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Struggle as I may, I can't avoid James Berlin's announcement: "To teach writing is to argue for a version of reality" (234). If I'm likely to be successful in any academic field, in almost any language, there are certain conventions that I need to follow, however exactly what I say and the way I believe is inexorably related to the available sources of any particular convention. For my part, I simply can't escape the confines of the English language. I see this most poignantly when I try to teach a Chinese author how to cite sources or when I attempt to read a text in translation. To teach writing is to argue for a version of reality, and the best method of understanding and communicating it... All makeup teachers are ineluctably operating within this domain, whether they consciously decide to do so. (Berlin, 234) The language in which we think, talk and write effects the meanings we can assemble; it molds our variants of truth. Among the more famous instances of this dynamic at work can be observed in translating Sophocles' Antigone. There is a word from the first and second lines of the Second Stasimon, popularly referred to as "The Ode to Person," which brings this issue to the foreground. The term is deinoj  (deinos). It is conventionally interpreted as "wondrous." Its meaning, however, is far more complex than "wondrous." If any one phrase in the English language comes closest to approximating its meaning in the given context, the word is wonderful. In Greek, its own meaning runs the gamut of horrible, fearful, horrible, danger, implying force or power for good or ill, powerful, wondrous, marvelous, strange, passed into that of able, clever, skilful . It's utterly impossible to interpret this Greek idea to English without tempe...