as a little more regulated and rigorous than a lot of modern poets and translators. I do think there are things like rules, tact, and clarity in language, and I do think that we can talk about translation somewhat objectively (though we can also talk about it deeply subjectively). I think this comes from my personality, though, not from my life in academia. Ultimately, I believe in human universals. I want to be able to connect whatever I do with humanity writ large—whether that is a study I undertake, a class I teach, or a poem I write. I’m not sure if this means I treat language differently, but it does certainly influence things like my style, my interests, and my goals. It also informs the subjects I want to explore.
5. Several of your translations and essays reveal a deep appreciation for classical Chinese poetry's economy of language and attentiveness to the natural world. What lessons do you think contemporary writers can learn from these centuries-old poetic traditions?
Answer: I think each language offers something unique. What Chinese offers up is semantic richness and openness. It’s often hard to grasp what exactly a classical Chinese poet is saying, and one can approach a single line in dozens of ways to different effects. Though this might be a contentious claim, I think it is more open to interpretation than, say, Spanish is. So, one thing I think we can take away from the Chinese poetic tradition is an appreciation of just how wide open language can be. Another strong element of that tradition is resignation and acceptance—there are many stories of poets exiled from important government positions to backwater posts far from their homes. Many poems are about coming to grips with reality and still learning to find beauty in adversity. I think that, like many of us today, Chinese poets were attempting to balance the marketplace (everyday life) with the mountaintop (spiritual and intellectual life). Various poets went about this in various ways, but there is a lesson in each poet’s life, if we are attentive enough to grasp it.
6. Whether writing original poetry, translating ancient voices, or reflecting on literary craft, your work often invites readers into a space of contemplation. What kind of experience do you hope a reader carries away after spending time with your words?
Answer: I’ve never really tried to put this into words before, but I guess my ideal is this: That when someone reads something I have written or translated, they lean back in their chair and find themselves in a pensive, reflective mood. I don’t want them to be galvanized to action, impassioned about anything, or ready to move onto the next thing. I want a profound, still, introspective mood to settle down over them, such that the words can really sink in. They should feel at peace but also a bit unsettled. Such a state requires an attitude of perfect openness, and it requires time and slowness. When I think of what I would like to evoke, it’s that feeling.
RAPID FIRE ROUND:
Your ideal writing companion is…
A. Coffee ☕
B. Complete silence 🤫(and maybe also coffee) ✅
C. A suspiciously good playlist 🎧
If you could have coffee with one poet, you’d choose…
A. Li Bai (but with tea, instead!) ✅
B. Pablo Neruda
C. Emily Dickinson
Translation is mostly…
A. Word gymnastics 🤸 ✅
B. Cultural detective work 🔎
C. Beautiful chaos
When a translation refuses to cooperate, you…
A. Rewrite it ten times ✅
B. Take a walk and pretend it doesn't exist
C. Blame the dictionary 📖
Your PhD brain and poet brain usually…
A. Cooperate peacefully ✅
B. Argue constantly
C. Take turns causing trouble
If your poetry had a soundtrack, it would be…
A. Classical music 🎻
B. Lo-fi beats 🎧
C. Complete silence ✅
The most dangerous thing for a writer is…
A. Overthinking
B. Procrastination
C. “Just one more edit” ✅
If you could instantly master one language, it would be…
A. Mandarin (and Classical Chinese!) ✅
B. Spanish
C. A language nobody has invented yet
Your ideal literary escape is…
A. An old library 📚
B. A quiet mountain (bonus points for also having an old library up there) ✅
C. A café with suspiciously good Wi-Fi
Complete the sentence: A good poem should leave the reader…
A. Thinking
B. Feeling
C. Slightly off-kilter ✅
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Talbot Hook is an occasional writer, poet, and translator. He is a clinical assistant professor in the Department of Education Psychology at the University of Georgia. He is a PhD student and occasional writer currently living in Connecticut. His poems, short stories, and other writings can be found scattered across the internet. His poem titled "The Madonna of the Adult-Exclusive Zone" has been published in the anthology titled Monsoon Musings by Wingless Dreamer Publisher. He is a Google Scholar and has written papers on numerous topics, such as Confronting the gordian knot: Disentangling gifted education’s major issues (2023) and No Mo'FOMO: Turning Your Fear of Missing Out Into Joy (2023), among others. His reputation prevails with the following organisations such as OrcId, Research Gate, and UGA online for his exemplary work and contribution in the field of education, literature, translations, and psychology.
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