What is the morally appropriate language in which to think and write?

This may be of interest, after some recent (and duplicate) discussion about "how the English language is taking over the planet."

In this lecture, author Arundhati Roy spoke of the politics of language and writing, and "Translation as a Writing Strategy in a Community Without Passports."

For them, translation is not only a high-end literary art performed by sophisticated polyglots. Translation is daily life, it is street activity, and it’s increasingly a necessary part of ordinary folks’ survival kit. And so, in this novel of many languages, it is not only the author, but the characters themselves who swim around in an ocean of exquisite imperfection, who constantly translate for and to each other, who constantly speak across languages, and who constantly realize that people who speak the same language are not necessarily the ones who understand each other best.

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness has been—is being—translated into 48 languages. Each of those translators has to grapple with a language that is infused with many languages including, if I may coin a word, many kinds of Englishes (sociolects is perhaps the correct word, but I’ll stay with Englishes because it is deliciously worse) and translate it into another language that is infused with many languages. I use the word infused advisedly, because I am not speaking merely of a text that contains a smattering of quotations or words in other languages as a gimmick or a trope, or one that plays the Peter Sellers game of mocking Indian English, but of an attempt to actually create a companionship of languages.

Somewhat related, on the seductive power of post-Empire Britain and its language, from a younger generation. Aatish Taseer writes in the NYT June 22, 2018: How Britain Lost Its Power of Seduction

To my surprise, I have found myself mourning the part Britain had played. As a colonial power, Britain was abhorrent; but in the past 50 years, as its real power shrank, it played an outsize role in the transmission of culture through the English-speaking world.

Britain, as an intermediary, could often be patronizing and superior. The British demanded exotica from Indian writers, as if it was our job to falsify the reality of our places for their entertainment. In America, one is free of colonial baggage. But it was also true that in America one had to make the case for why the country should care about any given issue in the world beyond, which usually meant, “How does it affect us?” Britain, with its colonial past, seemed almost obliged to care.

“European rule in Asian countries was based on force,” Arthur Koestler wrote in “The Lotus and the Robot,” “but its cultural influence was not.” He added, “We ruled by rape, but influenced by seduction.” As Britain withdraws into itself, I cannot help feeling we are going to miss that last benign act of British power when the rape fell away, and seduction remained.