îxôlô yê côt
yogô nîôk yê môî foko hîskûnco dî sî xe sûko dî hosîn yê cûtî. li uyo yê hosîn hokîkî hôn hîskûnco xe kôî li gô hoî kut lîbû în cukto. ni bêmon nucoto xe li ôdon, li sôndonôs, ûn li obunyun til xe hêfîn. lêkin û fîectu li gîk hoî wîluwo.
A growing subset of conlangers have fallen for the aesthetic of minimalism. There is something undeniably attractive about a language that fits on a single sheet of paper. It promises a world that is uncluttered, direct, and easy to grasp. But simplicity comes at a price.
For Hîsyêô, we’ve tried to identify the upper limit to how simple a language can get before it starts to break when applied to difficult translation topics like philosophy and physics. The language's design features an isolating grammar and a limited lexicon, making it easy to acquire. However, we have been deliberate in preventing the language from becoming excessively minimal.
Why? Because of the physics of information density.
To describe complex ideas, a language with fewer distinct words requires combining them. Hîsyêô's focus has been on determining the absolute minimum number of words necessary to maintain a manageable syllable rate and listener comprehension.
During our testing, to convey the same semantic information as a dense language like Mandarin (71 syllables) or English (81 syllables), Hîsyêô required on average 127 syllables.
This is the "density dilemma." If we stripped the language down even further—deleting more vocabulary to chase a minimalist ideal—that syllable count would skyrocket. You would end up with a language where discussing the weather is delightful, but discussing something like "socioeconomic policy" takes so long that the listener forgets the start of the sentence before you reach the end.
We believe a language needs just enough complexity to support a functional speech rate for all topics.
Hyper-minimalism also poses a social risk, often creating friction within its constructed language communities. If a community member has a complex emotional reaction to what another community member says, the constant push toward the "simple is good" cultural value can feel like your concerns are being washed away by the community's mandate for "goodness." This raises a key question: If your feelings are not simple, must you force them to conform to a simplistic ideal? Must you flatten your reality just to fit the vocabulary? When a language lacks the resolution to describe conflict, "simplicity" can become a tool for silencing dissent.
Issues like professional disrespect or feeling marginalized are complex; they demand at least some precision of expression. Within a linguistic environment that aggressively champions "the simple," attempts to voice these subtle grievances can be easily invalidated as merely "negative" or "too complicated."
As Nietzsche famously warned in Twilight of the Idols: "Language, it seems, was invented only for what is mediocre, common, communicable. With language the speaker immediately vulgarizes himself."
We don't want Hîsyêô to be a place where simplicity is weaponized against clarity. We don't want you to "vulgarize" your reality just to make it fit on a flashcard.
We want a language that is accessible, yes. We want to avoid the bloat of natural languages. But we also want to ensure we have enough "bits" of data—enough vocabulary and structure—to ensure that when you speak, you are seen as a distinct, complex individual, not just another jan pona.
noyo xîwon xe monodo môî nîmû bi zelen hoî boxô yê nec nucoto yê hîskûnco Hîsyêô ze.
ny xiwN xq mnd moi nimu bj zqzqN hAi bxo ye nqC nrct ye hiSkuNc 〈 hiSyeo 〉 zq.