The Heartbreak of Changing Names in Translation

When I bring my novels from Chinese into English, one of the most painful choices I face is whether to change the characters’ names. Names are not just labels—they carry history, meaning, music, and identity. To me, my characters feel like people I’ve come to know deeply. Their names are woven into their lives, their fates, and my heart. Changing them can feel like saying goodbye to old friends and watching someone else take their place.

And yet, for the sake of my English-speaking readers, I often have no choice. Many readers tend to skip over names they cannot pronounce, which reduces connection with the characters and weakens the reading experience. For instance, in Chinese, Gao (高) and Guo (郭) are completely different surnames. But to someone unfamiliar with Chinese, they may appear identical. Another example is the name Ruixiang (瑞祥)—a name rich with meaning, evoking auspicious omens, peace, blessing, and good fortune. Beautiful in Chinese, but on the English page it becomes hard to pronounce, hard to remember, and ultimately a barrier between character and reader.

Sometimes the challenge is even stranger. In one novel, a couple had the surnames Lu (陆) and Lü (吕). In Chinese they are distinct, but in English both collapse into Lu. I had to change the man’s surname entirely to avoid confusion. These are the kinds of small heartbreaks that translators and bilingual authors know too well.

The saying “lost in translation” feels especially true when it comes to names—not just in pronunciation, but in meaning. In one story, a silk trader names his three sons Lu Haoting (陆浩庭), Lu Haolou (陆浩楼), and Lu Haoge (陆浩阁). Their shared middle name, Hao (浩), means “vast,” while Ting (庭), Lou (楼), and Ge (阁) are poetic references to architectural structures. Together, their names embody their father’s dream that each son would go on to build his own grand empire beyond the family’s silk trade.

The trader’s daughters are named Lu Yuchou (陆雨绸) and Lu Yusi (陆雨丝). The middle character, Yu (雨), means “rain”—a symbol of nourishment, gentleness, and hope for new life. Their final characters, Chou (绸) and Si (丝), both mean “silk,” anchoring them to their father’s world. These names create symmetry, poetry, and identity. But in translation, that beauty often disappears.

I change names reluctantly, but always with the hope that by doing so, I open a clearer path for readers to connect with the story itself. Still, I mourn what is lost. Each name carries a world inside it, and I wish every reader could hear that world as clearly as I do.