By Jane Sonnenschein First draft: March 16, 2026 Revised: June 16, 2026

A few days ago, I wrote an essay about why the Chinese concept of yuanfen is so difficult to translate into German.

After I published it, several readers thoughtfully shared their own interpretations in the comments.

Some mentioned Schicksal, which feels closer to “fate.” Others suggested Fügung, which carries the sense of an unseen arrangement or a meaningful order behind events. Some thought of Verbindung, but that feels too neutral, almost like a simple abstract “connection.” Someone else mentioned Karma, but that word carries a strong religious meaning, emphasizing causes, actions, and their consequences. Even Vorausbestimmung appeared in the discussion — a word closer to “predestination,” but perhaps carrying too strong a sense that everything has already been decided.

Maybe because every translation seemed to miss something, even the person who first suggested the word became a little frustrated. They eventually wrote in the comments:

“When translating yuanfen, maybe we should just leave it blank and add a note: ‘Das Wort hat kein Gegenstück im Deutschen.’”

When I saw that, I could not help laughing a little. I replied that perhaps it was not necessary to go that far. When translating yuanfen, we can still look at the specific context and find the closest possible expression.

But although all these words touch part of its meaning, none of them seem to fully reach the deepest feeling behind yuanfen.

Because the Chinese idea of yuanfen is subtle. It does carry a sense of fate, but not in the sense that everything has already been written. It contains the surprise of meeting, the invisible pull between people, and a kind of quiet closeness that is difficult to explain.

It is not a cold prearrangement. It is not a rigid belief in destiny. It feels more like a meaning that slowly emerges after many small coincidences happen to come together.

Until I read the final comment.

That reader suggested that if we look at yuanfen through the Buddhist background of yuanqi (the arising of things through conditions), perhaps an expression like “the coming together of conditions” might actually capture something closer: the feeling that certain encounters happen because many circumstances happen to meet at the same moment.

When I read that sentence, I suddenly remembered the impression I had twenty years ago when I first read Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being — especially the idea of the “six coincidences” described in the novel.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt that this was exactly what makes yuanfen so difficult to translate, and also what makes it so moving.

It is not something someone planned in advance. It is not a path carefully arranged step by step. It is more like countless small details that should never have met, yet somehow come together at one particular moment.

And precisely because they were never inevitable, when they finally happen together, people may suddenly feel:

Perhaps this is more than just coincidence.

Maybe this is the closest thing to yuanfen.

When I was young, I loved The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.

When I first read the book, I discovered that a novel could be written in such a way. It did not simply tell a story from beginning to end. It did not carefully guide characters along a clear path. It did not always explain every emotion and every piece of logic.

Instead, it could jump, wander, and move freely. It could tell a story while thinking, and suddenly allow a single sentence to grow into a feeling about life that was difficult to describe.

It did not move directly toward an answer. It circled around something, stepped away from it, and then suddenly returned.

When I was young, I was naturally drawn to this kind of writing. But I did not understand why.

Twenty years later, I slowly realized that what I truly loved was probably not only Kundera’s writing style, nor simply the book itself.

What touched me was that he expressed something I had sensed very early but could never put into words:

The unclear relationship between coincidence and destiny.

I have always remembered the descriptions of coincidence in the book.

At that age, I probably did not fully understand their meaning. But the feeling stayed with me. I realized that encounters between people do not always come from some grand design, nor does there necessarily exist a hand that has arranged everything beforehand.

Often, what we call destiny is simply a collection of tiny, scattered coincidences that somehow come together.

Each one alone seems insignificant. But when they gather at the same moment, they create a meaning that feels impossible to explain, almost as if something unseen has been guiding them.

Perhaps this is where yuanfen is most difficult to explain, and also most beautiful.

Many unrelated coincidences happen to meet at the same moment and create a feeling that seems almost like destiny.

More than twenty years ago, I experienced such a moment myself.

Originally, many things had already been planned. The time, the place, and what I was going to do were all decided.

But then, because of a small conflict caused by my personality, I left earlier than planned. Then, by chance, it happened to be a holiday, the dormitory was empty, and I had nowhere else to go. And then, that person happened not to go out that day and was alone at home.

So a meeting that should never have happened actually happened through a series of tiny deviations.

Looking back now, I often feel that many things we later call yuanfen may come from exactly this.

It is not something designed by someone. It is not something anyone knew in advance.

It is all those unexpected moments outside our original plans that suddenly come together.

Now I finally understand why I was so moved by the word yuanfen.

The beauty of yuanfen is not only that it carries a feeling of fate.

It is because it suggests that certain connections between people are not merely “accidents,” but they are also not necessarily a strict “predetermined destiny.”

It is more like life quietly gathers countless small coincidences until they create something that almost feels like fate.

You cannot clearly say where it began. You cannot prove whether it was arranged.

But it happened.

And many years later, when you look back, you may feel that it was no longer just a coincidence.

I think this is exactly why I loved Kundera when I was young.

What attracted me was not an answer, but a feeling that could never be completely explained.

Not a conclusion, but something quietly suspended in the air.

Not a world divided into black and white, but an acceptance that life contains so many things between coincidence and destiny, between lightness and weight, between choice and forces beyond our control.

For example, the German sentence:

Einmal ist keinmal.

Something that happens only once is as if it never happened.

I remembered this sentence for many years.

It is short, almost like a small удар, yet it carries a weight that is difficult to explain. When I was younger, I did not fully understand what it meant. I only felt that there was something deep, cold, and painfully real inside it.

Later, when I thought about it again, I realized what touched me was perhaps the sadness of human life being impossible to repeat — the fact that many things cannot truly be compared or verified.

Then I discovered that what moved me was not only the theme of coincidence.

It was also Kundera’s ability to write sentences that were extremely short, extremely firm, almost like the sound of fate placing its final mark.

Like this one:

Es muss sein.

It must be.

Short. Hard. Heavy.

The moment it appears, it does not need explanation. It carries a force that comes toward you directly.

Not a gentle reassurance, but something closer to the weight of fate itself: things have reached this point, and no amount of hesitation or explanation can change what has already happened.

Later, I bought different editions of this book.

Chinese. German. English.

Strangely, the version that left the deepest impression on me was still the German one.

Not because my German was particularly good at that time — quite the opposite. I did not understand everything.

But some sentences simply feel heavier in German. Harder. Like stones falling into your heart.

I have also read it in English. It is not that English is inferior. It simply did not touch me in the same way.

German did.

Certain German words and sentences stayed with me from my youth. Twenty years later, I could still remember their weight.

Only now do I understand that reading literature has never been only about whether we understand something intellectually.

Sometimes, when someone is deeply touched by a book when they are young, it is not because they have already understood it.

It is because something inside that book has reached a part of themselves that they cannot yet name.

That part may be confusion, loneliness, loss, homesickness, or a sensitivity toward fate and coincidence that even they themselves cannot explain.

At that moment, you may not be able to explain why.

But you remember.

You remember the feeling of being touched, as if a very small beam of light suddenly fell on you.

That was how I loved Kundera when I was young.

Not because I understood him.

But because something inside me recognized him before understanding came.

So many years later, I can finally say:

I did not love The Unbearable Lightness of Being only because it was beautifully written, or because it was famous.

I loved it because it showed me, for the first time, that the things that truly change us are not always dramatic events.

Often, they are tiny coincidences.

A short but powerful sentence.

A feeling of lightness and weight that cannot be fully explained.

A kind of vibration that you cannot understand when you are young, but still remember many years later.

Twenty years later, I finally understood why I loved Milan Kundera so much.

Because he wrote about things I could only feel back then, but could not express.

And those things took me a very long life to slowly recognize.

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Notes

1. Yuanfen (缘分)

Yuanfen refers to a Chinese cultural idea about meaningful connections formed through encounters, timing, and circumstances. It is often used when talking about relationships, friendships, love, or significant meetings.

Unlike the Western idea of “fate” or “destiny,” yuanfen does not necessarily mean that everything has been predetermined. It suggests that certain people or events come together through a combination of conditions and timing, creating a connection that feels meaningful.

2. Yuanqi (缘起)

Yuanqi (缘起) is a Buddhist concept meaning that things arise through causes and conditions. It describes the idea that nothing exists completely independently; events emerge through the interaction of many factors.

In everyday Chinese understanding, this idea has influenced how people view encounters and relationships: meetings happen because certain conditions come together, and changes happen when those conditions change.

3. Yinguo (因果)

Yinguo (因果) literally means “cause and effect.” In Buddhist thought, it refers to the relationship between actions, causes, and consequences. In modern Chinese, it is also commonly used more broadly to describe the idea that things have reasons and results.

This essay is also available in other languages:

Chinese version: 我二十年后才明白，自己当年为什么那么喜欢米兰·昆德拉

German version: Zwanzig Jahre später verstand ich endlich, warum ich Milan Kundera damals so sehr liebte