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ConSOLE XXIII Call for Papers

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Conference of the Student Organization of Linguistics in Europe XXIII

The University Paris Diderot-Paris 7 will host the 23rd Conference of the Student Organization of Linguistics in Europe (ConSOLE XXIII) from 7 to 9 January 2015 in Paris.

Graduate students and advanced undergraduate students not having defended a Ph.D. by September 5th 2014 are invited to submit abstracts for presentations (30 minutes, plus 10 minutes discussion) or posters. Submissions in all areas of linguistics are welcome, such as syntax, semantics, phonology, morphology, phonetics, language acquisition, psycholinguistics, computational linguistics, history of linguistic theories, diachronic linguistics and syntax in ancient grammatical traditions etc.

Deadline for submissions: September 5th, 2014

See the ConSOLE XXIII website for further details.


Saussure’s sound symbolism

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John Joseph
University of Edinburgh

“The most celebrated opponent of the sound symbolic hypothesis,” writes Magnus (2013: 201), “was, of course, Ferdinand de Saussure”. Of course. One of Saussure’s key contributions to modern linguistics is the principle of the arbitrariness of the link between sound and meaning, or more precisely between signifier and signified within the linguistic sign, his most detailed discussion of which took place in his third course in general linguistics in 1910-11. It was carried over into the posthumous Cours de linguistique générale (1916), where it has long been the target of attacks by linguists convinced of the explanatory power of sound symbolism.

But how is it then that in the last paper he published during his lifetime, Saussure (1912) argued that a group of Latin adjectives had developed in a particular way because the shape of the diphthong in their stressed syllable is mimetic of the shape of the idea common to the words containing the diphthong?

Few investigators of iconicity have read the 1912 paper (one of the rare later studies to discuss it is Gmür 1990: 47-49). Like Magnus, they generally understand sound symbolism to be the direct opposite of the arbitrariness which Saussure professed. Since he wrote this paper just after, or even while, giving the lectures on arbitrariness, it may look like a deathbed conversion. But given that it was for a Festschrift presented to Vilhelm Thomsen on his 70th birthday, 25 January 1912, chances are that Saussure was writing the paper no later than the semester in which the lectures on arbitrariness took place. If we go back 35 years to his second published paper (Saussure 1877), it too proposed a form-meaning link, more conventional but still of the sort that typically gets classified as iconic (see Joseph 2012: 200-202). In between, we have his testimony from 1892 concerning his own synaesthetic associations of vowels with colours, textures and smells (Joseph 2012: 392-397).

This is starting to look like quite a different man from the one of whose limited vision Magnus & Co. despair. In this post I shall explain why I think their despair is misplaced.

The 1877 paper concerns the diachronic development of the Indo-European languages, and does not directly address the question of speakers’ awareness. The same may be said of the 1912 paper, which opens:

The diphthongs ai and au occupy only an ill defined place within Indo-European morphology or vocabulary. Among other facts which contribute to their obscurity, they have figured only in a group of words extremely weak since the origin […]. Taken individually, these words in turn very often have an isolated position in the language, being attached neither to a strong verb nor to any etymological family whatever. It is clear that this latter feature, to the degree that it would confer upon these words a certain sort of regularity, does so only in a wholly exterior and negative way.

Saussure (1912: 202 [1922: 595])[1]

The ‘group of words’ in question are adjectives linked phonetically by having a diphthong that starts with /a/, and semantically by referring to some infirmity or deviation from the ‘right’ or ‘straight’. The diphthong could be /ai/ (as in Latin caecus ‘blind’) or /au/, but also /ar/, /al/, /an/ or /am/, all of which are analyzed by Saussure, starting in his Mémoire (1879), as /a/ + sonant, hence as diphthongs in the same way that /a/ + /i/ or /u/ form a diphthong.

The sound symbolism inheres in how the ‘straight’ vowel /a/ ‘deviates’ off into the sonant. Saussure points out that words such as Latin blaesus ‘stammering’, claudus ‘limping’, calvus ‘bald’, mancus ‘maimed’, are very few in number and are isolated within the language, being attached neither to any strong verb nor to an etymological family. Normally, this would be a reason for not studying them at all. But he maintains that their isolation and the rarity of the /a/ diphthongs they contain give them ‘a certain kind of regularity, though it does so only in a completely exterior and negative way’. The semantic link, on the other hand, is a positive bond.

Coming so late in Saussure’s career, subsequent to the full working out of his idea of the axis of association (now generally known as the paradigmatic axis, following Hjelmslev), it is strange to find him contemplating the possibility that a group of words have a kind of regularity that derives from their lack of regularity, their isolation, lack of attachment to a family. Negative value is perfectly Saussurean, yet the hint here that certain forms might be related associatively/paradigmatically, not by virtue of any link in sound or meaning but simply on account of being isolated within the system, is unique.

The /a/ diphthongs would be marked for rarity and isolation; and being so marked they would correlate with meanings that likewise involve marginality or abnormality. It is through the regularity of this correlation that these apparently marginal elements are incorporated into the system where everything connects. But how does this happen? Saussure’s explanation relies on another aspect of his general linguistic system, the relationship of synchrony to diachrony. He imagines

a time when there existed perhaps only four or five adjectives of ‘infirmity’ with the diphthongs ai, au, an, etc. Around this nucleus furnished by chance, ever more numerous formations will have come to fix themselves, where a certain community of ideas favoured diphthongs with a. It would thus involve a fact of lexical analogy […].

Saussure (1912: 206 [1922: 599]).

Note that he attributes the origin of this ‘nucleus’ not to sound symbolism, but to chance. Once established, however, diphthongs with /a/ were ‘favoured’ for words sharing this general idea of infirmity. The favouring would presumably take place in the competition amongst innovative forms that occurs within parole. For Saussure, the key question in language change is not ‘Why are new forms introduced?’. In parole speakers are constantly introducing new forms, of which only a tiny proportion will find the social sanction that will make them part of the langue (in a new état de langue). Rather, the key question is, ‘Why are certain forms sanctioned and not others?’ (see Saussure 1997: 47; Joseph 2012: 503). This is where the sort of analogy-driven favouring he refers to could make a difference.

The associative relations that are central to Saussure’s conception of langue make it plausible that the analogy he proposes was synchronically real for speakers — some speakers, enough for it to have left a recoverable diachronic trace, but perhaps not enough for the set of /a/ diphthongs to form a morpheme, a meaningful unit in the langue that all speakers share. Saussure had taught his students that a linguist’s work consists almost entirely of limiting what is arbitrary in language (1922 [1916]: 182). His last published paper provided an example of how to do it, in a diachronic context, by locating hidden form–meaning correlations (what Whorf would later term ‘cryptotypes’) that crystallize within parole as speakers make analogical links in their minds.

If the /a/ diphthongs had enough sound-symbolic force to leave a recoverable trace diachronically, without however forming a proper morpheme within the langue, then we are dealing with something that is both sound-symbolic and arbitrary, without there being any conflict between the two. Latin caecus had the same meaning, or signified, ‘blind’, for those speakers to whom the iconicity was ‘audible’ as for those to whom it was not. Synchronically, whether or not a speaker is aware of the correlations, the signifier signifies. That is the point of arbitrariness. It does not negate the potential force of sound symbolism in diachrony. Sound symbolism might well be part of what it is that leads a speech community to accept particular innovations rather than others. And yet, the sign still functions perfectly well as part of the language for a speaker who does not interpret it sound-symbolically. Sound-meaning iconicity does not impact upon the fundamental arbitrariness of the linguistic sign.

Note

[1] My translations; for originals, follow hyperlinks.

References

Gmür, Remo. 1990. ‘Saussures “Mémoire”-Prinzipien in seinen späteren indogermanistischen Arbeiten’, in Présence de Saussure: Actes du Colloque internationale de Genève (21-23 mars 1988), edited by René Amacker & Rudolf Engler, 39-51. Genève: Droz.

Joseph, John E. 2012. Saussure. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Magnus, Margaret. 2013. ‘A history of sound symbolism’, in The Oxford Handbook of the History of Linguistics, edited by Keith Allan, 191-208. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Saussure, Ferdinand de. 1877. ‘Sur une classe de verbes latins en –eo’. Mémoires de la Société de Linguistique de Paris 3.279-293. (Reprinted in Saussure 1922: 353-369.)

———-. 1879. Mémoire sur le système primitif des voyelles dans les langues indo-européennes. Leipzig: printed by B. G. Teubner. (Reprinted in Saussure 1922: 1-268.)

———-. 1912. ‘Adjectifs indo-européens du type caecus “aveugle”‘, in Festschrift Vilhelm Thomsen zur Vollendung des siebzigsten Lebensjahres am 25. Januar 1912, dargebracht von Freunden und Schülern, 202-206. Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz, 1912). (Reprinted in Saussure 1922: 595-599.)

———-. 1916. Cours de linguistique générale. Edited by Charles Bally & Albert Sechehaye, assisted by Albert Riedlinger. Lausanne & Paris: Payot. (2nd edition 1922; further editions essentially unchanged). English version, Course in general linguistics, by Wade Baskin, New York: New York: Philosophical Library, 1959 (reprinted with new introduction by Perry Meisel & Haun Saussy, New York: Columbia University Press, 2011).

———-. 1922. Recueil des publications scientifiques de Ferdinand de Saussure. [Edited by Charles Bally & Léopold Gautier.] Genève: Sonor, Lausanne: Payot, Heidelberg: C. Winter.

———-. 1995. Phonétique: Il manoscritto di Harvard Houghton Library bMS Fr 266 (8). Ed. by Maria Pia Marchese. Padova: Unipress.

———-. 1997. Deuxième cours de linguistique générale (1908–1909), d’après les cahiers d’Albert Riedlinger et Charles Patois / Saussure’s Second Course on General Linguistics (1908–1909), from the notebooks of Albert Riedlinger and Charles Patois, edited by Eisuke Komatsu, translated by George Wolf. Oxford & New York: Pergamon.

How to cite this post:

Joseph, John E. 2014. Saussure’s sound symbolism. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/08/06/saussures-sound-symbolism/

The lost Tesoro del ydioma ylocano

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Rebeca Fernández Rodríguez
Universidade de Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro

At the end of the 18th century, Russian Empress Catherine II wanted to compile an atlas of the world’s languages. She commissioned first the German Peter Simon Pallas (1741-1811) and then the Serb Fyodor Jancovich de Mirievo (1741-1814) to publish a book containing the translation of a list of words into as many languages as possible. In 1785 Pedro Normande, Spanish chargé d’affaires at St. Petersburg,  sent a letter to Spanish king Charles III. It was a petition including two lists: the first a list of fourteen grammars and vocabularies from America and the Philippines, including such titles as the Vocabulario de pampango en romance (1732) by Diego de Bergaño (1690-1747), and Arte breve de la lengua aymara para introducir el Arte grande de la misma lengua (1603) by Ludovico Bertonio (1552-1625); and the second a list of 445 words to be translated into the different languages spoken within the territories of the Spanish Crown. Charles III agreed to the petition and directed the viceroys and governors in America and the Philippines to buy or copy the books and translate the words. They did so; and from 1789 to 1791 boxes of books and documents arrived in the Archivo de Indias in Seville and in the Real Biblioteca in Madrid. However, Charles III soon died and his son, Charles IV, inherited the Crown. This fact, among others, contributed to the lists and books never leaving Spain.

Apparently, although it was not in the list of books sent by the embassy in Russia, a bilingual Ilokano dictionary, Tesoro del ydioma yloco, was sent among others from the Philippines. For more than 200 years, scholars thought it lost, but it has in fact been in the library of the Palacio Real in Madrid all along. It is a copy made between 1781 and 1784 in Batac for the personal use of the Augustinian monk Agustín Pedro Blaquier (1749–1803), who loved books and whose library was believed to be one of the richest in the Philippines. It is made up of two volumes, one Spanish-Ilokano (1782–1784) and the other Ilokano-Spanish (1781–1782).  It is, so far, the oldest Ilokano dictionary currently available.

As it is well known, Augustinian Francisco López (?–1627) started the first Spanish-Ilokano dictionary in the first quarter of the 17th century. Unfortunately he died before finishing it. Many years later, two Augustinians, José Carbonel (1665–1711) and Miguel Albiol (?–1710), completed López’s early dictionary in a volume called the Thesauro or Tesoro (ca. 1710).  The prologue of a later dictionary (Calepino ylocano ca. 1797) explains that the Thesauro contained so many mistakes that another Augustinian, Pedro de Vivar (1730–1771), was commissioned to compile a new dictionary, which he finished by 1760 but never printed, even though he had the printing licenses between 1760 and 1762.

Vivar arrived in 1752 with the 49th Augustinian mission to the Philippines. Another Augustinian, Francisco Romero (1729-?), arrived with him. Both were sent to the mission in the Ilocos Region, but first they worked among the Igorrots. Their task was to teach Ilokano to the Igorrots in an attempt to ‘civilize’ them. Vivar started his mission in Benguet in 1754 but Romero had to stay behind in Agoó where he would learn the language with the help of the village prior. Unfortunately, they had no Ilokano books, no grammar, no vocabulary, and so they sent a letter to the bishop complaining of the lack of books. Both Vivar and Romero travelled from the north – Amianan – to the south – Abagatan – of the Ilocos Region, where they learnt the various lexical differences between the dialects. However, Romero returned to America very soon after that, in around 1775.

Vivar thought it was easier to learn the Igorrots’ language than to teach them Ilokano, especially since he did not have any books. Accordingly, he convinced his superiors that there was need for a vocabulary of Ilokano. He began work on the vocabulary, but had to call on the help of his colleagues, since he was too busy travelling to complete the task on his own. He assigned each missionary who could speak Ilocano one alphabetic section of the Tesoro, the only dictionary available at the time, for them to correct, add or delete content, as was needed.


In the prologue of this copy of the Tesoro there is a story about a colleague of the author named Francisco Romero. Only Vivar could have known him and written the story. My hypothesis is that once he had all the corrections from the other missionaries, he edited them and added the prologue. Another clue supporting this hypothesis is that this copy mentions whenever a word is used only in the Amianan or in the Abagatan dialects, and Vivar had spent enough time in the region to be able to distinguish the words and know where they came from.

It is also known that Vivar sent this book to the printer but that it was never printed, although the reasons why it was not printed are still unknown. After that, he probably kept working on the dictionary until his death. The result of his efforts is called the “Adiciones al vocabulario Ilocano” (Additions to the Ilokan vocabulary; Pérez 1901: 297), which contains proverbs, adagios and riddles in an appendix. This appendix was later added to the text, as it can be seen in this copy.

These two volumes are a neat copy of the Thesauro first compiled by Carbonel and Albiol, based on López’s vocabulary, and improved by Vivar. Its exhaustiveness, ethnographic information and lexicographical style make it one of the most interesting vocabularies in the Philippines. The first volume, Spanish–Ilokano, has a 9-page prologue and 650-page one-column vocabulary of around 11,000 entries. The prologue describes the structure and content of the vocabulary and prosody. It also includes geographical information and an explanation of the Baybayin (see Fernández 2013) . He states that whenever the reader has doubts on use, he should check the Arte de la lengua yloca (1627) by Francisco López. The second volume, Ilokano–Spanish, has the title page followed by a 525-page vocabulary in one column and almost 8,000 entries. The first volume was bound in the Philippines. The second volume, however, arrived in the Real Biblioteca as loose pages and it was bound there during the first quarter of the 19th century.

The entries are in alphabetical order, following the fashion of the time, which can be seen in other contemporary Spanish–Philippine language vocabularies. The order in the Spanish–Ilokano volume is A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, Y, J, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, V, V vowel, Z; while the Ilokano–Spanish order is A , B, C, D, E, F, G, H, Y, J, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, V.  The scribe drew animals or human faces around the capital letters of the titles in each section. As far as I know, it is quite unique for the Philippines.

Typical in Philippine vocabularies is the inclusion of proverbs and swearing. Here they are no longer listed in an appendix, but rather in the main text, under the head word. They are also marked in the margins as a way of helping the reader to find what he is looking for. All the examples of usage have their Spanish equivalents. As mentioned above, the author indicated whether the word came from the north or the south of the region. Entries can be as simple as just a short line containing the equivalent or an explanation, or very long, including the equivalent, examples of use and words of the same semantic field. Surprisingly, and contrary to other Philippine vocabularies, after each entry there is no indication of the accent penúltima producta (PP) or penúltima correcta (PC).

example of entries

To sum up, this is a recently discovered manuscript of a bilingual Ilokano vocabulary from the 18th century. It fills a blank in the history of this language and it confirms the cumulative effort of the missionaries in the compilation of linguistic works,  especially in vocabularies. Its comprehensiveness and lexicographical style, similar to other Philippine vocabularies of the time, confirm that there was a “Philippine lexicographical school”, different to other lexicographical traditions.

References

Carbonel, José. 1781-1784. Tesoro del ydioma yloco o bocavulario del castellano al yloco [y del yloco al castellano] / compuesto por el P. P. Fr. Josef Carbonel, religioso del Orden de N.P.S. Augustín y ministro de la provincia de Ylocos; añadido, emendado y acabado por el P.P. Fr. Miguel Albiol de la misma orden y mandado escrivir para su uso por el R.P. Fr. Augustín Pedro Blaquier del Orden de N.P.S. Augustín, Br. de Philosophia de la Universidad de Valencia, examinador synodal y defensor de matrimonios de este obispado de Nueva Segovia, socio de la Real Sociedad Económica de estas islas, cura por S.M. de este pueblo de Batac, prov. de Ilocos.

Ferndández Rodríguez, Rebeca. 2013. ‘Early writing and printing in the Philippines’. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2013/07/10/early-writing-and-printing-in-the-philippines

Pérez, Elviro. 1901. Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos agustinos de la Provincia del Santísimo Nombre de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde su fundación hasta nuestros días. Manila: Est. Tip. del Colegio de Santo Tomás.

How to cite this post

Fernández Rodríguez, Rebeca. 2014. The lost Tesoro del ydioma ylocano. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/09/03/the-lost-tesoro-del-ydioma-ylocano

‘You don’t see what you don’t know’: examining material aspects of manuscripts (Part I)

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Anna Pytlowany
University of Amsterdam

Part one: Paper, ink, watermarks

My interest in manuscripts as material objects was sparked when I started my PhD research into the history of Dutch descriptive linguistics. Ultimately, I want to create a virtual digital archive of linguistic documents from the Dutch East India Company (VOC) period (1600-1825). There are many vocabularies, wordlists and grammars of the “exotic” languages that the Dutch encountered in the course of their trade expeditions. However, since the Company had no real policy regarding language documentation, most of the manuscripts are scattered around various libraries and archives all over the world – and largely forgotten.

But when, how, and by whom were they created and what were their itineraries? How can we read between the lines of these old texts when the explicit historical information is missing? Can the paper, the ink, or maybe the crease indicating the way the page was folded hold clues to unravelling the story of a particular text-carrying object – the manuscript?

“You don’t see what you don’t know”, the saying goes; you won’t be able to recognise the important hints unless you know what you are looking for.

I would like to give you a glimpse into the science of codicology, which I wish I was offered when I first held a 17th-century manuscript in my hands.[1]

The ink

From Middle Ages till the 20th century, the most popular ink was by far iron gall ink.[2] It was commonly used for writing and for drawings. Its basic ingredients (tannin from tree galls, sulphuric acid – vitriol, gum arabic and water) were cheap and readily available in Europe. Although in the 17th century there were at least 150 different recipes for ink, the basic ingredients remained the same; what differed was the type of galls used and the method of extracting the gallic acid (fermenting, boiling, etc.), as well as liquid used (water, rain water, wine, beer).

Fresh iron gall ink has a naturally pale greyish colour, which only turns into deep blue-black a couple of seconds after being applied to paper. To facilitate writing, colorants like indigo (blue) or other dyes were sometimes added. It does not easily fade in light; however, over time, it changes colour to brown, and its opacity increases. The iron gall is corrosive, and if too much acid is used, it can cause bleeding (discoloration of the paper around the ink) or even destruction of paper (ink corrosion). However, thanks to this same characteristic, the ink binds with the paper and, as a result, it is hard to erase and definitely not washable like most carbon-based inks.

Asian inks tend to have different composition; Chinese and Indian inks were usually based on soot from burned oil or resin, mixed with gum and water, and had a darker black colour. The main difference between iron gall and carbon ink is that the former reacts with paper and is hard to remove, whereas the latter is easy to smudge with water, or to be removed completely. The appearance itself is not always a sure indicator of the composition of the ink, and special tests are available.

In the case of “my” Dutch bilingual vocabularies, there are sometimes parts written in the local script. Testing whether the ink used in them is the same or different from the one used in the Dutch part can give us clues whether the author worked with an informant, or whether he himself learned to write in the script.

Ketelaar's Hindustani grammar

A detail from the list of numerals (Ketelaar’s Hindustani grammar). The Hindustani numbers are written in a different ink, most likely using a different tool.

Because of their varying chemical composition, different inks reflect light differently. If we scan them with a hyperspectral scanner through the whole spectrum, including beyond visible light (from ultraviolet to infrared), we obtain a particular spectral profile for every ink. This can be used in forensic examination of crossed out words, or to reveal an illegible or deleted text. Although the most spectacular results were obtained by large projects like the Archimedes palimpsest, even in my modest study, the hyperspectral test proved very useful as a way of revealing the authorship of one of the copies of Ketelaar’s grammar of Hindustani.[3]

Instructie

The title page of the Instructie with a section inked out (Utrecht University Library, Ms. 1478).

Ink reflectance


Ink reflectance “The ink of the text shows a lower reflectance in the near-infrared region than the ink covering it. This has made possible to visualize the text very easily in the near-infrared images at 1000 nm.” (from the test results description by Roberto Padoan)

Other clues regarding the place of origin of a manuscript may be hidden in the tiny grains of blotting material (usually sand) used to dry the ink on page. They are often visible as shiny elements in the places where ink lines were the thickest:

blotting

blotting2
Blotting sand on ink Blotting sand on ink: a microscope photo
(source: http://www.irongallink.org/igi_index5604.html)

It is possible to analyse the type and origin of the ink and to decide, for example, whether a certain document was written in Asia or Europe.

The support

Most of the VOC documents are written on paper.[4] Obvious as it may now seem, this was not always the case in 17th century Europe; some more important documents were drafted on parchment as late as the 19th century (notably, the Declaration of Independence and five pages of the US constitution are written on velum). Occasionally, other writing support materials, such as rice paper, birch bark and even palm leaves, were used, especially by the colonial and missionary workers in Asia.

Palm leaves were incised with a stylus, and then rubbed in with a mixture of soot or berry juice and oil.[5] The structure of a leaf allowed for incising round letters of alphabets like Sinhala or Tamil, but was not suitable for Latin alphabet with its straight lines, which tend to split the leaf along the veins. This can be noticed in a few places in the only palm-leaf manuscript written in a European language I have found so far[6] (Tropenmuseum, lontarblad[7] A-2646); we have to admire the skill of the author, who, writing the text entirely in Dutch,[8] managed to shape the letters into a near-perfect roundness.

Lontarblad

Lontarblad Tropenmuseum, lontarblad A-2646 (Photos by AP, courtesy of Koos van Brakel, Head Collection Department at the National Museum of World Cultures, The Netherlands.)

The paper can reveal a lot of clues for dating manuscripts, and can also help identify their place of origin. In the period relevant for my study (1600-1825), a significant change took place. In 1680, the Hollander beater was invented, a machine that revolutionised paper production in Europe. With its metal blades chopping cellulose-rich plant fibres, a Hollander was able to produce eight times as much pulp in a day compared to the traditional methods. However, this efficiency came at a price: pulp produced by Hollander had much shorter fibres than that from traditional stamp mills, in which the pulp was pounded rather than chopped, which resulted in weaker paper. Another side effect was the introduction of tiny bits of metal contaminants from the blades into the paper, which have been implicated in foxing (rusty-brown spots on paper).

Nowadays, confocal microscopy is used to specify and measure fibre properties as well as paper surface characteristics such as roughness or porosity.

Production marks

Production marks such as fingerprints or water drops can also help in dating a manuscript (Erpenius, Cambridge University library, inv. no. Gg. 6.40)

Another valuable clue for paper identification comes from the watermarks, a lower-density pattern or design visible when holding a sheet of paper up against the light. Watermarks can be traced back to 13th-century Italy and were used primarily, but not exclusively, as a papermaker’s trademark. The simplest and most common watermarks were made using a wire design attached to the paper mould screen. More sophisticated ‘light and shade’ watermarks, using a different method – a relief sculpture pressed into the paper mould – resulting in various degrees of thickness in the image, were developed in the 19th century in England.[9]

To have a full paper characteristic, we also need to look for countermarks (a smaller mark, often with papermaker’s initials, usually placed on the sieve opposite the main filigree).

There are many famous catalogues of watermarks, such as Heawood or Churchill, some of which are digitised and available online. For the search function, they use fairly complicated motif classification, which is not always obvious (for instance, in the example below one has to decide whether ‘the Golden Fleece’ is an animal or a ‘fantastic creature’).

Manuscripti Indici 1

Manuscripti Indici 2 Two parts of a watermark from Erpenius’ “Manuscripti Indici” from the collections of the Cambridge University library (inv. no. Gg. 6.40). We can see a crowned coat of arms with a tower, an eagle and two rampant lions, and the Golden Fleece underneath.

This motif is described in Gravell as “Arms – lions; tower; crown; eagle; Arms of Burgundy and Austria with Golden Fleece”.

 

Watermark


Watermark(source: Thomas L. Gravell Watermark Archive, Delaware, USA ) Note the difference in detail between different methods of making the image.

Another similar image can be found in the online collection of the Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen:

watermark2

As it turns out, the same paper has been used by an anonymous artist (possibly Cornelis Cornelisz Van Haarlem) for a drawing representing the Baptism of Christ (inv. no. MB1705-PK).[10] A very similar watermark (Heawood 481) was used in Theatrum Artis Scribendi by Jodocus Hondius, published in Amsterdam in 1594.

This information could help us establish the paper supplier for Erpenius manuscripts, as well as pinpoint the possible location where the manuscript was written, at the time when most paper in Holland was still imported from France, Switzerland and Germany.

Because paper moulds would deteriorate over time, their life span would be relatively short, with a maximum of a couple of years. The technology in the 17th and 18th centuries was still not good enough for replication of identical watermarks, and therefore watermarks are reliable indices for dating. Also, within one batch of paper, the aging watermarks may have visible traces of wear and tear that can also help determine the date.

Watermark

Watermark
‘Spot the difference’: the watermark of Amsterdam found on Ketelaar’s Instructie (Utrecht MS) and its closest equivalent from the catalogue. The letters WHG are the countermark.

But in order to be able to see these subtle differences, we need to have a good quality image of the original watermark.[11] The earliest method of simply drawing the shape gives us some general information about the symbols or letters in it, yet it is still not enough to be sure whether a certain detail or distance indeed constitutes a different watermark, or whether it is a mere slip of the hand. A better method is rubbings, where a pencil over thin paper is used to extract the image. It is important to include a reference such as a ruler with measurements. Nowadays, photography of a backlit page is probably most commonly used (some libraries offer a fiberoptic light sheet). For bigger projects, x-ray techniques may work better, bringing a clear image of only the watermark without the confusing writing on the surface of the paper.

Interestingly, from early times, watermarks were subject to counterfeiting, which has to be taken into account when analysing the pattern. The imitations are often of a lower quality, with less details and clumsier design.

Some watermarks acquired a life of their own; the letters LVG, which originally indicated Lubertus van Gerrevinck of the Phoenix Mill at Egmond aan den Hoef in Holland, were soon appropriated by other paper makers in Western Europe as a mark of quality, and become one of the most common watermarks.

Notes

[1] I would like to thank my inspiring teachers from Medieval and Modern Manuscript Studies in the Digital Age (MMSDA 2014), a course funded by the DiXiT ITN run in collaboration with the Institute of English Studies (London), King’s College London, the University of Cambridge, and the Warburg Institute.

[2] A true mine of information on iron gall ink created by a team of Dutch experts:
http://www.irongallink.org

[3] In April 2011, by courtesy of Dr. Bart Jaski of the Utrecht University Library, the manuscript was transported to the Restoration Lab of Nationaal Archief in The Hague and examined with the Hyperspectral Imager by Roberto Padoan. This test was made possible by Gerrit de Bruin, Head of Conservation at Nationaal Archief.

[4] A great website for studies of paper: http://www.memoryofpaper.eu

[5] For more information on palm leaf manuscripts, see http://www.library.cornell.edu/preservation/librarypreservation/mee/preservation/palmleaf.html

[6] There is also a similar manuscript among the palm leaf manuscripts with Sinhala texts in the British Library collection (Sloane 3417). Dating back to early 18th century, it contains the Sinhala alphabet with notes on pronunciation in English together with the Lord’s Prayer in Sinhala and Roman letters and a literal translation. However, the English text is written on European paper cut to the size of a palm leaf and bound together with the real palm leaves.

[7] According to Wikipedia, the Indonesian word ‘lontar’ was a misspelling of Old Javanese ‘rontal’, composed of two Old Javanese words: ‘ron’ (leaf) and ‘tal’ (tal tree). In Dutch library catalogues, the term lontarblad is used interchangeably with palmblad.

[8] Brief information on the content – they are purely theological texts – can be found in H. Kern Bijdragen tot de taal-, land- en volkenkunde van Nederlandsch-Indië: Volume 46 – January 1, 1896. M. Nijhoff – Publisher, pp.147-148 “Een Hollandsch Geschrift op Palmblad”.

[9] The development of watermarks “from simple lines to shaded artworks” is presented in a comprehensive guide to watermarks by the historian and genealogist Larry D. Smith.

[10] The watermark inscription reads: “Crowned crest, coat of arms of Burgundy and Austria with the Golden Fleece beneath, quartered with heart shield (100x62mm, on P4 from the left, PP29/28mm, upside-down, in the centre of the left half of the sheet; vH, 14P, cropped plano), similar to Churchill 266, but without housemark in the lower section of the shield (no place, 1623).” There are also other drawings, all by Karel van Mander, in the collection of the Museum Boijmans with parts of the same watermark (inv. nos. MB 1717-1728)

[11] A sobering view on the requirements for accuracy of watermark dating: http://cool.conservation-us.org/coolaic/sg/bpg/annual/v01/bp01-18.html

How to cite this post:

Pytlowany, Anna. 2014. ‘You don’t see what you don’t know’: examining material aspects of manuscripts (Part I). History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/09/17/you-dont-see-what-you-dont-know-examining-material-aspects-of-manuscripts-part-i

German Lutheran Missionaries and the Linguistic Landscape of Central Australia 1890-1910

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David Moore
University of Western Australia

My research aims to investigate documentation and research in the languages of Central Australia, providing a valid interpretation of the materials of the earliest work on the Aranda (Arrernte, Arrarnta) language of Central Australia. I examine the linguistic influences and language ideologies underpinning the analysis and description of Central Australian languages by German Lutheran Missionaries from 1890 to 1910. The Arandic languages in Central Australia are among the most researched languages in Australian linguistic history. German Lutheran missionaries conducted fieldwork in Australian languages in the late nineteenth century at Lake Killalpaninna in South Australia (Harms 2003; Kneebone 2005) and Hermannsburg in the Northern Territory (Kenny 2008; J. Strehlow 2011). The period 1890-1910 saw the first comprehensive grammars and wordlists of Central Australian Aboriginal languages by missionaries from Hermannsburg (Kempe, 1891) and Neuendettelsau (Strehlow 1909).

Background

The background to the missionary linguistics of Central Australia is events which occurred in Germany in the early sixteenth century. The Lutheran Reformation set the stage for philology with Martin Luther establishing the use of vernaculars in church services rather than Latin. Protestants engaged with the Hebrew and Greek, Classical source languages of the Old and New Testaments. The Bible was translated in Protestant countries with the German New Testament published in 1522 and the complete German Bible in 1534. The resulting social context involved the need to read the Bible in vernacular languages with High German adopted as the literary standard. Kral (2000) has explored Lutheran practices of literacy at Hermannsburg and the central role of the text. The principles of translation and exegesis developed for the translation and understanding of Biblical texts. The first published translations of the Bible were made by Lutherans, Dieri (1897) and Aranda (1956).

Philology

In the view of Williamson (2004:66), the Lutheran Reformation had established the principle of freedom in scholarship and theology. In Protestant Germany, philology as the study of written texts became established in Philological Seminars at the universities of Halle and Göttingen. Leventhal (1986:244) maintains that the latter had become one of the premier literary and academic centres of Europe by 1785. In the years following the development of the seminar as a recognized European academic center, similar philological seminars were established in the German-speaking territories, at Helmstedt (1779); Halle, (1787) and Berlin (1809).

Greek emerged as a key language of the Philological Seminar alongside Latin. The Philhellenist movement sought a return to the civilization of Classical Greece. The interest in Greek occurred for many reasons. During the reaction to the Enlightenment known as the Romantic era there was a search for models of society which were radically different and as a reaction to French education and the Latin Schools which had dominated German education in the eighteenth century. As Williamson (2004:136) explains, “Since the ascent of Heyne at Göttingen and Wolf at Halle, philology had emerged as the model science for the research university: critical, inquisitive and grounded in an expert command of the Greek language”. Marchand (2003:20) elaborates, “Access to the Greek mind was to proceed by strict attention to the linguistic, grammatical and orthographic detail”. Wilhelm von Humboldt regarded Greek as the language of perfection. The learning of Greek was important to Bildung as formation or cultivation. Classical humanism was established in German universities and taught at all levels of education. As Greek was also the language of the New Testament, missionaries were grounded in both Classical and New Testament Greek.

Erlangen and Neuendettelsau

From its foundation in 1742 Erlangen was a Protestant University. In 1777 Gottlieb Christoph Harles, a student of Heyne’s at Göttingen, founded a philological seminar at the University of Erlangen. I will now mention some of the most significant figures in philology at Erlangen.

Rudolf von Raumer (1815-1876) was a philologist at the University of Erlangen from 1840 and Professor until his death in 1876, his particular interest was in the Germanic languages, following on the work of Grimm. Lehmann (1967:68) considers him “to be one of the most important contributors to the methodology of historical linguistics”. The problems which arose in historical linguistics led to an increasing need for competence in phonetics, “In keeping with this need to move away from the shuffling of letters, von Raumer set out to arrive at an accurate statement of articulatory phonetics”. Jankowsky (1972:89) credits him as being “the first to utilize the implications of phonetic studies for letter-philology”. He concentrated upon the individual speaker as the agent of sound changes. Raumer studied contemporary speech for understanding historical sound relationships, researching the spoken dialects of German, Low German, Bavarian and Swabian. Carl Friedrich Naegelsbach (1806-1859) was a Classical philologist who studied at Berlin. He first taught at the Gymnasium and was a Professor of Classics at Erlangen from 1842-1859. He wrote Lateinsiche Stilistik and Homerische Theologie. Naegelsbach taught Johannes Deinzer at Erlangen. Johann Konrad Wilhelm Löhe (1808-1872) went to the University of Erlangen in 1826 and graduated in 1830. Löhe founded the Neuendettelsau Mission Institute after moving to the village of Neuendettelsau in 1837. Friedrich Bauer (1812-1874) wrote a German Grammar which, according to John Strehlow (2011:206), had run to twenty seven editions by 1912. His work contributed significantly to the unification of the German language and was a precursor to the Duden, covering word formation, word teaching, syntax and spelling. Bauer taught at Neuendettelsau Seminary. John Strehlow (2011) has described Bauer’s educational program. Bauer wanted the students at Neuendettelsau to be given “a thoroughgoing academic education, modelled essentially on the training offered by the Grammar School and then university”. In addition to German, the curriculum comprised Latin and Greek, some rudimentary study of Hebrew, a close study of the Bible, Church history and theological studies. Johannes Deinzer (1842-1897) studied at the University of Erlangen (J Strehlow 2011:214) where he ‘came under the influence of von Hofmann, Thomasius, von Raumer and Naegelsbach. He took up a post as teacher at Neuendettelsau in 1864. Deinzer was principal of Neuendettelsau Seminary from 1874 to 1897 (J Strehlow 2011:213) when he taught the Neuendettelsau missionaries including Carl Strehlow, Friedrich Leidig, JP Loehe, Christian Keysser, JJ Stolz, Wilhelm Poland, Adolf Ortenburger and Johannes Flierl I.

Neogrammarians and the older philology

The earlier philology had worked at the level of the word and the dialect geographers were also interested in collecting words and developing isoglosses. In the late nineteenth century the field came to be dominated by comparative and historical linguistics which concentrated rather more on the question of the common origin of the Indo-European languages and on the positivistic science of finding sound laws. Jankowsky (1968) lists the main critics of the Neogrammarians as classical philologists and dialect geographers who retained an interest in meaning over form. Dialect geographers were interested in fieldwork. Georg Curtius, a Classical Philologist remained a transitional figure who attempted to reconcile Classical and Comparative philology (Curtius 1845). The narrow aims of the Neogrammarians must have seemed remote from the interests of linguistic fieldworkers of the nineteenth century as they struggled to find ways to describe the languages of Australia.

Linguistics in Central Australia 1890-1910

The use of Greek is evident in the work of early missionaries. Greek was regarded as an ideal and complex language, an original language. In a positive evaluation of Aboriginal languages Carl Strehlow compared Aranda with Classical Greek, writing to the South Australian Register in 1921, “The well-constructed language of the Aranda reminds one of the old Greek language; in fact, it has more moods than the last mentioned”. Strehlow adopted the names of Greek grammatical categories, such as the Optative mood and Dual number. He claimed that Aranda had as many moods as Greek. Also important was translation theory and the need for a translation to be an authentic text. In their correspondence with the Mission Board in Adelaide, missionaries referred to Max Müller (1823-1900), a popularizer of linguistics who retained a broad interests throughout his long tenure at Oxford University in the second half of the nineteenth century. Müller’s Lectures on the Science of Language was widely available and cited. Educated at an early age in Greek ‘his range of interests was astonishingly broad: Sanskrit language and literature, Indian philosophy and astrology, comparative mythology and religious science, language typology and non-Indo-European languages’ (Jankowsky 1972: 179).

Conclusion

The Neuendettelsau missionaries were steeped in the language ideologies of nineteenth century Germany. They were influenced by philology, firstly by the Classical philology that was taught at Erlangen and then by the new interest in Germanic and Comparative philology. Awareness of languages was developed at Neuendettelsau through exposure to the Classical and Germanic languages and to the emerging studies and interest in Comparative philology and its offshoots: phonetics and dialectology. An awareness of phonetics, grammar, semantics and the principles of translation was essential for fieldwork in the Aranda language. Their pioneering work in phonetics, grammar and Classical and Germanic philology was transferred to the Neuendettelau missionaries through their teachers, Deinzer and Bauer and gave their students rich opportunities to learn from contemporary linguistic theories and methods.

References

Curtius, Georg (1845). Die Sprachvergleichung in ihrem Verhältniss zur classischen Philologie, W. Besser.

Harms, Hartwig F. (2003). Träume und Tränen: Hermannsburger Missionare und die Wirkungen ihrer Arbeit in Australien und Neuseeland Ludwig-Harms-Haus.

Jankowsky, K. R. (1968). The Neogrammarians: A re-evaluation of their place in the development of linguistic science, School of Languages and Linguistics, Georgetown University.

Kempe, A. H. (1891). “A Grammar and Vocabulary of the language of the natives of the McDonnell ranges.” Transactions of the Royal Society of South Australia XIV 1-54.

Kenny, A. (2008). From Missionary to Frontier Scholar: An Introduction to Carl Strehlow’s Masterpeice, Die-Aranda-und Loritja-Stamme in Zentral-Australien (1901-1909). Department of Anthropology, Sydney University PhD thesis

Kneebone, Heidi Marie. (2005). The language of the chosen view: the first phase of graphization of Dieri by Hermannsburg missionaries, Lake Killalpaninna, 1867-80. Linguistics: School of Humanities, Adelaide University PhD thesis.

Kral, Inge. (2000). “The socio-historical development of literacy in Arrernte: A case study of writing in an Aboriginal language and the implications for current vernacular literacy practices.” Unpublished Masters thesis (Applied Linguistics). University of Melbourne, Melbourne.

Leventhal, R. S. (1986). “The emergence of philological discourse in the German states, 1770-1810.” Isis: 243-260.
Marchand, S. ( 2003 ). Down from Olympus: Archaeology and Philhellenism in German 1750-1970. Princeton, N.J, Princeton University Press.

Müller, F. M. (1866). Lectures on the science of language: Delivered at the Royal Institution of Great Britain in April, May, & June 1861, Longmans, Green.

Strehlow, Carl (1909). Vocabulary of the Aranda and Loritja Native Languages of Central Australia with English equivalents. Unpublished manuscript.

Strehlow, John. (2011). The Tale of Frieda Keysser, Frieda Keysser and Carl Strehlow: An Historical Biography, Volume I: 1875–1910. London, Wild Cat Press.

Williamson, G. S. (2004). The longing for myth in Germany: religion and aesthetic culture from romanticism to Nietzsche. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

How to cite this post

Moore, David. German Lutheran Missionaries and the Linguistic Landscape of Central Australia 1890-1910. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/10/02/german-lutheran-missionaries-and-the-linguistic-landscape-of-central-australia-1890-1910

(Non-)universality of word-classes and words: The mid-20th century shift

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Martin Haspelmath
Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology, Leipzig

While looking at a range of views by grammarians on word-class distinctions (noun, verb, adjective etc.) and word division in two recent papers (Haspelmath 2011; 2012a), I was struck by what appears to have been a major shift of perspective: While the first half of the 20th century emphasizes the uniqueness of languages and the categorial differences between them, the second half starts out from the assumption that languages do not differ in their basic categories. (Elsewhere I called this distinction categorial particularism and categorial universalism; Haspelmath 2010.) There are some signs that the perspective adopted in the first half of the 20th century is now getting more attention again.

Earlier history

Let us start with some earlier history. According to standard accounts, language thinkers in the 17th and 18th centuries did not show particular interest in structural differences between languages. Even though Western scholars became better and better acquainted with some of the major Oriental languages during this period, the prevailing approach among grammarians and philosophers of grammar was to (try to) use the same concepts for all languages, and to assume that categories such as “noun”, “verb”, “preposition”, as well as “word” or “root”, were cognitively grounded and hence could be applied universally. In textbooks on the history of linguistics, this view is particularly associated with the grammaire générale tradition. Thus, according to Robins (1997: 141), in the Port Royal grammar, “the six cases of Latin are … assumed in other languages, though some of them were expressed by prepositions and word order”. But even though the spirit of Renaissance linguists in the 16th century may have been somewhat different, emphasizing the peculiarities of the modern European languages (e.g. Ramée’s recognition that nouns in French are recognized by number rather than by case), the classical teaching of nine parts of speech was rarely questioned (pronoun, noun, verb, participle, adverb, article, preposition, conjunction, interjection).

The 19th century gradually brought some changes, also influenced by the wider cultural movement of Romanticism. Languages were no longer thought to be mere expressions of human thinking, but different languages were often considered as manifestations of different worldviews and different cultural predilections of their speakers. This did not lead to very striking innovations in grammatical practice, and of course most grammarians were interested in the prestige languages Latin, Greek, German, French, etc. Serious interest in non-(Indo-)European languages among general linguists became widespread only in the 20th century. However, some 19th century linguists did observe that non-Indo-European languages are organized rather differently with respect to their word-classes (or “parts of speech”, using a calque from Latin partes orationis). In particular, linguists observed that some languages such as Hungarian and Turkish had conjugation-like person markers on their nouns as well as on their verbs, and they hinted that these languages did not make the same kind of sharp distinction between nouns and verbs.

Similarly, scholars began to doubt that the notion of “word” is universal. I am not aware of any doubts of the universality of the word in the 19th century, but the foundational concept “morpheme”, which makes the word less important than it was in the past, was coined by Jan Baudouin de Courtenay in 1880 (cf. Mugdan 1986). Moreover, the distinction between “agglutinative” and “flective” languages, which points to rather different word-building principles in different languages, goes back to the early 19th century (Friedrich von Schlegel and Wilhelm von Humboldt, cf. Greenberg 1974).

Particularism in the 20th century

In the first half of the 20th century, such (categorial particularist) views became mainstream. Franz Boas is particularly well-known for emphasizing that North American languages should not be squeezed into the Procrustean bed of European categories, that the categories chosen for description “depend entirely on the inner form of each language”, and that languages should be described “in their own terms” (Boas 1911). Otto Jespersen described English in a way that highlighted its “progress” over the ancient, more cumbersome languages, and along the way Jespersen coined a fair number of new terms for concepts of English grammar (e.g. extraposition, adjunct). Bloomfield (1933) noted that articles, demonstratives and possessives formed a single substitution class in English and created the new “determiner” category for them. A less well-known figure is Erich Drach, who first described German sentence structure in terms of a template consisting of a prefield, a left bracket, a middle field, a right bracket, and a postfield (Drach 1937). In main clauses, the auxiliary and the main verb occupy the left and right bracket, respectively, while the filling of the prefield is relatively free. This model of German sentence structure is still used by German syntacticians today (e.g. Müller 2010).

The Leningrad linguist Lev V. Ščerba described Russian syntax in the 1920s using a completely novel category, the “state category” (in Russian kategorija sostojanija), e.g. lexical items such as vidno ‘one can see’, bol’no ‘it hurts’, dosadno ‘it is annoying’. These are predicative words that are in some ways like adjectives or adverbs, but they occur only predicatively, like verbs, and some of them can even take objects. In his last paper, Ščerba (1945: 186) demanded that underdescribed languages should be studied “concretely, without seeing them through the prism of the researcher’s native language, or another language with a traditional grammar, which distorts the grammatical reality…” Thus, by this time Western linguists had emancipated themselves from the tradition of antiquity. Even though they still used many of the old terms, they became used to asking for justification before applying a traditional concept, and they were willing to posit novel concepts, and to recognize certain categories as unique to particular languages. This approach to language structure became known as “structuralism” in the second half of the century. Whereas 19th century linguists invested most of their efforts into elucidating historical relationships between languages, the study of individual synchronic language systems began to take centre stage in the 20th century.

One accompanying feature of this activity was the coining of new terminology, of which a few examples are given above. When each language has its own categories, in principle one would need new terms for each language. And indeed, we do find some thoroughly language-specific terminology such as “middle field”, “determiner” and “state category”.

What’s in a word

The first half of the 20th century also saw people asking for justification of the “word” concept, apparently for the first time. While the morpheme was easy to define (as a minimal sign, a minimal combination of form and meaning), it turned out that the word was more difficult to characterize. Bloomfield (1933: 178) attempted to define the word as “a minumum free form”, but this definition was not widely adopted, and some researchers doubted whether all languages had words. Thus, Hockett (1944: 255) claimed that “there are no words in Chinese”, and Milewski (1951) made similar remarks about North American languages. In the closing session of the 6th International Congress of Linguists, held in Paris in 1948, congress president Joseph Vendryes remarked that modern linguistics was in a crisis, and that linguists were not even in agreement on what a word is, one of the fundamental concepts of their object of studies (cf. Togeby 1949: 97; Haspelmath 2011: 71). The basic problem was that linguists did not find a good way to justify the distinction between affixes (prefixes and suffixes) and short function words (often clitics). It was often observed, for instance, that French subject person forms (je viens, tu viens, il vient, etc. for the verb ‘come’) behave like prefixes, even though they are written separately. Likewise, compounds and phrases are often impossible to tell apart (is French chemin de fer [path of iron] ‘railway’ a compound word or a phrase?).

Doubts about the universality of the “word” concept were very widespread in the structuralist period. Schwegler (1990: 45) summarizes his detailed overview of the view of this period:

After generations of 19th- and 20th-century linguists had taken the ‘word’ largely for granted, structuralists set out to define what in popular as well as in scientific circles was regarded as the basic unit of speech . . . this lively discussion eventually led to the now generally accepted conclusion that (a) the ‘word’ cannot be defined by a single (or for that matter, multiple) common denominator, and (b) not all segments of speech are ‘words’ in the proper sense of the term.

The more optimistic linguists of this period claimed that while there was no universally applicable definition of the word, words could be defined by language-specific criteria. Thus, Bazell (1958: 35) noted: “Now there is perhaps no unit over which there is less agreement than the word. If there is any agreement at all, it is that the word has to be differently defined for each language analysed.”

Thus, we see great efforts being made in the first half of the century (the structuralist period) to carefully define the categories that are used for description and to justify them for each language individually. In principle, this is still what our textbooks teach our students. But the practice of the second half of the 20th century was very different.

Generative universalism

In the wake of Chomsky (1957), linguists increasingly lost interest in the question of how to justify categories. The focus was now on stating rules formally, on rule interactions (derivations), and on the relations between “underlying structures” and actual forms. But the new enterprise of transformational grammar was at the same time intended as a way of explaining the possibility of language acquisition despite the poverty of the stimulus, and the proposed solution was the innate universal grammar. On this view, categories (or at least their constitutuent features) were thought to be universal.

Now one might have expected linguists to embark on an empirically grounded research project asking what these presumed universal categories are. Perhaps surprisingly, nothing of this sort happened. Linguists simply abandoned the practice of seeking the best categories for different languages and justifying them. Instead, they focused on their new tasks of expressing generalizations through abstract representations and ignored the insights of their structuralist predecessors. Since the late 1960s, students were increasingly discouraged from reading the earlier literature, so the categorial particularism of the structuralist period was largely forgotten. Instead of coming up with a new original set of categories, they fell back on what the school grammars offered all along: the traditional concepts inherited from Priscian and Donatus through the Middle Ages and the early modern era.

Nouns, verbs and adjectives

When Chomsky’s proposals from the 1960s were extended to other languages, few linguists proposed word-classes other than those used by Chomsky for English. And these were all very traditional. In his 1970 paper “remarks on nominalization”, Chomsky proposed that the four categories N (nouns), V (verbs), A (adjectives) and P (prepositions) were universal, mostly on the basis of a few observations on English. There was little discussion of other possible categorizations in the subsequent decades, and Baker (2003) essentially confirmed Chomsky’s views, using data from a wide variety of languages (but leaving aside prepositions, which are grammatical rather than lexical words).

When Miller (1973) discussed the phenomena that had led Ščerba a few decades earlier to posit a new category for Russian (as mentioned above), his wording was characteristic of the new thinking of the generative era:

Many [Soviet linguists] have supposed that it was necessary to set up another part of speech, the “category of state”… The traditional Soviet account is not very satisfactory, since one either has to accept a new part of speech or some loose ends in one’s taxonomy… It will be assumed in this paper that verbs and adjectives are surface-structure categories which derive from a single deep-structure category which will be called Predicators.

The positing of a new category was not considered an insight into the peculiar nature of Russian, but as a defect of the description that was to be remedied. Characteristically, instead of justifying his categories, Miller starts by making assumptions and then builds an analysis on these assumptions.

While the first half of the 20th century saw a lot of new terms coined by linguists, the generative era adopted a very different approach: The use of new terms for categories was limited, and the main way in which conceptual innovations could take place was by giving new meanings to existing terms (e.g. government, Fillmorean or Chomskyan case, adjunct, complement).

An interesting recent paper on word-classes is Chung’s (2012) study of Chamorro, which concludes that Topping’s (1973) earlier (structuralist) account in terms of two main classes (class I and class II), which differ radically from the familiar European classes, could be reanlyzed in terms of the familiar categories, V, N, and A. Topping set up two large classes mainly on the basis of the expression of the pronominal subject: Class I, comprising transitive action words, and Class II, comprising intransitive action words, property words, and thing words. Chung notes that Class II is not quite internally homogeneous, and that transitive and intransitive action words behave alike syntactically in some ways. Thus, if one wants, one can say that Chamorro has nouns, verbs and adjectives like English, even though Topping’s Class I vs. Class II division is more salient if one leaves English aside (as he did). Chung inserts her proposal for analyzing Chamorro in the context of the general discussion of word-class universality, but she does not seem to realize that the idea of the universality of V, N and A is derived from the tradition of English grammar since the 18th century (before that, nouns and adjectives were actually not clearly distinguished, following the Latin tradition of Priscian and Donatus). It is true that in many languages, one can draw similar distinctions if one wants, but one could probably also find such evidence for a Class I vs. Class II distinction and argue that it is the Chamorro distinction that is universal (cf. Haspelmath 2012b).

The word as a universal category

The word was never discussed seriously by Chomsky, and in fact the mainstream generative literature both of the 1960s and of the 21st century tends to assume that there is no strict division between words and phrases, and between morphology and syntax. However, between the 1970s and the 1990s, a very widespread view was that the word (or the lexicon) represents an important level of analysis, and that lexical and syntactic rules are quite distinct (this is called lexicalism; e.g. Anderson 1992; Bresnan & Mchombo 1995). Curiously, lexicalists never say what they mean by a word and how they identify it. In particular, they do not say how they might distinguish clitic words from affixes, and phrases from compound words, in a way that works across languages.

In this regard, lexicalism reminds one of the pre-structuralist time, when the word concept was simply taken for granted and not seen as a problem. It is striking that textbooks of the structuralist era usually include a lengthy discussion of how to delimit words (e.g. Hockett 1958; Gleason 1961), while more recent textbooks say very little about identifying words (the last general linguistics textbook with a long discussion was Langacker (1972), apparently still under the influence of structuralist particularism). But what happens if one simply pretends that words are universal, without saying how they can be identified universally? As in the case of nouns, verbs and adjectives, in practice this means that linguists go back to the traditional views of our school books. And traditionally, the word is regarded as a string of letters between spaces. As I showed in Haspelmath (2011), there is no other word identification procedure that linguists were able to rely on.

Of course, if one assumes that the categories of languages are given in advance (i.e. that we are born with them), there is no need to define them, anymore than we need to define other natural kinds such as potassium, dandelion or kidney (cf. Haspelmath 2014 on the distinction between defining and diagnosing categories). However, one needs to be aware that in practice that may mean that the consensus converges on the categories that we have been familiar with since our school days.

Reconciling particularism and universalism in the 21st century

While Greenbergian typology of the 1960s and 1970s seemed to be similarly universalist in outlook to the generative paradigm (and was thus embraced by many Chomskyans in the 1980s and 1990s, e.g. Baker 2001), more recently many linguists coming from the Greenbergian tradition have made clear statements advocating a return to particularist views when it comes to describing individual languages (Dryer 1997, Croft 2001, Lazard 2006, Haspelmath 2007). Interestingly, some of them are probably continuing structuralist views that they always held, influenced by pre-generative structuralists. (Thus, Dryer was a student of H. Allan Gleason’s at the University of Toronto in the 1970s, and Lazard was a student of Émile Benveniste’s in Paris in the 1940s and 1950s.)

But have these people been arguing for a return to the older practice of concentrating exclusively on language-specific system, to the exclusion of cross-linguistic generalizations? Not at all: The particularism concerns language-specific analyses, but this is not incompatible with (even large-scale) cross-linguistic comparison. One just needs to realize that grammatical comparison does not start out from language-specific categories, but from comparative concepts that are quite distinct from descriptive categories (Haspelmath 2010). Grammatical comparison is thus not different from lexical comparison (e.g. Swadesh lists) – everyone recognizes that word meanings in different languages cut up the conceptual space in different ways, but we still compare words across languages.

Thus, when comparing languages with respect to nominal, verbal and adjectival behaviour, we just need to look at thing words, action words and property words. These can be readily identified across languages, and interesting comparisons can be made (Haspelmath 2012a). In effect, a Greenbergian word-order universal concerning adjective-noun order refers to the order of property words and thing words. Likewise, when comparing languages with respect to words vs. affixes, one needs to work with comparative concepts that work across languages, such as grammatical morph vs. lexical morph (Haspelmath 2014), mobile vs. fixed grammatical morph, etc.

Thus, there is no need to abandon the structuralist concern for language-internal justification of categories, or large-scale cross-linguistic comparison. Once one recognizes that these are different enterprises, both can continue as originally envisaged.

References

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Baker, Mark C. 2001. The atoms of language. New York: Basic Books.

Baker, Mark C. 2003. Lexical categories: verbs, nouns, and adjectives. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Bazell, C. E. 1958. Linguistic typology: An inaugural lecture delivered on 26 February 1958. School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London.

Bloomfield, Leonard. 1933. Language. New York: H. Holt and Company.

Boas, Franz. 1911. Introduction. In Franz Boas (ed.), Handbook of American Indian Languages, 1–83. Washington, DC: Bureau of American Ethnology.

Bresnan, Joan & Mchombo, Sam M. 1995. The lexical integrity principle: evidence from Bantu. Natural Language and Linguistic Theory 13: 181-254.

Chomsky, Noam A. 1957. Syntactic structures. ’s-Gravenhage: Mouton.

Chomsky, Noam A. 1970. Remarks on nominalization. In R.A. Jacobs & Peter S. Rosenbaum (eds.), Readings in English transformational grammar, 184–221. Waltham, MA: Ginn.

Chung, Sandra. 2012. Are lexical categories universal? The view from Chamorro. Theoretical Linguistics 38(1-2). 1–56. doi:10.1515/tl-2012-0001 (17 September, 2012).

Chung, Sandra. 2012. Are lexical categories universal? The view from Chamorro. Theoretical Linguistics 38(1-2). 1–56. (doi:10.1515/tl-2012-0001)

Croft, William. 2001. Radical construction grammar: Syntactic theory in typological perspective. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Drach, Erich. 1937. Grundgedanken der deutschen Satzlehre. Frankfurt am Main: Diesterweg.

Dryer, Matthew S. 1997. Are grammatical relations universal? In Joan L. Bybee, John Haiman & Sandra A. Thompson (eds.), Essays on language function and language type: Dedicated to T. Givón, 115–143. Amsterdam: Benjamins.

Gleason, Henry Allan. 1961. An introduction to descriptive linguistics. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston.

Greenberg, Joseph H. 1974. Language typology: A historical and analytic overview. The Hague: Mouton.

Haspelmath, Martin. 2007. Pre-established categories don’t exist: consequences for language description and typology. Linguistic Typology 11. 119 – 132.

Haspelmath, Martin. 2010. Comparative concepts and descriptive categories in crosslinguistic studies. Language 86(3). 663-687.

Haspelmath, Martin. 2011. The indeterminacy of word segmentation and the nature of morphology and syntax. Folia Linguistica 45(1). 31–80.

Haspelmath, Martin. 2012a. How to compare major word-classes across the world’s languages. In Thomas Graf, Denis Paperno, Anna Szabolcsi & Jos Tellings (eds.), Theories of everything: in honor of Edward Keenan, 109–130. (UCLA Working Papers in Linguistics 17). Los Angeles: UCLA.

Haspelmath, Martin. 2012b. Escaping ethnocentrism in the study of word-class universals. Theoretical Linguistics 38(1-2). doi:10.1515/tl-2012-0004.

Haspelmath, Martin. 2014. Defining vs. diagnosing linguistics categories: A case study of clitic phenomena. In Joanna Błaszczak (ed.), Categories. Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton.

Hockett, Charles F. 1944. Review of Linguistic interludes and Moprhology: The descriptive analysis of words (1944 edition) both by Eugene A. Nida. Language 20.252-255.

Hockett, Charles F. 1958. A course in modern linguistics. New York: MacMillan.

Langacker, Ronald W. 1972. Fundamentals of linguistic analysis. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.

Lazard, Gilbert. 2006. La quête des invariants interlangues: La linguistique est-elle une science?. Paris: Champion.

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Mugdan, Joachim. 1986. Was ist eigentlich ein Morphem? Zeitschrift für Phonetik, Sprachwissenschaft und Kommunikationsforschung 39: 29-43.

Müller, Stefan. 2010. Grammatiktheorie. Tübingen: Stauffenburg.

Robins, R. H. 1997. A short history of linguistics. London: Longman.

Ščerba, Lev V. 1945. Očerednye problemy jazykovedenija. Izvestija Akademija Nauk SSSR 1945.4(5): 173-186.

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Topping, Donald. 1973. Chamorro reference grammar. Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii.

How to cite this post

Haspelmath, Martin. 2014. (Non-)universality of word-classes and words: The mid-20th century shift. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/10/08/non-universality-of-word-classes-and-words-the-mid-20th-century-shift

Sapir’s form-feeling and its aesthetic background

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Jean-Michel Fortis
Laboratoire d’histoire des théories linguistiques, Université Paris-Diderot

I find that what I most care for is beauty of form, whether in substance or, perhaps even more keenly, in spirit. A perfect style, a well-balanced system of philosophy, a perfect bit of music, the beauty of mathematical relations — these are some of the things that, in the sphere of the immaterial, have most deeply stirred me.
(Sapir, letter to Lowie, 29 September 1916, cited in Silverstein 1986: 79)

In several texts, Sapir uses the term form-feeling, or closely related expressions (e.g. relational feeling, form intuition, feeling for form / relations / patterning / classification into forms, to feel a pattern / form etc.), to refer to the grasp of an unconscious linguistic or cultural and behavioral pattern. This grasp is what directs the subject of a given culture and speaker of a given language to act and speak in accordance with the patterns set down in his social and linguistic environment.

The following post is about the possible source of the notion of form-feeling. It is divided into two parts. First, I present the notion of form-feeling and the form-function duality in Sapir’s thought (sections 1 and 2). Next I come to the possible source of the notion, which I argue is to be found in German-speaking aesthetics and the concept of Formgefühl (sections 3, 4 and 5). Lastly, I will say a few words about Sapir’s striving for form and, again, its possible aesthetic origin.

My pathological lack of a feeling for concise form has resulted in a lengthy post. I beg to be forgiven. Many thanks to James McElvenny and Nick Riemer, who reviewed this post and checked the English.

1. The notion of form-feeling

The notion of form-feeling, as far as I know, first occurs in Language (1921), where it is applied to linguistic patterning. For example, we read that “both the phonetic and conceptual structures show the instinctive feeling of language for form” (1921: 56) or that every language has a definite feeling for its inner phonetic system and “also a definite feeling for patterning on the level of grammatical formation” (ibid.: 61).

A later text (“The unconscious patterning of behavior in society”, [1927b] 1951: 550) provides a good illustration of the notion and of the themes intertwined with it:

To most of us who speak English the tangible expression of the plural idea in the noun seems to be a self-evident necessity. Careful observation of English usage, however, leads to the conviction that this self-evident necessity of expression is more of an illusion than a reality. If the plural were to be understood functionally alone, we should find it difficult to explain why we use plural forms with numerals and other words that in themselves imply plurality. “Five man” or “several house” would be just as adequate as “five men” or “several houses.” Clearly, what has happened is that English, like all of the other Indo-European languages, has developed a feeling for the classification of all expressions which have a nominal form into singulars and plurals. So much is this the case that in the early period of the history of our linguistic family even the adjective, which is nominal in form, is unusable except in conjunction with the category of number.
[my emphasis]

The example brings home the point that a structural feature is, as it were, “exercised” in actual speech in a way that is not of the order of conscious propositional knowledge. Such a feature gives form to experience and may perpetuate itself by the sheer force of the unconscious pattern which imposes itself on the speaker. Their thought being channeled in these formal grooves, speakers may resist the elimination of what, in the eyes of cool reason, would appear to be non-functional or a superfluous luxury. It has been pointed out that this divorce of form from meaning might conflict with the claim that formal patterns are made up of elements identified by their semantic role or function (see Contini-Morava 1986 and the discussion following this paper). However, a form may have a semantic role without thereby being functionally motivated.

In the passage just cited, and in other occurrences, Sapir seems to be engaging in an implicit dialogue with Jespersen (1894, 1924; see e.g. 1924: 207ff for the example of plurality) and, as regards the evolution of pronouns, possibly with Sweet (1892) (but Sweet was influenced by Jespersen too). Against Jespersen, yet not in complete disagreement with him, Sapir apparently claims that languages may not evolve toward the complete elimination of superfluities and toward absolute or near absolute analyticity, for speakers’ unconscious attachment to formal patterns carries with it an inertia which resists this evolution. To capture the fact that formal patterns have a potential which imparts a direction to linguistic change, Sapir famously speaks of a drift of languages. This directedness of linguistic drift might give a teleological (Sapir’s own word) connotation to it, that of a progress toward an idiosyncratic state of formal accomplishment (cf. Darnell 1990: 99).

Note: Drift would be an apt translation of Hermann Paul’s Verschiebung, i.e. a progressive displacement occurring during the history of a language and observable on multiple levels of analysis, that is, phonetic, “etymological” and syntactical (see his Prinzipien). On the other hand, in Language, the chapter about drift centers on examples discussed by Jespersen (1894), and makes an allusion to Jespersen’s claim that languages progress toward more analytic structures. At any rate, the hypothesis that drift was inspired by Wegener’s continental drift, also Verschiebung in German, as proposed in Malkiel (1981), seems rather far-fetched to me. Finally, it may be noted that the first occurrence of drift in a sense which anticipates Language can be found in a context where reference is made to the evolution of literary style, and thus, to aesthetics (according to Malkiel 1981: 537).

To confine ourselves to linguistic forms, other examples of unconscious patterns intuitively apprehended by a speaker are the system of English vocalic alternations (goose-geese, sing-sang-sung; 1921: 60-61), active sentences (1921: 84-5, 111) resulting in the abstracting of a particular SVO structure, possessive pronominal forms and the animate vs inanimate distinction (1921: 156), the expression of case in English interrogative pronouns (1921: 159), the causative forms of a language (1924), which give rise to a non-reflexive and non-conscious grasp of the concept of causation, the “phonetic system” of a language (Sapir 1925), the meaning of French est-ce que and of Athabaskan verbal stems (Sapir [1923] 1961: 147).

2. Form, function and formal play

The potency of a pattern is not exclusively determined by the function it might fulfill, as we just saw. Reciprocally, function may counteract a well-established pattern. An example of such a counteraction in the non-linguistic realm is given in “Anthropology and sociology” (1927a). In many Indian tribes, Sapir observes, there is an entrenched social pattern according to which prestigious positions are a matter of inheritable privilege. This pattern may even extend to positions which should require special individual capacities, and thus may be transferred to domains in which it is clearly non-functional. However, some tribes resist this transfer, because “the psychic peculiarity which leads certain men and women (“medicine-men” and “medicine-women”) to become shamans is so individual that shamanism shows nearly everywhere a marked tendency to resist grooving in the social patterns of the tribe.” In the present case, functionality (the exigencies of the craft) supersedes a dominant social pattern (the prevalence of inheritable privilege).

The relative independence of form and function also manifests itself in a process we may call the semantic disinvestment of form. By this term is meant that the “full” content of linguistic forms may not be activated in all of their occurrences, insofar as forms may be simply conventionally applied to ends to which they are not suited. An example from Psychology of Culture ([1928-1937] 2002) may illustrate this point (the square brackets indicate places where the reconstructed “manuscript” has been patched by significant additions from the editors):

Consider, for example, verbs that are not entirely active [in their meaning but are treated as active in the linguistic structure:] in English the subject “I” is logically implied to be the active will in “I sleep” as well as “I run”. [A sentence like] “I am hungry” might, [in terms of its content, be logically] better expressed with “hunger” as the active doer, as in [the German] mich hungert [or even the French] j’ai fain. In some languages, however, such as Sioux, a rigid distinction is made between truly active and static verbs. (…) [It seems, then, that] when we get a pattern of behavior, we follow that [pattern] in spite of [being led, sometimes, into] illogical ideas or a feeling of inadequacy. We become used to it. We are comfortable in a groove of behavior. [Indeed], it seems that no matter what [the] psychological origin may be, or complex of psychological origins, or a particular type of patterned conduct, the pattern itself will linger on by sheer inertia. (…) Patterns of activity are continually getting away from their original psychological incitation.

In other words, the SV pattern is disinvested of its full significance when it gets applied to cases in which S is not an active doer and the verb is static (cf. also Sapir 1921: 14-5). In English, the generalization of this pattern conforms to the general observation that “all languages evince a curious instinct for the development of one or more particular grammatical processes at the expense of others, tending always to lose sight of any explicit functional value that the process may have had in the first instance, delighting, it would seem, in the sheer play of its means of expression” (Sapir 1921: 60). This formal play is in itself, as Sapir adds a few sentences below, nothing but the result of a striving or an impulse which rests on a feeling for patterning active on the grammatical level (see below, section 6).

3. On the source of form-feeling: Croce?

As to the origin of the notion of form-feeling, a clue may be found in “The Grammarian and his language” ([1924] 1951: 156):

Probably most linguists are convinced that the language-learning process, particularly the acquisition of a feeling for the formal set of the language, is very largely unconscious and involves mechanisms that are quite distinct in character from either sensation or reflection. There is doubtless something deeper about our feeling for form than even the majority of art theorists have divined, and it is not unreasonable to suppose that, as psychological analysis becomes more refined, one of the greatest values of linguistic study will be in the unexpected light it may throw on the psychology of intuition, this “intuition” being perhaps nothing more nor less than the “feeling” for relations.
[my emphasis]

In two words, the source is aesthetic theory. Aesthetics is a continent of itself, and the potential sources are many. Let us first see what Sapir himself has to say about his influence(s).

In the just-quoted passage, “intuition” is equated to “feeling for form.” On the other hand, we have explicit statements by Sapir in Language, in which he acknowledges his debt to Croce’s Aesthetics; further, in one instance, Sapir says he borrows the term “intuition” from Croce (1921: 224), who in fact uses intuition in contrast to “logical knowledge”. All together, this may be conducive to an adventurous syllogism: Sapir owes his notion of intuitive knowledge to Croce, intuitive knowledge = form-feeling, ergo Sapir’s form-feeling is a version of Croce’s intuition, or at least related to it. A similar conclusion is endorsed by Modjeska (1968), who claims that in Croce Sapir “found a confirmation, if not the source of his own thoughts on formal pattern.” Hymes (1969) joins up with Modjeska, while Hall (1969) begs to differ.

That Sapir borrowed intuition from Croce is testified by Sapir himself (1921: 224), as we just saw. Whether he sided with Croce’s own concept of intuition is another matter. Croce’s definitions of intuition, however hazy, show that intuition is for him a faculty essentially dedicated to the apprehension of individual objects. Further, Croce wields his notion of intuition against an intellectualist view of cognition and implicitly against Kant’s concept of intuition; at any rate, his discussion shows he completely misses the Kantian doctrine of forms of intuition and categories, which certainly should detract from its interest for an informed reader.

In the Aesthetic, there is no particular emphasis on the grasp of unconscious patterns; on the contrary: genius, as superlative intuition, is essentially conscious, and in the chapter on language (chap. 18), Croce makes clear that parts of speech, which might be taken here as building blocks of linguistic patterning, are dubious abstractions floating above linguistic intuition. Intuition is also, however, a faculty that is inherently expressive, insofar as its operation is fully realized (intuiting a geographical area is being able to draw it, says Croce); this aspect, at least, is consonant with the dynamic character of the Sapirian unconscious (see Allen 1986).

Given the philosophical context in which Croce introduces his notion of intuition, it is not clear to me what exactly its relevance was for Sapir. We may perhaps say that Sapir found a handy term for designating a form of knowledge that is implicit, non-reflexive and creative.

In the preface to Language, a short eulogy praises Croce for being “one of the very few who have gained an understanding of the fundamental significance of language”, and apparently expanding on what this significance resides in, Sapir goes on to say that Croce “has pointed out its [i.e. language’s: JMF] close relation to the problem of art” and that he is “deeply indebted to him for this insight.”

A glance at what Croce has to say about language, both simplistic and vague, suggests that Sapir, beyond this fundamental insight, could find little of value for his own concerns. This impression is further confirmed by notes that Sapir jotted down on Croce and in which he criticizes him for conceding too much to an individual’s expressive capacity and not enough to formal conventions (Handler 1986). Further, the notion of form-feeling does not figure in the theoretical apparatus of Croce. We can therefore say, in agreement with Handler (1986: 441), that Sapir’s analyses of linguistic patterning owe little to Croce.

4. Form-feeling and Formgefühl: Vischer and Wölfflin

I suggest that form-feeling is in fact a translation of the German Formgefühl, a term commonly used by art theorists of the time. Note also that the quote above (“the majority of art theorists”) points to a notion that is not the prerogative of a single author, and this is indeed the case for the Formgefühl. A few words need to be said about the historical background of this notion.

Formgefühl has various meanings. In the magnum opus of the “ponderous Hegelian” (Croce’s words) Friedrich Theodor Vischer (Ästhetik, 1846-1857), the term is abundantly used without, however, being thematized as such. Its signification is essentially that of aesthetic sensibility, and it is most often used in connection with a people and a period. It may also characterize one of the opposed principles into which Vischer resolves styles, i.e. the painterly and the plastic (Vischer is one of the sources for the analyses of styles into oppositive pairs, cf. for example the Principles of Wölfflin).

The notion of Formgefühl becomes a thematic focus and gains a real audience as such with the advent of an empathy-centred, psychological aesthetics. An important landmark in this tradition, which goes back to the Romantic era, is the work of Robert Vischer, son of Friedrich Vischer (for an introduction to R. Vischer, see Barasch 1998). In a short treatise (his dissertation) entitled On The Optic Feeling of Form (Über das Optische Formgefühl, 1873), Vischer explains that contemplating and forming images always implies an active involvement of the body or a projection of bodily feelings and affects onto the object (a projection he calls Nachfühlung / Einfühlung, ‘concurring-feeling’, as it were, and ‘empathy’). Thus, a rock facing a subject may appear to defy or challenge her, a road which widens awakens a triumphant feeling etc. This is not yet art, but its prelude: the artists’s task resides in imbuing such projected feelings with a more general and spiritual meaning. In sum, the Formgefühl is for Vischer a projection of a feeling into a form.

In his first study, Wölfflin (1886) pursues Vischer’s line of thought, and applies it more specifically to the description of factors which condition the affective effect produced by an architectural style. In Renaissance und Barock (1888), Wölfflin explains that the features which define a style reflect a way of projecting inner feelings and corporeal habits, characteristic of a period, into forms. The tapering of gothic forms, for example, reflects a muscular tension and an effort of the will that one does not find in the serene and vigorous equanimity of Renaissance constructions. Further, the Formgefühl offers a psychological definition of style which cuts across arts and thus unites architecture with painting, sculpture and decorative arts (e.g. clothing). This relative homogeneity of style is manifested in recurrent formal patterns (e.g. the pointed elongated shape of gothic art), of which the Formgefühl is therefore both an intuition and a source (see e.g. Renaissance und Barock, ch. 3; the English translation has somewhat distorted the text, Formgefühl being variously rendered as formal sensibility, formal response and worse, conception of form). Moreover, Wölfflin lays great importance on the idea that artistic forms cannot be determined by cultural-historical factors nor by functionality or technical necessity. And although the notion of Formgefühl is still framed in an empathy-based theory (or Wölfflin’s own version of empathy, the Lebensgefühl), the Formgefühl itself circumscribes a relatively autonomous formal plane. We may find in this formalist perspective a counterpart to Sapir’s view on the potential autonomization of linguistic form.

5. Form-feeling and Formgefühl: Lipps and Dessoir

Perhaps most relevant for our concern are the discussions of Lipps (1897, 1907) and Dessoir (1906), in view of their insistence on the structural features of form, and therefore their possibly greater proximity to Sapir’s understanding of the form-feeling.
In his Aesthetics of Space (Raumästhetik), Lipps draws a parallel between, on one hand this form of unconscious and rule-driven knowledge, intuited by feeling, which we exercise when engaged in “mechanical activities” (such as riding a bicycle) and, on the other hand, the feeling which rules our speech productions, the “language-feeling” or Sprachgefühl (a term of common parlance at the time; cf. Tchougounnikov, to appear). Further, Lipps states that this “language-feeling” is akin to the “form-feeling” which is built from our bodily experience and our acquaintance with the world of physical objects, and which results in the grasp of general geometrical patterns (ibid., ch. 8). These various feelings, though rule-driven, do not rest on an exact memory of past events, since each new case which presents itself is different from the preceding ones; they constitute a sui generis kind of knowledge, unconscious and “amazingly sure”, says Lipps.

In an introduction to his conception of psychological aesthetics, Lipps (1907) explains that the Formgefühl is a feeling assigning a value to the way in which parts are articulated into a whole, i.e. to the structure of a pattern. The rules which govern this part-whole organization fall under two main principles: those related to the identification of global organization (e.g. rhythm), and those related to the hierarchical structure of the whole. For instance, in the Greek temple, because of the regular disposition of columns, the principle of rhythmic organization prevails, while in the Gothic cathedral the hierarchical principle is dominant. The beautiful is defined as a vital affirmation of the Ego (Lebensbejahung), an affirmation which results from a positive empathy, which Lipps attempts to define in not too nebulous terms. Finally, Lipps characterizes art as a formal language (Formensprache), and this formal language he identifies with a play with forms endowed with a functional role (e.g. a capital stylized into a vegetal form).

Close to some positions advocated by Lipps, Dessoir (1906) defines the Formgefühl as that feeling which arises from the structural features of proportion, harmony and rhythm, as well as from the quantitative and intensive aspects of forms. The Formgefühl itself is carefully distinguished from feelings associated with pure sensations and the content of aesthetic objects; it is therefore a feeling which revels in the organization of formal elements. Much of the discussion centers on rhythm and music, and in fact, the term Formgefühl surfaces from time to time, in addition to Dessoir’s text, in discussions about the “new music” (Neue Musik) of, e.g., Schönberg and Webern (see e.g. Webern 1912). Given Sapir’s intense interest for music and the similarity he perceived between music and language (Darnell 1990: 156), these discussions may have been a possible source too.

6. The form-drive

To my ears, Sapir’s allusions to a sort of instinctual “form-craving” of the human mind and to an innate sense of form (e.g. Sapir 1924, 1927a; see Handler 1986: 445) are reminiscent of the Schillerian Formtrieb, a drive to a free expression of personality, to universal concepts and toward insulating a permanent self from ever-changing worldly conditions (Schiller 1795, letters 12 to 16). The wedding of this “form-drive” to the flow of sensations is accomplished through an aesthetic impulse, the “play-drive” (Spieltrieb). In case Schiller’s Formtrieb was not on Sapir’s mind when he wrote Language, Jung’s Psychological Types (Jung 1921), a book and a theory Sapir was very fond of, could serve as a reminder.

As James McElvenny has pointed out to me, G. von der Gabelentz, in a passage of his Sprachwissenschaft ([1891] 19012), speaks of a drive toward the creation of forms (Formungstrieb) which would acccount for the formal lavishness (Formengepränge) of languages, whose profusion goes beyond functional needs. This Formungstrieb accounts for men’s delight in formal play, says Gabelentz, who describes this human urge with Schiller’s word: Spieltrieb, i.e. the play-drive which grounds the aesthetic attitude (Gabelentz [1891] 19012: 361-2; no explicit reference to Schiller is made).

In an addition to the second edition of Gabelentz’s text, Gabelentz’s nephew, Albrecht Graf von der Schulenburg refers back to Humboldt (see also McElvenny, to appear). Especially praised are speakers of languages which systematize this formal play by resorting to obligatory flexions, that is, speakers of Indo-European languages; in them, says von der Schulenburg, one finds a specific sense of form (Formensinn, a word also found in texts on art) and an outstanding aesthetic gift (ibid.: 394). While the value judgment might not have been to Gabelentz’s taste, I believe the reference to Humboldt puts us on the right track.

Although the term Formungstrieb, so it seems, is not used by Humboldt (Jürgen Trabant, p. c.), what we do find in Humboldt is the idea of a formative power which is especially active in some phases of language evolution, a power that Humboldt calls Bildungstrieb. Now, the term can be found in two contexts: in texts about language, and in instances where the discussion revolves about biological questions (resp. Humboldt [1830-35] 1907, vol. VII: 95, 168, cf. Eng. trans. 1988, p.88 “constructive urge” and p.150, “formative urge”; Humboldt [1794] 1903, vol. I: 328;). The latter contexts point to the biological source of the Bildungstrieb, a concept borrowed from Humboldt’s former teacher at Göttingen, Blumenbach (1781), for whom the Bildungstrieb is a force creating and perpetuating organic forms (Jürgen Trabant, p. c.).

In short, I believe that, by setting Sapir’s aesthetic form-drive in this vitalist-humboldtian-schillerian genealogy, we are not going way beyond the bounds of decent speculation.

By way of conclusion, I would like to point to those elements of the aesthetic form-feeling which may have seemed, to Sapir’s eyes, suggestive of a parallel with the intuition of linguistic patterns. These elements do not relate so much to the notion of empathy as to the unity of style and to the grasp of formal patterns afforded by the aesthetic form-feeling. Lipps’ theory seems to be especially relevant: like the Sapirian form-feeling, Lipps’ aesthetic form-feeling is an unconscious form of knowledge which cannot be reduced to a kind of conceptual knowledge, yet is rule-driven; further it is explicitly compared with that feeling for language which regulates speech production. Given his celebrity, Wölfflin may have come to Sapir’s attention and may have suggested to him a parallel between language and style. Moreover, Wölfflin’s formalist perspective and in the same respect that of Lipps and Dessoir was also potentially congenial to the Sapirian view of “form for form’s sake.” In addition, we may speculate that the problem of stylistic change, of major importance for Wölfflin, could invite to a comparison with the question of linguistic change. Finally, the interplay, in art productions, between functionality, stylization and convention, between emotion-laden and detached formal play may have reinforced the Sapirian view of language as an aesthetic form.

My impression is that there is still work to be done on Sapir’s intellectual background. Some covert references are still waiting to be exposed, and I suspect that his German-language sources might bring us close to the mark in more than one instance.

References

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Croce, Benedetto. 1922. Aesthetic as Science of Expression and General Linguistic, New York: Noonday (translated by Douglas Ainslie from Croce, 1902, Estetica come Scienza dell’Espressione e Linguistica Generale, Florence: Sandron).

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Gabelentz, Georg von der. [1891] 19012. Die Sprachwissenschaft. Ihre Aufgaben, Methoden und Bisherigen Ergebnissen. Leipzig, Chr. Herm. Tauchnitz.

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How to cite this post

Fortis, Jean-Michel. 2014. Sapir’s form-feeling and its aesthetic background. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/10/15/sapirs-form-feeling-and-its-aesthetic-background

“Some Americans could not by any means count to 1000”: the cognitive effects of the lack of names for numbers in exotic languages from the perspective of linguistic theorists before Humboldt

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Gerda Haßler
Universität Potsdam

The limited number word vocabulary in some languages for quantities above a specific amount has for some time been a much-debated topic. A study published in 2008 (Butterworth, Reeve, Reynolds, Lloyd 2008), which attracted much attention, found the development of numerical cognition to be independent from the presence of number words. Test participants from two Australian Aboriginal communities, both of whose languages only have words for ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘few’ and ‘many’, performed just as well in a counting test as a comparable group of Aboriginal people who spoke only English. From these results it was concluded that abstract concepts for numbers are based on innate mechanisms and not on socially learned words.

These findings appear contrary to the position propagated since the 1990s in which the discussion about the linguistic relativity of thought[1] was revived, based on the specific example of number words. In the history of the theory of the linguistic worldview, usually associated with Wilhelm von Humboldt, there are several conceptual fields that repeatedly attract attention as potential targets of linguistic influence, such as space-time relationships, kinship or religious terms. Perhaps numbers did not belong to these categories due to the non-linguistically motivated process of counting. Nevertheless, the lack of number words was noticed particularly in exotic languages, causing communicative difficulties and encouraging speculation about cognitive effects. In the following text, we want to explore the assumption of cognitive effects of the lack of number words prior to Wilhelm von Humboldt.

1. References to the lack of number words in indigenous languages as a deficit

References to the lack of number words in indigenous languages can already be found in the writings of travelers and missionaries in the 16th century. In 1578, after Jean de Léry (1534-1611) pointed out the lack of number words in indigenous languages in Brazil and the resulting communication problems, observation of this phenomenon became a common theme, which was confirmed repeatedly in the writings of missionaries and travelers.

Charles-Marie de La Condamine (1701-1774) also took up Léry’s idea in his Relation abrégée d’un Voyage fait dans l’intérieur de l’Amérique Méridionale (1745), but he developed these linguistic considerations further. He recorded the most frequent words in the different Indian languages, because he thought their comparison would provide information about the migration of the tribes over the continent. Moreover, the comparison with African, European and Asian languages should help to reveal the origin of the American peoples (La Condamine 1745: 55). Near a recently established mission he encountered a native tribe called the Yameos, whose language was extremely difficult to learn and hard to pronounce. They held their breath when speaking and uttered almost no vowel sounds. If written, their words would require nine to ten syllables. However, when speaking the Yameos only appeared to pronounce three or four:

Leur langue est d’une difficulté inexprimable, & leur maniere de prononcer est encore plus extraordinaire que leur langue. Ils parlent en retirant leur respiration, & ne font sonner presque aucune voyelle. Ils ont des mots que nous ne pourrions écrire, même imparfaitement, sans employer moins de 9 ou 10 syllabes ; & ces mots prononcés par eux semblent n’en avoir que trois ou quatre.
(La Condamine 1745: 66)

La Condamine illustrated his intuitive feeling for the degree of difficulty of this obviously highly agglutinative language, which was also difficult to linearize graphically, using number words. In this language, poettarrarorincouroac means ‘three’. Fortunately for all those dealing with this people and having to learn their language, La Condamine remarked, they could only count to three:

Poettarrarorincouroac signifie en leur langue le nombre Trois : heureusement pour ceux qui ont affaire à eux, leur arithmétique ne va pas plus loin.
(La Condamine 1745: 67)

It seems reasonable to view the awkwardness of the expression of small numbers and the lack of words for larger numbers as a cognitive constraint: the arithmetic of these people stops at three. Based on his experience and on reading travelogues, La Condamine noticed that this language was not an isolated case. The language spoken in Brazil – he was obviously referring to Tupí – was spoken by less primitive peoples, but it still had the same deficit: as soon as they wanted to count beyond the number three, they had to fall back on Portuguese:

La langue Brasilienne parlé par des peuples moins grossiers, est dans la même disette, & passé le nombre Trois, ils sont obligé, pour compter, d’emprunter le secours de la langue Portugaise.
(La Condamine 1745: 67)

The lack of number words above three is apparently viewed here not only as a communicative obstacle, but at the same time as a cognitive deficit. Having to express such a simple number as three with a decasyllabic word was interpreted as a circumstance that made it harder to think in numbers and that made communication more difficult. Apparently, the tribes with few number words were considered capable of operating with larger numbers because they could always fall back on Portuguese to compensate for the deficit.

Similarly, in 1748 Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis (1698-1759) formulated his general theory on linguistic relativity on the basis of a hypothetical reference to exotic languages. According to him, the signs by which men designated their first ideas had such great influence on their knowledge that these are worthy of the attention of philosophers. Here the issue is not the comparison of languages that classify the world in a similar way, i.e. what is called pain in France, is called bread in London. Rather, there are languages, especially those of far distant peoples, which are based on quite different ideas, so that translating from them is almost impossible:

On voit assez que je ne veux pas parler ici de cette étude des Langues dont tout l’objet est de savoir que ce qu’on appelle pain en France s’appelle bread à Londres : plusieurs Langues ne paroissent être que des traductions les unes des autres ; les expressions des idées y sont coupées de la même manière, & dès-lors la comparaison de ces Langues entre elles ne peut rien nous apprendre. Mais on trouve des Langues, sur-tout chez les peuples fort éloignés, qui semblent avoir été formées sur des plans d’idées si différents des nôtres, qu’on ne peut presque pas traduire dans nos Langues ce qui a été une fois exprimé dans celles-là. Ce seroit de la comparaison de ces Langues avec les autres qu’un esprit philosophique pourroit tirer beaucoup d’utilité.
(Maupertuis 1970 [1748] : 25-27)

In addition to the practical difficulties of communication and the development of people’s thinking, particularly given the diversity of completely differently structured exotic languages, an opportunity was seen to gain insight into the relationship of language and thought and the origin and development of man.

2. The recourse to exotic languages in the justification of the idea of number in the works of John Locke

In his Essay concerning Human Understanding (1690), John Locke (1632-1704) devoted an entire chapter to the idea of number. As the simplest and most universal idea (Locke 1894 [1690]: Book II, Chapter XVI, 1), numbers represent a kind of prototype for the abstracting and generalizing capacity of words. According to Locke, it is essential to have a designation for the concept of a number, which following its institutionalization enables operating with that number:

Names necessary to numbers. […] the idea of an unit, and joining it to another unit, we make thereof one collective idea, marked by the name two. And whosoever can do this, and proceed on, still adding one more to the last collective idea which he had of any number, and gave a name to it, may count, or have ideas, for several collections of units, distinguished one from another, as far as he hath a series of names for following numbers, and a memory to retain that series, with their several names: all numeration being but still the adding of one unit more, and giving to the whole together, as comprehended in one idea, a new or distinct name or sign, whereby to know it from those before and after, and distinguish it from every smaller or greater multitude of units.
(Locke 1894 [1690]: Book II, Chapter XVI, 5)

When we perform arithmetic operations we need number words to distinguish the numbers from one another. Man “is capable of all the ideas of numbers within the compass of his language, or for which he hath names, though not perhaps of more” (Locke 1894 [1690]: Book II, Chapter XVI, 5). Without number words “we can hardly well make use of numbers in reckoning, especially where the combination is made up of any great multitude of units; which put together, without a name or mark to distinguish that precise collection, will hardly be kept from being a heap in confusion” (Locke 1894 [1690]: Book II, Chapter XVI, 5).

Locke viewed the inability to count without corresponding number words as confirmed with regard to the indigenous Americans. He spoke with representatives of tribes that could not count to 1000. Otherwise, they seemed mentally alert and could reckon up to 20. Locke attributed the deficit of not being able to operate with large numbers or to conceptualize quantities of this size to the lack of corresponding number words, which had not developed in these languages because their speakers had no need for them. Several times, Locke gave as explanation for the absence of number words the lack of any need to designate them. Since the Indians were not familiar with trade and mathematics, they had not developed any further number words and would only refer to the hairs on their head in order to express large quantities.

Another reason for the necessity of names to numbers. This I think to be the reason why some Americans I have spoken with, (who were otherwise of quick and rational parts enough,) could not, as we do, by any means count to 1000; nor had any distinct idea of that number, though they could reckon very well to 20. Because their language being scanty, and accommodated only to the few necessaries of a needy, simple life, unacquainted either with trade or mathematics, had no words in it to stand for 1000; so that when they were discoursed with of those greater numbers, they would show the hairs of their head, to express a great multitude, which they could not number; which inability, I suppose, proceeded from their want of names.
(Locke 1894 [1690]: Book II, Chapter XVI, 6)

The Toupinambos had no names for numbers above 5; any number beyond that they made out by showing their fingers, and the fingers of others who were present.
(Locke 1894 [1690]: Book II, Chapter XVI, 6)

Ultimately, according to Locke, we Europeans would also be better at arithmetic if we had corresponding names for very large numbers. It is difficult to think beyond 18- or 24-digit numbers. If we had names for large numbers like those below — which are thought in a linear series, where we say first the units, then the millions, then billions, and so on — then our ability to conceptualize these numbers may be improved:

Nonillions Octillions Septillions Sextillions Quintillions
857324 162486 345896 437918 423147
Quatrillions Trillions Billions Millions Units
248106 235421 261734 368149 623137

(Locke 1894 [1690]: Book II, Chapter XVI, 6)

In English, however, it is common practice to repeat of millions and to say millions of millions of millions, which does not contribute to a distinctive designation of the numbers.

Thus, in all languages there are deficits in the naming of numbers. To remedy this, distinctive number words would have to be introduced. But Locke did not want to impose this even for English, because, according to him, it was ultimately only the needs of the speaker that were decisive for the introduction of new number words.

3. Condillac’s theory of arithmetic as prototypical example of the necessity of signs for thinking

Following Locke, Étienne Bonnot de Condillac (1714-1780) also cited the example of those Indians who only had words for the numbers up to 20 and who could not imagine the number 1000. Condillac added that they could not even imagine numbers less than 1000 (Condillac 1947 [1746]: 41). People who do not have a method for building larger numbers from smaller units cannot go beyond the smaller numbers in their thoughts. The presence of such a method, in other words the necessary linguistic signs, is thus a prerequisite for the further development of thinking. If these linguistic signs were lacking, human knowledge would be constrained by a language-related limitation.

Condillac justified the necessity of number words with the limitations of our sensory imagination. The numbers two and three can be imagined in the form of two and three distinctive objects. The transition to four is simplified by imagining two objects respectively on two sides, for six he imagined two in three groups or three on two sides. To have an idea of larger numbers, it would be necessary to include several units in one group and to assign a sign to this group.

Pour moi, je n’apperçois les nombres deux ou trois, qu’autant que je me représente deux ou trois objets différents. Si je passe au nombre quatre, je suis obligé, pour plus de facilité, d’imaginer deux objets d’un côté et deux de l’autre : à celui de six, je ne puis me dispenser de les distribuer deux à deux, ou trois à trois ; et si je veux aller plus loin, il me faudra bientôt considérer plusieurs unités comme une seule, et les réunir pour cet effet à un seul objet.
(Condillac 1947 [1746]: 41)

Condillac attributed the cognitive deficit of the Indians who could not count to 1000 to the fact that their language did not have any method which would enable them to form new number words for larger numbers starting from the first numbers. If new number words could be formed by an analogous pattern, larger numbers could be easily named:

C’est que les premiers signes étant donnés, nous avons des règles pour en inventer d’autres. Ceux qui ignoreroient cette méthode, au point d’être obligés d’attacher chaque collection à des signes qui n’auroient point d’analogie entre eux, n’auroient aucun secours pour se guider dans l’invention des signes. Ils n’auroient donc pas la même facilité que nous pour se faire de nouvelles idées. Tel étoit vraisemblablement le cas de ces Américains. Ainsi seulement, ils n’avoient point d’idée du nombre mille, mais même il ne leur étoit pas aisé de s’en faire immédiatement au-dessus de vingt.
(Condillac 1947 [1746]: 41)

According to Condillac, progress in the acquisition of numbers thus depended solely on how accurately the initial numbers were named and how the subsequent numbers could be distinguished from them through corresponding names. There is nothing that holds several things in our thoughts together as the sign that has been assigned to it. For that reason one should not delude oneself by imagining that ideas of numbers, separate from their signs, would be something clear and determined:

Il ne faut pas se faire illusion, en s‘imaginant que les idées des nombres, séparées de leurs signes, soient quelque chose de clair et de déterminé.
(Condillac 1947 [1746]: 41)

As early as 1746, in his Essai sur l’origine des connoissances humaines, Condillac advocated transferring the reflections on numbers and the necessity for analogous number words to all of the sciences (Condillac 1947 [1746]: 42). In his unfinished work La langue des calculus, which was published posthumously in 1798, he extolled algebra as example of a language that is in itself analogous and therefore an ideal scientific language. For him, algebra was the only well-formed language (une langue bien faite), and it was the only language that could be well-formed because, unlike other languages, nothing about it is arbitrary. The analogy leads from expression to expression and the language leads as method to the right insights, which are not at all dependent on the authority of usage:

L’algèbre est une langue bien faite, et c’est la seule: rien n‘y paroît arbitraire. L’analogie qui n’échappe jamais, conduit sensiblement d’expression en expression. L’usage ici n’a aucune autorité. Il ne s’agit pas de parler comme les autres, il faut parler d’après la plus grande analogie pour arriver à la plus grande précision ; et ceux qui ont fait cette langue, ont senti que la simplicité du style en fait toute l’élégance : vérité peu connue dans nos langues vulgaires.
(Condillac 1948 [1798]: 420)

According to Condillac, however, it is not the language that determines the cognitive possibilities of the speaker and it is not the words that lead to the things, but rather only in the context with the development of science-immanent cognitive means can language be perfected and thus positively influence cognitive processes. Apart from that, the development of language and thinking is not merely a process that simply takes place in mutual dependence but rather is integrated into man’s needs to designate and their development. This relationship to numbers, which Locke already analyzed extensively, was apparently a generally accepted view at the end of the 18th century. For example, Joseph-Marie Degérando (1772-1842) asserted in his prize essay (Degérando 1800), using the example of numbers, that underdeveloped signs are no hindrance to thinking, but rather are an expression of the lack of any need to devote more attention to the thus designated knowledge areas.

4. The broad effect of the numerical example for the dissemination of the view that thought is dependent on language

The statements of La Condamine about the lack of corresponding number words in native American languages and their epistemological evaluation by Locke and Condillac spread very quickly. Johann David Michaelis (1717–1791) also mentioned them in his award-winning answer to the question of the Berlin Royal Academy concerning the influence of the opinions of a people on its language, and of the language on its opinions, in which he cited the inability of the Indians to count above 20 and the metaphorical designation of quantity with reference to the hairs on the head. For them, all large numbers represented only a non-specific quantity that could not be determined and which was merely referred to as something large:

Einige Americanische Völcker können über zwantzig nicht zählen: was darüber gehet, vergleichen sie den Haaren ihres Haupts. Ein recht bequemer Ausdruck, die unordentliche Menge zu bezeichnen, an deren Bestimmung man verzweifelt. Sie müssen statt der größern Zahlen blos etwas großes dencken, ohne zu wissen wie groß es ist. Was vor Mühe muß es kosten, aus einem solchen Holtz einen Mathematicum zu bilden? und wie weit von der Mathesi unserer Bauern muß dort ein jeder zurück bleiben, der keinen göttlichen Geist, oder keinen fremden Unterricht hat? Dis kann nicht ohne weitern Einfluß bleiben: überall fehlen wir, wenn wir nicht rechnen können.
(Michaelis 1760: 34-35)

In contrast to La Condamine’s reference to Portuguese as a way out and Locke and Condillac’s reference to the possibility of constructing analogous number systems, Michaelis viewed the mathematical potential of these people as limited by their language, noting that no mathematician could be carved from such wood. Although Michaelis in his essay was basically concerned with the mutual influence of linguistic features and modes of thought of the peoples, in his opinion even uneducated peasants had a greater advantage when they had a language with an adequate vocabulary of number words. Much like Locke, Michaelis proposed that the ability to conceptualize very large numbers could be promoted by the corresponding words. We have nine ones and nine tens, hundred as the second power of ten and thousand as the third power. It would be useful for mathematical thinking if we had further non-compound words up to the tenth power. These would give concepts to every speaker which in the present condition of the language only scientists can acquire with much effort.

Der Vorzug einer Sprache könnte noch weiter getrieben werden, wenn sie sieben unzusammengesetzte Zahlwörter mehr hätte, als die unsrige. Wir haben neun Einer, sodann neun Zehner von 10 bis 90, endlich zehn in der zweiten und dritten Potenz, nehmlich Hundert und Tausend. Es wäre der Analogie des übrigen gemäß, wenn wir auch eigene Wörter für 10 bis in die zehnte Potenz hätten, das ist, bis auf zehntausend Millionen. Dadurch würden dem, der nur auf eine gemeine Art rechnen kann, zehntausend Millionen so faßlich werden, als jetzt tausend: und was uns jetzt tausendmahltausend ist, das wäre uns dann zehntausend Millionen in der zweiten Potenz, oder

100.000.000.000.000.000.000.

In einem solchen Volcke würde der gemeine Mann von den Größen, die der Astronomus misset oder dencket, Begriffe haben können, welche jetzt so manchem unmathematischen Gelehrten mangeln.
(Michaelis 1760: 37)

Towards the end of the 18th century the Jesuit Lorenzo Hervás y Panduro (1735-1809) addressed the issue of number words on a much broader basis. Volume 19 of his encyclopedia Idea dell’Universo, published in 1787, was entitled Aritmética delle nazioni e divisione del tempo fra vli orientali. Here Hervás described the system of numerals in American, European, Asian and African languages and remarked that many languages were based on the numbers 10, 100, 1000, which were constantly repeated in the formation of numerals. The arithmetic of Hervás is in reality a language-typological representation of the numerals in the languages known in the late 18th century (cf. Breva Claramonte 1993: 499). In the five language-related volumes of the Italian encyclopedia, Hervás presented the thus far largest collection about the languages of the world. Later Hervás published an even more extensive catalogue of languages in Spanish, the Catálogo de las lenguas de las naciones conocidas, y numeración, división, y clases destas, según la diversidad de sus idiomas y dialects (1800-1805). The most original achievement of Hervás is doubtless his classification of American languages. His purpose was to confirm statements made in the Bible using the factual evidence to be found in the world’s languages. Hervás asserted that an interpretation of Genesis, according to which God gave the first human beings one language from which all other languages were derived, could be proven through common roots and sounds in some words, even if the people who spoke the languages in question did not have any contact with each other. Thus, the words six and seven originated from one root common to more than 70 languages (Saggio pratico delle lingue, 1787: 9-11; cf. Breva Claramonte 1993: 500). Hervás also stated that the languages would help us to reconstruct secular history and to improve our knowledge about the peoples that speak them.

Since every language is richer in certain elements than other languages, and none reaches absolute perfection, language comparison appears as a contribution to the development of the entirety of human understanding. Several times during the 18th century it was proposed that a Collège des sciences étrangères should be established, in which members of indigenous tribes were to contribute insights gained on the basis of their languages (cf. Haßler/Neis 2009: 751-777). The ideologues were more or less able to realize this demand over the short term through expeditions made directly for scientific purposes. However, there is no written evidence of this interaction of various languages, nor of any attempts to train native speakers of indigenous languages without number words above twenty to be mathematicians.

Notes

[1] These include orientation in space (Bowerman 1996; Levinson 1996; Nuyts / Pederson 1997; Fuchs / Robert 1997), the names of colors (McLaury 1997), the linguistic-cultural processing of kinship terms (Kronenfeld 1998) and religious concepts (Boyer 1996 and the anthology of Niemeyer / Dirven 2000 and Pütz/Verspoor 2000). The entire third part of the anthology of Gumperz / Levinson (1996: 222-469) is devoted to the problem of relativity in language usage.

References

Bowerman, Melissa (1996): “The origins of children’s spatial semantic categories. Cognitive versus linguistic determinants”. Gumperz / Levinson 1996, 145-176.

Boyer, Pascal (1996): “Cognitive limits to conceptual relativity: the limiting-case of religious ontologies”. Gumperz / Levinson 1996, 203-221.

Breva Claramonte, Manuel (1993): “Las traducciones literales y la identificación de ‘morfemas’ en Lorenzo Hervás (1735-1809): El estado de las lenguas del mundo”. Anuario de Letras, Mexico, 31, 497-521.

Butterworth, B., Reeve, R., Reynolds, F., & Lloyd, D. (2008). “Numerical thought with and without words: Evidence from indigenous Australian children”. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the USA, 105, 13179–13184.doi: 10.1073pnas.0806045105.

Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de (1947 [1746]): “Essai sur l’origine des connoissances humaines”. Œuvres philosophiques de Condillac. Texte établi et présenté par Georges Le Roy. (Corpus général des Philosophes Français publié sous la direction de Raymond Bayer). Paris: Presses universitaires de France, I: 1–118.

Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de (1948 [1798]): “La langue des calculs”. Œuvres philosophiques de Condillac. Texte établi et présenté par Georges Le Roy. (Corpus général des Philosophes Français publié sous la direction de Raymond Bayer). Paris: Presses universitaires de France, II: 417-529.

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Gumperz, John J.; Levinson, Stephen C. (eds.) (1996): Rethinking linguistic relativity. New York: Cambridge University Press (Studies in the social and cultural foundations of language 17)

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Hervás y Panduro, Lorenzo (1800-1805): Catálogo de las lenguas de las naciones conocidas, y numeración, división, y clases de éstas, según la diversidad de sus idiomas y dialectos, Madrid: Administración del Real Arbitrio de la Beneficencia, 6 vols.

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Maupertuis, Pierre Louis Moreau de (1970 [1748]): “Réflexions philosophiques sur l’origine des langues, et la signification des mots”. Varia Linguistica. Textes rassemblés et annotés par Charles Porset. Bordeaux : Ducrot, 25–67.

Michaelis, Johann David (1760): “Beantwortung der Frage von dem Einfluß der Meinungen eines Volcks in seine Sprache, und der Sprache in die Meinungen”. Dissertation qui a remporté le prix proposé par l’Académie Royale des Sciences et belles lettres de Prusse, sur l’influence réciproque du langage sur les opinions, et des opinions sur le langage, avec les pièces qui ont concouru. Berlin: Haude & Spener, 1–84.

Niemeier, Susanne and René Dirven (eds.) (2000): Evidence for Linguistic Relativity. Philadelphia, Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Co. (Current Issues in Linguistic Theory 198)

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How to cite this post

Haßler, Gerda. 2014. “Some Americans could not by any means count to 1000”. The cognitive effects of the lack of names for numbers in exotic languages from the perspective of linguistic theorists before Humboldt. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/10/29/some-americans-could-not-by-any-means-count-to-1000-the-cognitive-effects-of-the-lack-of-names-for-numbers-in-exotic-languages-from-the-perspective-of-linguistic-theorists-before


Early Descriptions of Gender in Pama-Nyungan Languages

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Clara Stockigt
University of Adelaide

There is little correlation between the existence of a system of gender in Pama-Nyungan languages and the inclusion of a discussion of these systems under the heading “Gender” in early grammatical sources.

Of the small minority of Pama-Nyungan languages which have a system of gender, a handful exhibit systems of noun classes in which agreement is marked on a nominal modifier (Dixon 2002:450-453). Only one of these languages, Minjungbal, was described in the nineteenth century (Livingstone 1892). Another comparably small group of about a dozen Pama-Nyungan languages make a two-way gender distinction in third person pronouns (Dixon 2002:461). A disproportionate number of these are among the few Australian languages that were grammatically described in the pre-contemporary era. They are Hunter River Lake Macquarie language/Awabakal (henceforth HRLM) described by Threlkeld (1834); Diyari, described by four Lutheran missionaries between 1868 and 1899 (Flierl 1880; W. Koch 1868; Reuther 1981; Schoknecht 1947); Minjungbal, described by Livingstone (1892); Pitta Pitta, described by Roth (1897); and Kala Lagaw Ya, described by Ray (1893).

Grammars written in the classical European tradition employing the framework and schema of Traditional Grammar (see Koch 2008:87) discuss the grammatical category Gender within an initial chapter dedicated to the word-class Nouns. Gender is presented alongside the two nominal inflectional categories, Number and Case (see for example Ramshorn 1824 and Gildersleeve 1895). In recognition of the lack of grammatical gender in Pama-Nyungan languages, some grammarians abandon the traditional category altogether (Taplin 1867, 1872; Ridley 1875; Günther 1892). Others state that the language has no gender (Teichelmann and Schürmann 1840:4; Meyer 1843:10; Taplin 1880:7; Kempe 1891:2; Strehlow n.d, n.page). Lutheran missionary C. Schürmann for instance, who co-published the second grammatical description of an Australian language with Teichelmann (Kaurna 1840) and a second description of a related South Australian language shortly after (Barngarla 1844) noted:

In accordance with the other Australian dialects no distinctions on account of gender have been discovered in the Parnkalla language.
(Schürmann 1844:3)

But the term Gender is used within Traditional Grammar to describe both the category held by nouns with which other word classes agree, as well as the lexical marking for biological gender (e.g. Gildersleeve 1895:10-11; Ramshorn 1824:19-32). Consequently the category Gender is maintained in a body of early Pama-Nyungan grammars of languages with no system of gender. This group of grammars, which interestingly do not include the works of German speaking missionaries (Teichelmann and Schürmann 1840; Meyer 1843; Schürmann 1844; Kempe 1891; Günther 1892; C. Strehlow 1908, n.d.), give lexical pairs which refer to different genders of the same type: husband/wife, daughter/son, male kangaroo/female kangaroo etc. (Threlkeld 1834:10; Livingstone 1892:6; Roth 1897:15; Mathews 1907:324). T. G. H. Strehlow also gives substantial discussion of lexical gender under the heading ‘Absence of Gender’ (1944:59), explaining that the language ‘has to add’ adjectival modifiers denoting male and female to the names of species. He does this despite recognizing that “[t]he Aranda nouns know no distinctions of gender” (Strehlow 1944:59). R. H. Mathews similarly fills the prescribed category with a description of adjectival modifiers. The fact that “exponents of nominal Gender were recognisable members of another part of speech was irrelevant” (Koch 2008:192).

It was not until the 1930s, that watershed decade in Australian linguistic thought (McGregor 2008:9), that linguists in Australia began to systematically distinguish between natural and grammatical gender. In 1937, and probably in response to the newly described structures of non-Pama-Nyungan languages from Australia’s north-west with large and pervasive gender systems (e.g. Elkin & Capell 1938; Kaberry 1938; Love 1938), Capell writes:

It is very doubtful whether the idea of sex which English-speaking people read into “gender” is in the minds of these people at all.
(1937:52)

Here he first proposes the use of the term ‘noun classes’ instead of ‘gender’ to describe the category in Australian languages:

“Gender” is a method of classification which may be only a matter of grouping words with a similar ending or beginning into one group, and I suggest that it would be easier to speak of noun-classes in Australian just as in Bantu.
(1937:52)

The term gender is used in this present discussion to refer to both noun class systems and pronominal gender systems, which are taken to exhibit grammatical gender on the grounds of agreement because “the control of anaphoric pronouns by their antecedent (the girl … she) [is seen] as part of agreement” (Corbett 2013). Note that this usage differs from that used by Dixon (2002:452).

The pronominal gender systems of HRLM, Diyari, Minjungbal, Pitta Pitta and Kala Lagaw Ya were all well described in the early sources. The framework of Traditional Grammar anticipated a natural gender distinction in 3sg pronouns and had schema and terminology in place to convey it. It is worthwhile quickly noting that while pronominal systems of gender are typically motivated by biological gender in Australia and elsewhere, the nature of this distinction differs cross-linguistically. The two-way gender distinction in both Pitta Pitta (Blake 1979:192) and Diyari is contemporarily described as distinguishing feminine/non-feminine, rather than feminine/masculine:

[G]ender is determined by natural sex distinctions. Feminine [gender is marked on] all animates whose reference is distinctly feminine … and is the marked term
(Austin 2013:64)

Roth successfully conveys this split when describing Pitta Pitta:

[There are] two forms of gender – one for masculine and neuter, the other for the feminine.
(1897:2)

The Lutheran missionaries’ descriptions of Diyari however, do not elucidate the nature of the semantic divide and simply give ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ labels to the two pronominal classes.

Separate paradigms of different case forms of 3sg pronouns headed ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ are presented in the first grammatical description of an Australian language, HRLM (Threlkeld 1834) and in Diyari (Flierl 1880; W. Koch 1868; Reuther 1981; Schoknecht 1947). Grammars of Minjungbal (Livingstone 1892:6); Kala Lagaw Ya (Ray & Haddon 1893:125) and Pitta Pitta (Roth 1897:2) present gendered forms in a nominative paradigm. Of incidental interest here is missionary C. Strehlow’s surprise in discovering that Arrernte makes no pronominal gender distinction. Strehlow, who was already well acquainted with the structure of Diyari when he embarked on the study of Arrernte, assumes that pronominal gender is a universal linguistic category. He anticipates that Arrernte should, like Diyari and Indo-European languages, make a pronominal gender distinction:

Strangely gender of the personal pronouns cannot even be seen in the third person. era serves to indicate he, she and it. Era pitjima as well as meaning he comes also means “she comes” and “it comes”.
(Anon n.d)

Although all these early sources give 3sg gendered forms, they are not always presented as Gender. Threlkeld, for instance, does not appear to conceive that HRLM has gender, despite presenting masculine and feminine paradigms: “there are a few distinctions of gender in certain nouns, but not generally” (1834, p. 10).

C. Schürmann, who was well acquainted with Threlkeld’s work, also views HRLM language as having no gender when referring to “other Australian dialects” (see above) and T. G. H. Strehlow describes English as having undergone “a complete loss of gender” (1944:60).

Livingstone’s discussion of Minjungbal Gender is entirely confined to lexical gender and the naming male and female pairs:

There are two ways the feminine is distinguished from the masculine- either by a different word or by adding the termination –gun …
(1892:6)

Feminine and masculine forms of 3sg pronouns are not presented as Gender. Nor are the language’s four noun classes. Livingstone’s ‘Classification’ of Minyug (Minjungbal) nouns and adjectives (1892:4-5) tabulates the agreement of adjectives with four classes of noun. Current analysis of Minjungbal noun classes (Crowley 1978:43-45) is based entirely and somewhat tentatively on Livingstone (1892), which is the only source for this Bandjalang variety. As Livingstone describes Minjungbal, nouns appearing without an adjective, which would normally be suffixed to show noun class agreement, may optionally take the noun class suffix themselves (Crowley 1978:43). The feminine members of the gendered lexical pairs presented by Livingstone are marked with the female noun class suffix –gun. It is curious that Livingston does not present his four Minyung ‘Classifications’ as Gender, since the four noun classes are, as Livingstone describes them, semantically determined largely by the masculine/feminine, animate/inanimate oppositions underlying Indo-European gender systems (Kurzová 1993:61).

Pama-Nyungan deictic systems and early accounts of gender

The Lutheran missionary grammars of Diyari describe gender also under the heading ‘Demonstrative Pronouns’. Under this heading is presented masculine and feminine paradigms of the ‘demonstratives’ showing inflection for case. The forms they include are said to be “constructed as per the third person of the personal pronoun to which the syllable pini or para is attached” (W. Koch 1868). Koch’s ‘syllables’ are members of
“a complex set of deictic suffixes used with pro-nouns, locationals and predicate determiners” (Austin 2013:13), and the forms he gives are currently analysed as being the gendered 3sg pronouns suffixed “with one of a set of deictic suffixes which indicate relative location … –parra ‘there’ (there) seems to indicate location away from the speaker” (Austin 2013:64).

The missionaries’ analysis is astute. They perceive a linguistic construction foreign to the Traditional Grammatical framework and are challenged to find terminology to describe the forms. In arriving upon the label ‘Demonstrative’, the missionaries borrow schema from Traditional Grammar and use it to label and present the deictic forms that are perceived to have comparable functions. Hence gendered Demonstratives in Diyari.

Roth similarly describes a functionally parallel set of Pitta Pitta deictic suffixes as marked for gender (1897:2). He does not however classify these as demonstratives. The terminology he uses is notably similar to that employed in analysis of the language seventy years later (Breen & Blake 1971:77):

Each number has three persons, the third having two forms of the gender –
one for the masculine and neuter, the other for the feminine. Furthermore, both
genders have additional inflexions in the form of suffixes according as the person
or object referred to is either (a) close up in front, or at side of, (b) close up at
the back of, or (c) anywhere yonder, at some distance away from — the person
speaking.
(1897:2)

Three genders are sometimes analysed in early descriptions of Australian languages. Threlkeld presents HRLM as having the three-way 3sg gender distinction of Indo-European languages. In applying Traditional Grammar to the structure of HRLM, Threlkeld unwittingly assumes categorical universalism, despite himself stating that:

the arrangement of the grammar now adopted, is formed on the natural principles of the language, and not constrained to accord with any known grammar of the dead or living languages. The peculiarities of its structure being such, as to totally prevent the adaptation of any one as a mode.
(Threlkeld 1834:10)

In addition to the masculine and feminine, Threlkeld shows three separate neuter pronominal paradigms. His analysis is the earliest attempt to wrestle with the representation of the grammaticalisation of location in Australian languages. Forms in the first paradigm are translated as “this, present”, those in the second paradigm as “that, at hand” and in the third, “that, beside”. It is beyond the scope of this piece to tabulate the forms given by Threlkeld against their contemporary analysis (Lissarrague 2006:34-36). Suffice to say that Threlkeld declines many of the deictic demonstratives listed by Lissarague within his three neuter third person paradigms in an ad hoc manner. He does however, perceive that the inserted forms are not functionally equivalent to the European neuter pronominal forms:

The Neuter pronouns are inexpressible in English in consequence of the locality of the person being included in the word used as a pronoun.
(Threlkeld 1834:21)

The grip that Traditional Grammar held on the early description of Australian languages has projected the neuter class of pronoun into the structure of HRLM, even though Threlkeld recognizes that the forms do not perform the same function as that motivating the paradigm in Indo-European languages. Like the later missionaries’ descriptions of Diyari, Threlkeld attempts to accommodate the perceived foreign deictic structures within the schema of Traditional Grammar. While the Lutherans use the word class Demonstrative to convey the structure, Threlkled employs the ‘vacant’ schema of neuter third person pronouns.

Three genders in early analyses of Diyari

The first three Lutheran grammars of Diyari (Koch 1868; Schoknecht 1947; Flierl 1880) also give a third gender class:

[W]e shall see when discussing the pronoun, all three genders, masculine, feminine and newter [sic], appear in the language.
(Schoknecht 1947:1)

The Lutherans’ analysis of three genders in Diyari is unique within both early and contemporary Pama-Nyungan analyses. Their neuter category however, meets the definitional criteria of agreement. Evidence for the neuter class is taken from the form of the “neuter interrogative pronoun”, minha “what?”, which is distinct to the form of the “personal interrogative pronoun”, warli “who?”. Nouns select different interrogative/indefinite pronouns according to their animacy. In Diyari, the interrogative/indefinite minha “covers the set of common nouns with non-human reference” (Austin 2013:58). “The interrogative-indefinite pronoun ‘who?, someone’ rang[es] over the class of pronouns and nouns with human reference” (Austin 2013:67). T. G. H. Strehlow also approaches this analysis when describing the Arrernte interrogatives: ngwenhe “who” and iwenhe “what” as “particularly interesting because it is here that we find the one solitary relic of gender-division still extant in modern Aranda” (1944:59), and as the “one solitary glimpse of gender-differentiation afforded by this native language” (1944:98).

Concluding Remarks

Pama-Nyungan Gender systems were generally very well described in early sources, although not usually under the heading “Gender”. Many authors demonstrate particularly sound understanding of the language, e.g. Livingstone’s (1892) description of four noun classes, and Koch (1868) and Roth’s (1897) descriptions of deictics on gendered 3sg pronouns in Diyari and Pitta Pitta respectively. Gender was often described innovatively. The schema from Traditional Grammar was borrowed and applied with altered reference, sometimes in ways that might seem surprising from a modern linguist’s point of view or even misleading, such as Threlkeld’s (1834) description of neuter pronouns. A.P. Elkin’s (1938) observation that the significant material held in the early grammatical sources of Australian languages is detectable only to “the seeing eye” (ibid.:10) and after a process of “careful sieving” (ibid.:9) applies to the assessment of the early description of gender in Pama-Nyungan languages.

It would be interesting to further investigate the cause of the discrepancy between German speaking and English speaking grammarians in including lexical gender as Gender. Preliminary investigation suggests that nineteenth century grammars of Latin written in German present Gender very similarly to grammars of Latin written in English. Perhaps the influence is just the relative pervasiveness of the grammatical gender systems in the authors’ mother tongues.

References

Anon. n.d. ‘Die Grammatik der Aranda-Sprache’, Lutheran Archives, Unpublished typescript. Typist unknown, probably copied from unpublished C. Strehlow manuscript written prior to 1908.

Austin, P. 2013. A grammar of Diyari, South Australia, (digital edition). First published 1981, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Blake, B. 1979. ‘Pitta-Pitta’, in R.M.W. Dixon & B.J. Blake (eds.), The handbook of Australian languages, vol. 1, John Benjamins, Amsterdam, pp. 183-242.

Breen, J.G. & Blake, B.J. 1971. The Pitta Pitta dialects, Linguistic Communications 4, Monash University, Melbourne.

Capell, A. 1937. ‘The structure of Australian languages’, Oceania, vol. 8, no. 1, pp. 27-61.

Corbett, G.G. 2013. ‘Number of genders’, in M.S. Dryer & M. Haspelmath (eds.),
The World Atlas of Language Structures Online, Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology, Leipzig. (Available online at http://wals.info/chapter/30, Accessed on 2014-10-21.)

Crowley, T. 1978. The middle Clarence dialects of Bandjalang, AIAS, Canberra.

Dixon, R.M.W. 2002. Australian languages, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Elkin, A.P. 1938. ‘The nature of Australian languages’, in A.P. Elkin (ed.), Sudies in Australian Linguistics, 3 edn, Australian National Research Council, Sydney.

Flierl, J. 1880. ‘Dieri Grammar’, Lutheran Archives.

Gildersleeve, B.L. 1895. Latin Grammar, 3rd edn, Macmillan, London.

Günther, J.W. 1892. ‘Grammar of the Wiradhari in NSW’, in J. Fraser (ed.), An Australian language as spoken by the Awabakal, the people of Awaba or Lake Macquarie (near Newcastle, New South Wales) being an account of their language, traditions and customs, by L.E. Threlkeld, Part IV Appendix D, Government Printer, Sydney, pp. 56-120.

Kaberry, P. 1938. ‘Notes on the Languages of East Kimberly’, in A.P. Elkin (ed.), Sudies in Australian Linguistics, 3 edn, Australian National Research Council, Sydney.

Kempe, H. 1891. ‘A grammar and vocabulary of the language spoken by the Aborigines of the Macdonnell Ranges, South Australia’, Transactions of the Royal Society of South Australia, vol. 14, pp. 1-54.

Koch, H. 2008. ‘R.H. Mathews’ schema for the description of Australian languages’, in W.B. McGregor (ed.), Encountering Aboriginal languages Studies in the History of Australian linguistics, Pacific Linguistics, Canberra, pp. 179-218.

Koch, W. 1868. ‘untitled ‘, Barr Smith Library Rare Books and Special Collections.

Kurzová, H. 1993. From Indo-European to Latin: The evolution of a morphosyntactic type, Current Issues in Linguistic Theory, vol. 104, John Benjamins Publishing, Amsterdam.

Lissarrague, A. 2006. A salvage grammar and wordlist of the language of the Hunter River and Lake Macquarie, Muurrbay Aboriginal Language and Culture Cooperative, Nambucca Heads.

Livingstone, H. 1892. ‘Grammar and vocabulary of the dialect spoken by the Minyug people on the north-east coast of New South Wales’, in J. Fraser (ed.), An Australian language as spoken by the Awabakal, the people of Awaba or Lake Macquarie (near Newcastle, New South Wales) being an account of their language, traditions and customs, by L.E. Threlkeld, Part IV Appendix A, Government Printer, Sydney, pp.1-27.

Love, J.B. 1938. ‘An outline of Worora grammar’, in A.P. Elkin (ed.), Studies in Australian linguistics, Oceania Monograph 3, Australian National Research Council, Sydney, pp. 112-124.

Mathews, R.H. 1907. ‘The Arran’da language, Central Australia’, The Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, vol. 46, pp. 322-339.

McGregor, W. 2008. ‘Introduction’, in W. McGregor (ed.), Encountering Aboriginal languages: studies in the history of Australian linguistics, Pacific Linguistics, Canberra, pp. 1-34.

Meyer, H.A.E. 1843. Vocabulary of the language spoken by the Aborigines of the southern portions of the settled districts of South Australia preceeded by a grammar, James Allen, Adelaide.

Ramshorn, L. 1824. Lateinische Grammatik, F.C.W. Vogel, Leipzig.

Ray, S.H. & A.C. Haddon. 1893. ‘A study of the languages of Torres Straits, with vocabularies and grammatical notes’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, vol. 4, no. 3, pp. 119-373.

Reuther, J.G. 1981. ‘Three Central Australian Grammars. Diari Wonkanguru Jandruwanta. 1899, Part A Volume V Translated by Hercus, L.A. and Schwarzschild, T., edited by Hercus, L.A. and Breen, J.G. Additional notes on Diari by Austin, P. (1973)’, AIAS microfiche, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra.

Roth, W.E. 1897. Ethnological studies among the north-west-central Queensland Aborigines Edmund Gregory, Government Printer, Brisbane.

Schoknecht, C.H.M. 1947. ‘Grammar of the language of the Dieri Aborigines ‘, Missionary Carl Schoknecht, Killalpaninna Mission 1871-1873 : selected correspondence compiled by Alan Carl Schoknecht [and] Colin Paul Schoknecht, A. & C. Schoknecht South Oakleigh, Victoria.

Schürmann, C.W. 1844. A Vocabulary of the Parnkalla language spoken by the natives inhabiting the western shores of Spencer Gulf. To which is prefixed a collection of grammatical rules hitherto ascertained by C.W. Shürmann [sic], George Dahane, Adelaide.

Strehlow, C. 1908. ‘Einige Bemerkungen über die von Dr. Planert auf Grund der Forschungen des Missionars Wettengel veroffentlichte Aranda-Grammatik’, Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, vol. 5, pp. 698-703.

Strehlow, T.G.H. 1944. Aranda phonetics and grammar, Oceania Monograph 7, University of Sydney, Sydney.

Taplin, G. 1867. ‘Vocabulary and grammar of the languages of the Aborigines who inhabit the shores of the lakes and lower Murray’, Barr Smith Library, University of Adelaide.

Taplin, G. 1872. ‘Notes on a comparative table of Australian languages’, The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britian and Ireland, vol. 1, pp.84-88

Taplin, G. 1880. Grammar of the Narrinyeri tribe of Australian Aborigines, E. Spiller, Adelaide.

Teichelmann, C.G. & C.W. Schürmann. 1840. Outlines of a grammar, vocabulary, and phraseology, of the aboriginal language of South Australia, spoken by the natives in and for some distance around Adelaide, R. Thomas, Adelaide.

Threlkeld, L.E. 1834. An Australian grammar: comprehending the principles and natural rules of the language, as spoken by the Aborigines in the vicinity of Hunter’s River, Lake Macquarie &c., New South Wales, Stephens and Stokes, Sydney.

How to cite this post

Stockigt, Clara. 2014. Early Descriptions of Gender in Pama-Nyungan Languages. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/11/12/early-descriptions-of-gender-in-pama-nyungan-languages

In Praise of “Exceptionless:” Linguistics among the Human Sciences at Bloomfield and Sapir’s Chicago

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Michael Silverstein
University of Chicago

Edward Sapir (1884-1939) arrived at the University of Chicago for Autumn Quarter, 1925, having spent the summer, in transit from Ottawa, in New York City teaching summer school at Columbia. Two years later, in 1927, Leonard Bloomfield (1887-1949), a native Chicagoan who had his Ph.D. in Germanic Philology from Chicago (1909), returned to succeed his Doktorvater, Francis A. Wood (1859-1948), who had just retired, as Professor in Germanic. The two great figures in the history of linguistics in America were thus colleagues at Chicago for four years, through the 1930-31 academic year, after which Sapir removed to New Haven as Sterling Professor and founding Chair of the Yale Department of Anthropology, with a concurrent appointment in Linguistics. (After the death of Bloomfield’s early mentor, Eduard Prokosch, in August, 1938, and of Sapir, in February, 1939, Bloomfield, too, would go to Yale as Sterling Professor in Linguistics and Germanic, in effect replacing both.)

Linguistics at Chicago, originally denoted by the expression “Comparative Philology,” was one of the original subjects, or “departments of knowledge,” filled by President William Rainey Harper (1856-1906). Harper himself had gotten his Ph.D. in Hebrew and Semitic Philology at Yale under the great William Dwight Whitney (1827-1894), and in 1892 another Whitney student more in the master’s image, Carl Darling Buck (1866-1955), started as “Assistant Professor of Sanskrit and Indo-European Comparative Philology” on return from a degree at Leipzig. By the mid-1920s, Buck presided over a department captioned “Comparative Philology, General Linguistics, and Indo-Iranian Philology,” with a set of course offerings both by himself and by various others whose primary appointments were in other departments. Sapir, originally appointed in Spring, 1925, as Associate Professor of Anthropology and of American Indian Languages in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology (as it then was), taught a range of linguistics courses, listed as well among the offerings in Comparative Philology, to the coterie of students who would continue and expand Boasian anthropological linguistics in the 1930s. (They would all be marginalized by the more doctrinaire Bloomfieldians, as it turned out.) By Autumn Quarter 1927, Sapir was a full “Professor of Anthropology and General Linguistics,” and early in Winter Quarter, 1928, Buck formally arranged for Sapir’s titular appointment in the department, as attested by an exchange of administrative letters with higher-ups in the central administration. Bloomfield’s courses in Germanic, too, were listed under the umbrella of Comparative Philology on his 1927 return, and since Francis Wood had been a member of the department, so, too, was his student and successor, Bloomfield (and would be Bloomfield’s successor, George J. Metcalf [1908-1994]). A number of the students of the late 1920s, for example Li Fang-Kuei (1902-1987) and Mary R. Haas (1910-1996) took courses with all three of Buck, Bloomfield, and Sapir, recalling for me in later years their very different pedagogical styles and emphases.

But it is not pedagogical style as such that concerns me so much as intellectual and professional affiliations and outlooks, and the way that these emerged in a face that linguistics as a discipline would for some time show to its congener disciplines at Chicago and in America more generally. Everything we know about Sapir’s and Bloomfield’s biographies shows that their centers of intellectual gravity and their aspirational commitments pulled in very different directions. This was already very clear by the time they had joined Buck’s enterprise at Chicago, each of them in his early 40s and each of them accomplished and authoritative in his respective scholarly work, and each widely connected in their own disciplinary networks of “invisible colleges,” as Merton termed them.

Sapir was the broader scholar with the ability to dazzle an audience of laypersons as well as graduate students with an extempore display of genius at work, integrating details of some matter in a framework of wider significance. By the time he arrived at Chicago, he had published in The American Mercury as well as many other New York highbrow intellectual venues; he had as well compiled an incredible record of descriptive and comparative publication on Native American languages and ethnological phenomena, the vast majority gathered in his own fieldwork (which he continued vigorously at Chicago, for example on Gweabo [Jabo] of Liberia, and Athapascan languages Hupa, Navajo, etc.). Sapir moved easily in the field of Boas’s first generation of anthropology students, focused on problems of typological and historical reconstruction of the culture history of North America as well as on the way that newer currents in psychology and psychiatry – Freud, Jung, Koffka – were disturbing the New York intelligentsia and, disciplinarily, the various emerging social sciences on the North American side of the Atlantic. His essays from this time forward are arabesques of newly traced connections. He wrote poetry and poetry criticism, book reviews, etc.

Bloomfield, too, appeared at Chicago with a distinguished record of fieldwork on Tagalog and on at least three Algonquian languages, Menomini and both Plains and Swampy Cree (funded through a contract from the Victoria Memorial Museum of Canada that was arranged by Sapir). He was an Indo-European comparative philologist by training, to be sure, with a specialty in Germanic and a love of Sanskrit. Both Malayo-Polynesian (Austronesian) and Algonquian were additional specialties he cultivated as he suffered from the ennui of a brilliant analytic intellectual cast as a German, Gothic, and Dutch language instructor during the decade of the ’teens at University of Illinois. Bloomfield saw linguistics as applicable to practical matters, such as language pedagogy and literacy, and his triumph in this was to come later in wartime mobilization of the whole profession of linguistics for the ACLS/Army Language Program.

The two men obviously met intellectually on the field of American Native languages, as Franz Boas (1858-1942) termed them. Both clearly saw that these languages and their descriptive and comparative study contributed something unique to the development of linguistics in America. Indeed, fieldwork with people who were among the last fluent speakers, if not everyday users, of these languages was, for three or four academic generations, a central component of the training and professional activities of linguists in America no matter what their main scholarly specialties. The data from such field elicitation underlay theory and teaching of analytic methods as well. An empirical triumph of those in Boas’s footsteps, this became the prototype for all “inductive” study of languages during World War II and the foundation of the linguistically informed language pedagogies of post-War “direct method” or “spoken language” teaching – even of Latin!

Recall a bit of the organizational context of Sapir’s and Bloomfield’s mutual gaze as Chicago colleagues. From 1910 on, Sapir had been running the Division of Anthropology at the Victoria Memorial Museum, administering collections and supervising exhibits as well as contracting with various others – such as Bloomfield himself in 1925 – as fieldworkers. He had already held various positions in the governing and editorial councils of the American Anthropological Association as these migrated from old line scholars to the up-and-coming Boasian generation, and thus linguistics as such was for Sapir the “subdiscipline” of Boasian anthropology in which he simply had no peer and in which all deferred to his genius. Sapir looked at culture through language-in-use, and thence, at a host of problems in the history and sociology of humankind. He came to Chicago, in fact, for the promise of psychological anthropology as part of a Rockefeller Fund project to integrate the social sciences around problems of “deviance” – we would now term it ethnic and other kinds of diversity – in American society. Chicago’s departments of the social sciences were already at the forefront of such integrative moves as the founding, in late 1923, of the Social Science Research Council as a coordinating consortium of the principal social science associations for the purpose of maintaining a flow of support to cutting-edge research and training at the major centers in the various disciplines. By 1927, Sapir was a member of several of its boards and committees.

Bloomfield, to be sure, belonged to the various philological organizations and attended their meetings, where he gave papers. But decisive in his trajectory was his founding role as the youngest of the triumvirate of George Melville Bolling (1871-1963), Edgar Howard Sturtevant (1875-1952), and himself, the organizing committee that led to the founding, in late December, 1924, of the Linguistic Society of America. Bloomfield wrote the letters to enlist people – among them, by contacting Boas (letter LB to FB 18 I 24), Sapir – to sign on to “The Call” for the organizational meeting, and in a real sense the organization ever after was his baby, the institutionalization of what he again and again, following Bolling, referred to with the welcoming, inclusive expression, “our science,” all the while stimulating and presiding over its exclusionary narrowing in the name of Science. It was, for Bloomfield, clearly a matter of differentiation of “our science” from philology and literature, the domains of the American Philological Association, the American Oriental Society, the Modern Language Association, etc., and from the rest of the social sciences. “In the domain of anthropology –” he would proclaim in plenary address to the MLA & LSA in Cleveland in 1929, “– that is, in the study of man’s super-biological activities – science has been unsuccessful.” (A Leonard Bloomfield Anthology [1970], 227) Except, as it turns out, in the triumphs of linguistics, which, over the course of human history, have been two: Pāņini’s grammar and “the historical linguistics of the nineteenth century” which “owed its origin largely to Europe’s acquaintance with Indian grammar.” (LBA, 219 [Rev. of Liebich]) Thus, as Bloomfield noted, Sapir (who had a year earlier spoken on “The status of linguistics as a science”) “would probably agree with very little of what I am saying tonight” (LBA, 227); indeed, Bloomfield’s stance on what counts as worthwhile “science” was limited to inductive generalizations about linguistic form and its changes over time.

Sapir and Bloomfield both were trained in the methods of Indo-European comparative philology and Neogrammarian historical linguistics. Both were specialists in Germanic, in fact, though it was Bloomfield who was employed professionally as such. Both men were offended that as late as 1924, in Les langues du monde, no less a personage than Antoine Meillet (1866-1936), surely among the greatest Indo-Europeanists – after Ferdinand de Saussure (1857-1913) – could opine that the regularities of Neogrammarian “sound laws” were no doubt suspended on the North American continent, making comparative-historical linguistics there impossible. (Franz Boas, perhaps, had been one unfortunate source of this view, his series of editorials and papers from a diffusionist point of view asserting that Stammbaum concepts of relationship made no sense for indigenous North American languages – a view he continued to hold despite Bloomfield’s and Sapir’s triumphs of method in language family after language family!)

It was on such grounds that Bloomfield had, in fact, formed his exceedingly high opinion of Sapir. His early approaches to the senior scholar of the linguistics of American Native languages, started in early 1924 when, based in Columbus, Ohio at Ohio State University’s Department of German, he wanted Sapir’s support for founding the Linguistic Society of America. As well, he wanted Sapir’s intervention in landing a Canadian government contract to study Cree, one of the “Central Algonquian” languages akin to Fox, on which he had done philological work from others’ published texts, and to Menomini, on which he had done two summers of fieldwork in 1920 and 1921. His earliest note (LB to ES, 29 I [11 II] 24) compliments Sapir on the latter’s American Mercury piece of February, 1924, “The grammarian and his language,” proclaiming it “to be the very best kind of popularizing and at the same time of sound and novel scientific content.”

As the epistolary relationship developed, Bloomfield – who did, in fact, get a research contract for Summer, 1925 – had been drawn into the early production of the Linguistic Society’s journal by its first Editor and Chair of the Committee on Publications, none other than his senior colleague and close professional mentor at Ohio State University, George Melville Bolling. Since Bloomfield was clearly the theoretical head behind the transformation of linguistics into “our science,” Bolling gave him the manuscript of Sapir’s “Sound patterns in language” to read in early 1925, as the second issue of Language was being prepared. In a letter to Sapir dated 9 April, Bloomfield said that the paper “greatly pleased [him]” because it is “really beautiful,” and offered, diffidently, some queries and a substantive improvement to one of Sapir’s points (on the [ŋ] in sing : singer, duly acknowledged in the published text [Sapir 1925:49, n.6]). Later that month, on the 25th or 26th, Bloomfield reports that Bolling “insisted on my reading your S. Paiute grammar, although I don’t see how there could be any question of its value. … [I]t is beautiful, both the language and the work.” By the 6th of May, Bloomfield reports that he “ha[s] told Bolling he should get your texts and lexicon, as well as grammar.”

In this very same letter, Bloomfield reports to Sapir that “Bolling will probably soon send you the paper I have submitted for Language, in this I try to set up equations for the sounds of Men[omini], Fox, Cree, Ojibwa.” This is clearly “On the sound system of Central Algonquian,” printed in the journal’s second volume (pp.130-56) in 1926. Sapir sent comments to Bloomfield, acknowledged and responded to in a letter of May 27th 1925. Again on the 3rd of June, 1925, Bloomfield continues a responsive discussion of his manuscript, among other matters, and really begins to open up in the tone of what we recognize as an enthusiastic and grateful structurally junior person. Bloomfield’s discussion turns to general matters of theory and outlook suggested by his paper. Calling himself a “behaviorist,” he summarizes the doctrines he imbibed around the lunch table in the Department of Psychology at Ohio State, doctrines about how through “language-reactions” to stimuli “the social group … becomes … a new and more complex type of organism.” “All this I have from Weiss, our psychologist,” he reports to Sapir – who must indeed have begun to wonder what this would-be chum was rambling on about with such puerile nonsense such as that he had already slammed down in his 1917 American Anthroplogist reply to A. L. Kroeber’s “The Superorganic.”

But Bloomfield’s discussion here is most revealing of how he, and, recapitulating him, Sapir, represented the achievements of “scientific” linguistics in the mid-1920s. Bloomfield goes on in his letter to explain why Weiss’s behavioristic psychology so appealed to him:

The first appeal this made to me was due to the fact that in our actual work we do exclude ‘mental’ factors, i.e., sound-change won’t stop for desires or fears. (Some of the Germans, I see from the Streitberg volume, are going in for the theory that ‘useless’ sound–groups are ‘more easily lost[’] – which seems to me to be pure bunk, resting upon vague ideas of what ‘usefulness’ and ‘meaning’ etc. are. Jespersen started it, with the notion that E[nglish] case-endings dropped off because no longer significant. I take it that a ‘useless’ case-ending is just as much and just as little meaningful and necessary to the speakers as any other part of the vocal series.)

As can be seen, what is at issue is the exceptionlessness of sound-law, which, as Bloomfield was to say in a footnote in his 1925 article on Proto-Central Algonquian, “is either a universal trait of human speech or nothing at all, an error.” Again, in his 1926 supplementary paper he terms it “a tested hypothesis: in so far as one may speak of such a thing … a proved truth.” It is in this light that we must understand Bloomfield’s report that “[he] ha[s] cut the angry reference to Meillet out of [his] article [which he in fact did not, ultimately], – all the more reason, if your Athabascan forms will give added proof, for not re-stating the fundamental laws of our science [!] every time someone forgets them.”

And so one can see that the place at which these two great scholars found common ground was in the great Neogrammarian achievement of the earlier century. Bloomfield’s “Postulates” of 1926, were to re-state Saussure’s Cours in a behaviorist and especially operationalist idiom (see Percy Bridgman, Bloomfield’s Harvard College classmate, on operationalist philosophy of science). And, doing so, Bloomfield followed the order of presentation of Saussure’s editors as of Sapir’s book Language of 1921, in that the synchronic nature of language comes first, and then the phenomena of language change – sound law, analogic change, semantic change, borrowing, etc. – constitute the dénouement of the whole (as well in Bloomfield’s own 1933 book Language, written at the University of Chicago). For Bloomfield, sound law rests on the postulate that “phonemes change,” i.e., that no matter what other kinds of changes do or do not affect a particular lexical form, its phonological shape can change independent of all these other factors, because the plane of structural phonology is taken to be relatively autonomous of all other planes of structure and function in language.

But more to the point: in 1927, by which time both Bloomfield and Sapir were at Chicago, an extraordinary paper appeared by the then young Jerzy Kuryłowicz (1895-1978), in which was emphasized not just the regularity of the assumption that “phonemes change,” but indeed the predictive value of the assumption of the regularity of sound change as an autonomous plane of diachrony. Saussure himself, in a burst of youthful genius, had done a reconstructive structural analysis of the phonology of the Proto-Indo-European lexical root, stem, and inflectional theme, and had postulated the existence of certain “coéfficients sonantiques” – later to be termed laryngeal consonants – in the parent language that had disappeared in the course of language history, but had left traces in certain colorations and quantitative alterations of adjacent root and suffix vowels. Bedřich Hrozný (1879-1952) had published his book on the decipherment of cuneiform Hittite in 1917, and in his startling 1927 paper in the festschrift volume for Jan Rozwadowski, Kuryłowicz shows that Hittite graphic ĥ and ĥĥ appear as reflexes in several of the positions where Saussure’s laryngeal theory had reconstructed them for Proto-Indo-European forms, the segments lost in the reflexes in the other branches.

Bloomfield and Sapir obviously understood the importance of this confirmatory discovery of heretofore unknown Hittite forms that confirmed, in the main, the Saussurean reconstructions that the young master had based on a structural phonemic analysis of lexical form. By early 1928, Bloomfield, whose “On the sound system of Central Algonquian,” recall, had appeared in the second issue of Language in 1925, had himself done fieldwork – courtesy Sapir and the Canadian museum – on a dialect of Cree, Swampy Cree (Manitoba), different from the one he had earlier used in his reconstructions. In that earlier work, he had postulated the existence of a proto-language cluster *-çk- on the basis of one stem, meaning ‘it is red’, *meçkusiwa in Bloomfield’s reconstruction, that showed correspondences among the four daughter languages slightly divergent from all the other examples. Sure enough, this new dialect of Cree, Swampy Cree, shows a distinct reflex, -htk-, precisely where the specially reconstructed cluster predicts something different.

When the Social Science Research Council’s Committee on Scientific Method in the Social Sciences was putting together its Methods in Social Science: A Case Book (ed. Stuart A. Rice [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1931]) in 1927 and 1928, it turned among others to leading members of the Committee, among them Edward Sapir, for case studies illustrative of how particular social scientists had used particular methods to yield breakthrough results in one or another of the fields of endeavor. Sapir’s essay, written in December, 1928, and revised in February, 1929, is not, as one might have expected, based on any of the achievements of recent synchronic linguistic breakthroughs in which he and Bloomfield were leaders. To recall, Sapir’s formulation of what became phonemics, “Sound patterns in language,” was a landmark that had appeared in the very second issue of the journal Language in Spring, 1925. Bloomfield’s “A set of postulates for the science of language,” in the journal the very next year, set out the entire field as a conceptual architectonic of postulates, definitions, and corollaries, seeming to fashion a rigorous “science” ab initio. By contrast, Sapir’s piece in the Methods case book is entitled “The concept of phonetic law as tested in primitive languages by Leonard Bloomfield” (pp.297-306). It comprises one of three analyses in section V., “Interpretations of Change as a Developmental Stage,” where J. B. Bury’s historical analysis of the concept of ‘progress’ is analyzed, as well as A.L. Kroeber’s studies of cycles in women’s sartorial fashion. As the editor, Stuart Rice, explains the grouping of papers in his “Introduction” (pp.12-13), here

Change is viewed somewhat in the light of an unfolding within a particular cultural entity itself. The papers in this section will have particular interest to those who are concerned with the possibilities of prediction in social science. Anaylsis 21, for example, [Sapir’s of sound law,] describes a foreseen discovery of linguistic forms which recalls to mind the predictions by astronomers of the discovery of Neptune and the newer trans-Neptune planet [presumably, Pluto].

Note the image projected for historical linguistics, akin to astrophysics in its power of prediction.

Sapir, recapitulating Bloomfield’s two Algonquian papers as well as his own even earlier work on Athapascan, projects a powerful historical “science” that, valid in North America no less than in Eurasia, both contravenes Meillet and in a sense outdoes Kuryłowicz (who was later to be Sapir’s student at Yale) on the terrain of American Native languages. Such was the way the two great Chicago scholars joined forces at the cusp of The Depression years. Both Bloomfield and Sapir were instrumental in what became, retrospectively in the 1930s, the great achievement of synchronic structuralism, the discovery of phonological structure and the application of parallel approaches to morphological and syntactic structure. Yet for Bloomfield, certainly, as I have already quoted, Pāņini’s synchronic linguistics had already made that breakthrough.

For him, the breakthrough of modern linguistics was elevating the Neogrammarian method of residues involved in modifying the Grimm’s Law regularities with Verner’s Law and Grassmann’s Law to a postulate of exceptionless of autonomous phonological change. Sapir’s book Language of 1921 had already stated, in somewhat nontechnical form, that the locus of sound law is in an abstract configurational system of ideal, inner sounds, in effect an abstract pattern of phonemic categories, and had reiterated this as the dénouement of his famous 1925 paper on “Sound patterns.” The discovery of the phoneme, then, allows us to see both that phonological systems are the loci of the sound law component of diachrony, and to make predictions about what shapes daughter forms should take. Sapir uses the occasion of his methodological paper to show parallel examples of this from Bloomfield’s Algonquian work and from his own work on Athapascan, where the predicted form had appeared in his data of Summer Quarter, 1927, in Hupa, a language of California.

If the synchronic phoneme, as Bloomfield wrote in 1927, made a science of linguistics, its predictive power lay in the very Neogrammarian diachrony that Sapir and his students would do so much to marginalize in the era of linguistic theory to come.

How to cite this post

Silverstein, Michael. 2014. In Praise of “Exceptionless”: Linguistics Among the Human Sciences at Bloomfield and Sapir’s Chicago. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/11/26/in-praise-of-exceptionless-linguistics-among-the-human-sciences-at-bloomfield-and-sapirs-chicago

La aportación de Nicolau Peixoto para el estudio del español en Portugal

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Sónia Duarte
Centro de Linguística da Universidade do Porto

En la historia de la enseñanza/aprendizaje del español en Portugal, Nicolau António Peixoto (?–1862) ocupa un lugar fundamental cuyo significado se procurará precisar aquí, presentando su Grammatica Hespanhola para uso dos Portuguezes (Oporto 1848) e intentando aclarar cuál es la aportación de esa obra como soporte del susodicho proceso.

Peixoto 1848 portada

Peixoto 1848 portada

Esta es, según los datos disponibles hasta el momento, la primera gramática de español publicada en Portugal, como ya han puesto de relieve varios estudios (Álvarez 2005; Ponce de León 2005, 2007; Salas 2005; Duarte 2008, 2009, 2010, en prensa). Importa, no obstante, matizar dos aspectos: i) su carácter inaugural; ii) el rol que en ella ha jugado Nicolau Peixoto.

Respecto a la primera cuestión, cabe advertir que, cuando el texto sale a la luz, se contaba ya, naturalmente, con la información que sobre el español ofrecía, en su conjunto, la tradición metalingüística portuguesa y latino-portuguesa. Pero, además, se habían incluso publicado ya algunos opúsculos con un enfoque explícitamente contrastivo entre los dos idiomas – “Of the Portugues language or subdialect” (Londres 1662) de James Howell; “Methodo breve, y facil para entender Castellanos la lengua portuguesa” (Lisboa 1721) de Rafael Bluteau; Taboas de Declinação e Conjugação para apprender as Linguas Hespanhola, Italiana e Francesa comparando-as com a Portugueza (Coimbra1821) de José Vicente Gomes de Moura. Sea como fuere, en rigor, pese a la información metagramatical aportada por dichos trabajos, ninguno de ellos se puede clasificar como una gramática y, en ese sentido, la obra en cuestión viene efectivamente a rellenar un vacío, observado por el mismo Nicolau Peixoto: “De que será, que ninguem até agora se désse ao trabalho de beneficiar a Nação portugueza com um methodo de aprender esta rica e bella lingua?” (Peixoto 2008[1848]: 1[3]).

Peixoto 1860 portada

En cuanto al papel de Peixoto en esta obra, esta es una cuestión que levanta más interrogantes. La información disponible no permite reconocerle como autor y el mismo Peixoto parece diferenciar entre la identidad del autor, que permanece por asignar, y la del editor, con la que se identifica expresamente al firmar como tal una breve nota preliminar (Peixoto 2008[1848]: 1[3]). De todas formas, sin más datos, queda por aclarar quién ha sido efectivamente el autor del texto del que aquí se trata, si se descarta la posibilidad de que la hubiera escrito a los 15 años el hijo de Nicolau Peixoto, José Maria Borges da Costa Peixoto, quien en la Guia da conversação Hespanhola para uso dos Portuguezes (Lisboa 1860) se presenta en portada como autor de la Grammatica.

De esta gramática se publicó en Lisboa, en 1858, una segunda edición ampliada y revisada a cargo del ya nombrado José Peixoto, la cual, en lo que atañe a la exposición de la teoría gramatical, no difiere de la primera edición. Los cambios introducidos en 1858 conciernen exclusivamente a la corrección de erratas, opciones ortográficas y suplementos.

Peixoto 1848 contraportada

Peixoto 1848 contraportada

Las dos ediciones de la gramática en conjunto con la ya referida Guia da conversação y los Diccionarios Hespanhol-Portuguez e Portuguez-Hespanhol, anunciados en la contraportada de la edición de 1848 de la Grammatica y en el periódico de Oporto Defensor Diario de los días 17, 18 y 19 de agosto del mismo año, parecen formar lo que Ponce de León (2005: 677) ha planteado como un “proyecto didáctico” fundado en la complementariedad entre gramaticografía y lexicografía. De todas formas, como pone de manifiesto Ponce de León (2007: 63), no hay constancia de que estos diccionarios se hayan efectivamente publicado o siquiera de que su edición estuviese a cargo de los Peixoto.

Peixoto anuncio diario

O Defensor Diario (17 de agosto de 1848, sem. 2, p. 740)

Sea como fuere, la información existente sobre el conjunto de estas obras parece evidenciar un ambiente favorable a la edición de materiales para la enseñanza/aprendizaje del español en Portugal. En los textos preliminares de la Grammatica se avanza, de alguna forma, con una explicación para ello. El prólogo refiere un clima propicio al aprendizaje de idiomas en términos generales, al que se identifica con el “espirito do seculo” (Peixoto 2008[1848]: 2[5]). Además, como pone de manifiesto Salas (2005: 2-3), ahí se razona específicamente sobre el interés que el español presenta para los portugueses, subrayando supuestos de orden socioeconómico – en que destacan las razones comerciales – y de índole literaria y lingüística – en que sobresale la semejanza entre los dos idiomas.

Centrando ya la atención sobre el texto en sí, este está redactado en portugués y ocupa un total de 147 páginas, estructuradas en cuatro partes, precedidas de la nota del editor y del prólogo (pp. 3-8). La primera parte (pp. 9-14) está dedicada a la ortoepía y prosodia; la segunda (pp. 15-105) – la más extensa – a la morfología; la tercera (pp. 105- 119), a la sintaxis; la cuarta (pp. 119-131), a la ortografía. Desde la perspectiva de los postulados teóricos, esta estructura (división cuaternaria), como, por cierto, ocurre con otros aspectos de la doctrina expuesta, como la definición de gramática o el sistema de clases de palabras – revela conformidad con opciones muy generalizadas en la tradición gramatical. Ya desde una perspectiva metodológica, la ordenación, de las materias parece indicar una orientación hacia la oralidad, reforzada por la publicación de la Guia de Conversação en la secuencia de la Grammatica.

No es el lugar para extenderme en postulados teóricos o supuestos metodológicos, sobre los que, además, se ahonda en otro lugar (Duarte 2008: XIXXXXI). Sin embargo, importa todavía dedicar algunas palabras a las fuentes consultadas y la información que ofrecen para situar las opciones del autor del texto en el ámbito doctrinal, así como, desde el ámbito de la metodología, comentar
brevemente la tipología de esta gramática, su público y enfoque.

De las dos primeras cuestiones se ha tratado específicamente en Duarte (2009). Ahí se identifican las obras metalingüísticas citadas en la Grammatica. Desde la perspectiva aquí asumida, lo más relevante parece ser como esas referencias permiten identificar algunos de los textos que en Portugal servían de referente sobre el español y entre los que estarían la gramática y el diccionario de la Real Academia Española, aludidos ahí, por cierto, de forma bastante crítica en diversas ocasiones, no obstante el peso que asumen en Peixoto y sobre el que se ahonda en otro lugar (Duarte 2010). Por otra parte, Peixoto no realiza ninguna mención a los ya referidos trabajos de Howell y, en especial, de Bluteau y de Moura, ambos publicados en Portugal y, en el último caso, poco antes de la obra editada por los Peixoto.

Sobre la vertiente metodológica, no se conocen estudios específicos, aunque en Duarte (2008: XXVIII-XXIX) se alude a esa materia identificando la gramática de los Peixoto por una parte, entre las de “tipo explicativo”, dada la insistencia en la descripción gramatical, y, por otra, como una gramática escolar, por su orientación hacia la situación de aprendizaje, pese a que fuera de un contexto institucional, ya que la introducción, dentro del sistema educativo portugués, de asignaturas relacionadas con la lengua española ocurre tan sólo a inicios del siglo XX, en la enseñanza superior, y en 1991, en la no superior (Duarte 2008: I, 29 n. 71). También en Duarte (2008: XX) se procura caracterizar a grandes rasgos el público al que la obra va destinada y sobre el cuál ofrece algunas pistas. Efectivamente, al insistir en determinados ámbitos profesionales (diplomacia, política, comercio…), al presuponer determinados conocimientos previos (metalenguaje, lenguas clásicas, lenguas extranjeras…) y al traer a colación determinadas actitudes lingüísticas (excesiva seguridad como hablantes) o representaciones (semejanza entre ambos idiomas y facilidad de aprendizaje), el texto construye un perfil marcado sociolingüísticamente de forma bastante significativa. Como primera gramática del español en Portugal, otro aspecto que merece relieve en el plano metodológico es la presencia de un enfoque contrastivo orientado predominantemente a subrayar la semejanza entre ambas lenguas. Sobre esto cabe aun añadir que, como ya se ha puesto en evidencia en Duarte (en prensa), el recurso a esta estrategia no presenta sistematicidad, no tiene como criterio las cuestiones más problemáticas desde la perspectiva de la didáctica del español en un contexto lusohablante y normalmente no corresponde a los tópicos más arraigados en la tradición metagramatical, especialmente en la que asume ese enfoque contrastivo, a pesar de algunas coincidencias, en concreto, con los textos de Bluteau y de Moura.

En definitiva, pese a la matización que se ha realizado aquí del estatuto pionero de esta obra dentro de la tradición de materiales sobre el español en Portugal, tal relativización, como también aquí se ha sostenido, no anula totalmente su carácter fundacional y no invalida tampoco sus rasgos distintivos respecto de las obras precedentes. Al editar la Grammatica de forma articulada con otros materiales, los Peixoto han asegurado una base bibliográfica para el desarrollo del aprendizaje del español entre los portugueses, cuyo impacto en la tradición posterior  todavía está por determinar.

Referencias

Álvarez, Eloísa. 2005. “Decadencia de la lengua española, primeras gramáticas para luso-hablantes y comienzos de la enseñanza de esta literatura en la Universidad de Coimbra”. In: Luís Filipe Teixeira, Maria José Salema & Ana Clara Santos (Orgs.). O livro no ensino das Línguas e Literaturas Modernas em Portugal: do Século XVIII ao final da Primeira República. Actas do II Colóquio da A.P.H.E.L.L.E. Coimbra: A.P.H.E.L.L.E., 39-56.

Duarte, Sónia. 2008. O contributo de Nicolau Peixoto para o ensino do Espanhol em Portugal: edição crítica da Grammatica Hespanhola para uso dos portuguezes, Tese de Mestrado, Departamento de Linguística e Literaturas, Universidade de Évora.

—————–. 2009. “Fuentes de la Grammatica Hespanhola para uso dos Portugueses de Nicolau Peixoto (1848)”. Documents pour l’ histoire du Français langue étrangère ou seconde – Aproches constrastives et multilinguisme dans l’enseignement des langues en Europe (XVIe-XXe siècles). 42: 165-183.

—————–. 2010. “A presença da GRAE em Peixoto (Porto 1848) e Cervaens y Rodriguez (Porto 1895)”. In: Carlos Assunção, Gonçalo Fernandes & Marlene Loureiro. Ideias Linguísticas na Península Ibérica (séc. XIV a séc. XIX), vol. I . Münster: Nodus Publikationen, 177-188.

—————–. En prensa. “O contraste portugués/espanhol em Nicolau Peixoto (1848)”. Revista de Linguística, 9.

Peixoto, José Maria Borges da Costa. 1858. Grammatica Hespanhola para uso dos portuguezes, segunda edição correcta e muito aumentada, contendo no fim um vocabulário portuguezhespanhol das palavras mais usuaes e necessárias, Lisboa, Typ. de Maria da Madre de Deus.

——————. 1858. Guia da Conversação Hespanhola para uso dos portugueses contendo regras da pronúncia, e acentuação das palavras; um vocabulario, phrases, e diálogos familiares; modelos epistolares; e uma táboa comparativa no valor das moedas hespanholas e portuguezas, colligida dos melhores auctores e ordenada por José M. B. Da Costa Peixoto, auctor da Grammatica Hespanhola, obra util para aprender o hespanhol e para os viajantes á qual se ajuntou, no fim, uma collecção de locuções hespanholas, etc. por outro auctor. Lisboa: Typ. de Maria da Madre de Deus.

Peixoto, Nicolau António. 1848. Grammatica Hespanhola para uso dos portuguezes, dada á luz por Nicolau António Peixoto. Porto: Typ. Commercial. [ed. Sónia Duarte en 2008]

Ponce de León, Rogelio. 2005. “Textos para la enseñanza-aprendizaje del español en Portugal durante el siglo XIX: una breve historia”. In: Actas del XV Congreso Internacional de ASELE. Sevilla: Facultad de Filología de la Universidad de Sevilha, 675-682.

—————–. 2007. “Materiales para la enseñanza del español en Portugal y para la enseñanza del portugués en España: gramáticas, manuales, guías de conversación (1850-
1950)”. In: Gabriel Magalhães (Coord.). Actas do Congresso RELIPES III. Covilhã/Salamanca: UBI/Celya, 59-86.

Salas Quesada, Pilar. 2005. “Los inicios de la enseñanza de la lengua española en Portugal”. In: María Auxiliadora Castillo et al (Ed.). Las gramáticas y los diccionarios en la enseñanza del español como segunda lengua: deseo y realidad: Actas del XV Congreso Internacional de ASELE, Sevilla, 22 al 25 de septiembre de 2004. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla – Servicio de Publicaciones, 799-804.

How to cite this post

Duarte, Sónia. 2014. La aportación de Nicolau Peixoto para el estudio del español en Portugal. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2014/12/10/la-aportacion-de-nicolau-peixoto-para-el-estudio-del-espanol-en-portugal

Program February-June 2015

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11
February
Somewhat caught between lexicology and syntax: a look at phraseology
Sabine Fiedler
University of Leipzig
25
February
‘You don’t see what you don’t know’: examining material aspects of manuscripts (Part II)
Anna Pytlowany
University of Amsterdam
11
March
Objectivity at the interface of semantics and pragmatics
Sam Lewin
University of Sydney
25
March
The history of linguistics and the history of foreign language learning
Nicola McLelland
University of Nottingham
8
April
Sensualism for dummies
Els Elffers
University of Amsterdam
22
April
Le formalisme russe dans l’histoire de la linguistique
Patrick Flack
sdvig press
6
May
Translation as a search for divine meanings: Francisco Blancas de San José and his grammar of the Tagalog language.
Marlon James Sales
Monash University
20
May
Hugo Schuchardt and his network of knowledge
Johannes Mücke and Silvio Moreira de Sousa
Hugo Schuchardt Archiv, University of Graz
3
June
Salon: Anachronism in linguistic historiography
John Joseph (Edinburgh), Gerda Haßler (Potsdam), Andrew Linn (Sheffield), and Nicola McLelland (Nottingham)
17
June
Phonetische Studien – applied linguistics gets its first journal?
Andrew Linn
University of Sheffield

Somewhat caught between lexicology and syntax: a look at Phraseology

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Sabine Fiedler
University of Leipzig

Terminology and characteristics

A number of different terms have been used to name the topic of this blog entry. For example, in English, the following expressions are used synonymously: multi-word lexemes, phrasemes, set phrases, prefabricated speech, lexical bundles, formulaic sequences, clichés, idioms, lexical phrases, phrasal lexemes and phrasal lexical items. I prefer the traditional expression phraseological unit, which has been widely used recently, largely due to international cooperation between phraseology researchers and the dominant role the English language plays in the linguistic community. It is also significant that it has equivalents in many languages, such as unité phraséologique in French, фразеологическая единица in Russian, phraseologische Einheit in German. Charles Bally introduced unité phraséologique as early as 1909 in his Traité de Stylistique Française.

There are five main defining characteristics of phraseological units (PU) (cf. Burger et al. 2007; Fiedler 2007): (1) they have a polylexemic structure, i.e., phraseological units are word-groups or sentences; (2) they are characterized, in principle, by semantic and syntactic stability;1 (3) they are lexicalized, i.e., as ready-made units of the lexicon they are not created productively by the speaker/writer but reproduced; furthermore, (4) they are mainly idiomatic2 and (5) most of them have connotative features. Because of these characteristics PUs may fulfil various pragmatic functions in discourse.

Historical development

The term phraseology can be used, firstly, to denote the set of linguistic units that are defined above, which constitute the phrasicon of a language, i.e. the block or inventory of idioms and phrases, and, secondly, to name the field of study (phraseology research). Phraseology as a branch of linguistics can look back on a significant tradition. Charles Bally’s ideas were taken up by V.V. Vinogradov in the 1940s, resulting in a large number of publications on phraseological phenomena in Russian. It was only in the 1970s, however, that phraseology became an internationally recognized and rapidly developing field of research with a growing body of monographs and doctoral dissertations dealing with a variety of languages. A milestone for phraseology on its way to becoming an independent linguistic discipline was the establishment of the European Society for Phraseology (EUROPHRAS) in 1999. Its regular conferences and publications support the international exchange in this area. An international handbook on phraseology appeared in 2007 (Burger et al. 2007), and a de Gruyter journal, Yearbook of Phraseology, was initiated in 2010 – publishing exclusively on phraseology, and covering all areas of the field – to facilitate dialogue between English-speaking scholars in the field from all over the world.

Classification

There are different ways to classify phraseological units. A basic division into word-groups (word-like phraseological units) and sentences (sentence-like units) seems to be of importance. When applying a structural-semantic classification, as is often done in phraseology, we find the following types of units to be especially relevant (cf. Burger et al. 2007; Fiedler 2007):

  1. phraseological nominations (e.g. blind date; spill the beans)
  2. binomials (e.g. odds and ends; up and down)
  3. stereotyped comparisons (e.g. eat like a horse; as dry as a bone)
  4. proverbs (e.g. Let sleeping dogs lie; Every cloud has a silver lining)
  5. winged words/catch phrases (e.g. speak softly and carry a big stick; to boldly go where no man has gone before)
  6. routine formulae (e.g. you’re welcome; as it were)

In addition to this type of classification phraseological units are often subdivided according to their constituents. Beyond linguistic and cultural boundaries, some elements of the lexicon are productive to a higher extent than others as phraseological constituents. These are colour terms (e.g. a white lie), terms naming the parts of the human body (e.g. keep one’s fingers crossed), proper names (e.g. go Dutch), and numbers (e.g. on cloud nine).

Functions

Phraseological units fulfil a multitude of functions in texts. The fact that they carry connotative meanings and therefore give the text a special flavour in terms of expressive and stylistic values does not mean that they are merely ornamental and could thus be omitted. Indeed, phraseological units clearly work as text-forming elements. Their text-constituting function is based, more than anything else, on their complex structure. Since they are polylexemic (word groups and sentences), they are syntactically and structurally variable. Isolated phraseological constituents can, in fact, be reiterated to play a specific role in the text.

In journalistic texts they are often employed as the headlines of articles and in captions, where they function as catchphrases to attract the reader’s interest. In literary texts PUs are used for emotive and expressive effects. They are used to describe situations and feelings in a vivid way and to characterise literary figures (in the so-called linguistic portrait). What would be Holden Caulfield in J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye without phrases such as not know one’s ass from one’s elbow; … as hell; not give a damn; … and all and give sb. a pain in the ass.

Creative uses

Text analyses show that in about a quarter of all examples phraseological units are used in a particular way. This means constituents are left out, other words are added, phraseological units are combined, used in both their literal and figurative meanings, or even made the theme of a whole paragraphs and texts to produce specific stylistic effects. In contrast to the phraseological variations mentioned in footnote 1, modifications are ad-hoc exploitations. They are situational, innovative and closely related to a specific text or communicative act. The most frequent types of modification are substitution (e.g. a breath of fresh Eire [about the smoking ban in Ireland]), expansion (e.g. … serve as the electoral Trojan horse), permutation, i.e. the reordering of phraseological constituents (e.g. Britannia has waived the rules [“Rebranding” of the National Maritime Museum]), and reduction (e.g. Grapevine [title of a column in a magazine announcing the latest gossip about celebrities]). In phraseological puns, authors provide conditions to make both readings (i.e. the literal and the figurative meaning) of a phraseological unite relevant to a textual environment and in doing so to produce deliberate ambiguity (e.g. Blood, Toil, Tears, Sweat [article on the National Health Service]).

Processing advantages for native and non-native speakers

As mentioned before, phraseological units are a substantial constituent of language. Data about their proportion in communication vary and depend on register and genre. Erman and Warren (2000) found that as much as 58.6% of spoken discourse and 52.3% of written language was prefabricated. Howarth (1998) in his study on academic writing found that between 31% and 40% was made up of phraseological units (collocations and idioms). Phraseology serves to facilitate language use by providing a processing advantage and, as a number of studies have revealed, the use of prefabricated phrases and sentences decreases processing efforts in speech production and improves learners’ fluency (e.g. Wray, 2002; Conklin & Schmitt, 2008). Pawley & Syder (1983: 208), introducing the term “institutionalized sentence stem” for holistically stored sequences, were among the first to describe this:

Indeed, we believe that memorized sentences and phrases are the normal building blocks of fluent spoken discourse, and at the same time, that they provide models for the creation of many (partly) new sequences which are memorable and in their turn enter the stock of familiar usages.

The knowledge of phraseological units is also advantageous to foreign language learners — both in receptive and productive language use. It aids comprehension because it makes the incoming language flow predictive, and eases processing loads in speech production as the speaker is able to concentrate on passages which are produced creatively (Lennon, 1998: 18).

Recent trends

The phrasicon of a language is generally comprised of both a national (or culture-bound) and an international stock of items. In addition to expressions that are deeply embedded in the history of a speech community (such as send sb. to Coventry, catch-22 or be green with envy to take English examples), we find units that are widely known due to common sources, such as the Bible or antique mythology. Examples are black sheep, Pyrrhic victory, one hand washes the other and swim with the tide. Another important reason for transculturally common phraseological units is language contact. Currently, due to its dominant role in education, science, business, travel and popular media, English is making an important contribution in disseminating phraseological units. Young people, who want to be part of a global culture, find it attractive and stylish to insert ready-made English phrases (e.g. … at its best; the best … ever; just for fun) into their German sentences. Loan translations (e.g. literal translations of formulae such as The thing is; at the end of the day; to go the extra mile; and pigs might fly) can be heard and read everywhere. They provide hidden influences that are sometimes difficult to detect. Similar trends can be observed in other languages such as French and Spanish (cf. Furiassi et al. 2012: 169-277). This might be seen as an indicator of a globalization of language and culture, which would, however, be a topic for another blog entry.

Notes

1 The restriction in principle is to indicate the fact that, within definite constraints, there are variants. The use of function words (prepositions, determiners etc.) can vary (e.g. in/by leaps and bounds) as well as lexical constituents (e.g. sweep sth. under the carpet/rug).

2 Phraseological units can have different degrees of idiomaticity. At one end of the scale there are real idioms, i.e. fully opaque expressions. At the opposite end of the scale, we find fully transparent units, which are, however, legitimately included in the phrasicon because they are polylexemic, stable, and lexicalised. Idioms are therefore a subset of phraseological units.

References

Bally, C. (1909): Traité de Stylistique Française. Heidelberg: Winter.

Burger, H. et al. (eds.) (2007): Phraseologie. Phraseology. Ein internationales Handbuch zeitgenössischer Forschung. An International Handbook of Contemporary Research. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter.

Conklin, C. & Schmitt, N. (2008): Formulaic Sentences: Are the Processed More Quickly Than Nonformulaic Language by Native and Nonnative Speakers? Applied Linguistics, 28, 1-18.

Erman, B. & Warren, B. (2000): The idiom principle and the open-choice principle. Text, 20, 29-62.

Fiedler, Sabine (2007): English Phraseology. A Coursebook. Tübingen: Narr.

Furiassi, Cristiano/Pulcini, Virginia/Rodríguez Ganzález, Félix (eds.) (2012): The Anglicization of European Lexis. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: Benjamins.

Howarth, P. (1998): Phraseology and second language proficiency. Applied Linguistics, 19 (1), 24-44.

Lennon, P. (1998): Approaches to the Teaching of Idiomatic English. IRAL, XXXVI (1), 11-30.

Pawley, A. & Syder, F.H. (1983): Two puzzles for linguistic theory: nativelike selection and nativelike fluency. In Richards, J.C./Schmidt, R.W. (eds.), Language and Communication (pp. 191-226). Harlow & London: Longman.

Wray, A. (2002). Formulaic Language and the Lexicon. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

How to cite this post

Fiedler, Sabine. 2015. Somewhat caught between lexicology and syntax: a look at phraseology. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2015/02/11/somewhat-caught-between-lexicology-and-syntax-a-look-at-phraseology/

Examining material aspects of manuscripts. Part II: Bindings and provenance

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Anna Pytlowany
University of Amsterdam

This is Part II of a series. Part I is here.

At first glance, the history of Dutch East India Company (VOC) linguistics is simply a history of texts. Published or not, edited, translated, or not – the wordlists, grammars and phrasebooks remain a witness to the times when Dutch merchants and missionaries started documenting the new cultures and languages they encountered overseas.

But the historical reality is more multifaceted.

Besides the ones kept in the main VOC archives, some of these Dutch manuscripts and printed books are scattered in private and public collections from Paris, to London, to Venice, to Sydney. How to reconstruct the itineraries of displaced books? How to uncover the real place of creation of a manuscript? How to decide whether two similar copies are related or not, and how to date them? How to establish authorship of anonymous works?

The answers are contained in the very materiality of these objects. But to unlock them, we need to know what we are looking for.

Bookbinding

The main function of bookbinding is to protect the leaves and keep them together. However, the external visible elements, such as the cover and decoration (or, in the medieval manuscripts, the metal ‘furniture’­, i.e. clasps or ornaments) have, historically, also been an indicator of social status. Books were often sold without covers – these were provided later by the owners to match their own collection. Although until recently the history of bookbinding was limited to the study of binding decoration, to an expert eye, it is precisely the covert internal structure, the type of sewing, endleaf structure, and the kind of endbands (the meticulous sewing at the head and tail of the textblock spine) that can reveal the most valuable information on the origin of a book.

The sewing and covering of a book is called binding. A set of sheets folded, nested and sewn together forms a quire (also called a gathering or section). These are arranged side-by-side and sewn at the fold. By analysing holes at the fold of each quire we can see whether the book was rebound, or if it is in its original state.

Why are quires a good idea? Just compare an Indian book with only one massive quire of 400 pages with a structure combining small quires:

Why quires are a good idea: the book with only one 400 pages quire, Ms "Carmen Guzzuraticum" (Ms. Hasselquist, "Ex dono Reginæ Ludovicæ Udalricæ" UUB, O. Okatal. 3).

MS “Carmen Guzzuraticum” (Ms. Hasselquist, “Ex dono Reginæ Ludovicæ Udalricæ” UUB, O. Okatal. 3).

Hand-crafted Coptic style exposed-spine binding. Source: Cassandra Crafts

In some cases, even the thread used for sewing might provide precious geographical clues, as in the case of unusual thick brown thread used in Ketelaar’s Instructie from Paris, and in De Tours’ Grammatica Linguae Indianae from Rome. The two unrelated manuscripts possibly share the same place of creation: Surat in India, and the analysis of the thread fibres could corroborate this theory.

Just like contemporary paper formats, the book formats refer to how many times the initial sheet of paper was folded: once for folio, resulting in two leafs; twice for quarto – four leaves; three times for octavo – eight leaves, respectively abbreviated as “2o,” “4o” and “8o.” (Interestingly, in some catalogues, the manuscripts are arranged first by size, and only then alphabetically.) Usually, quires in one book are regular and contain from four to ten leaves. In the Middle Ages, eight leaves quires (quaternions) were the most popular in the West, while in Islamic manuscripts, for example, the norm was quires composed of 5 folded leaves (i.e. 10 pages). If the quires are irregular, like in the manuscript of François-Marie de Tours’ Grammatica Linguae Indianae, where consecutive quires consist of 20, 16, 10, 14 and 18 leaves, it may suggest that the book was created by an amateur.

Foliation vs. pagination

Unlike in modern books, where each page is numbered separately, in medieval codices only individual leaves were numbered (if numbered at all). In each folio (from Latin folium, pl. folia), the two sides are then referred to as recto (the page on the right as you open a book) and verso (the reverse) (hence page references such as 14v, or 22r). This order is opposite for books written in right-to-left scripts, so that the European “front” is Oriental verso.

As obvious as it seems, the orientation of the text may sometimes be overlooked. One such examples is an anonymous Persian-Dutch vocabulary from Leiden University Library, miscataloged as “nautical and botanical” just because these two sections are at the “European” front. In fact, it is a classical thematic vocabulary, starting with God, the world, planets, etc. and ending with botanical and medical substances (the chapter on the ship equipment is a separate addition altogether). Accordingly, its title page figures on the verso of the last folio in the European system – so, the “very end” of the text.

Title page of Vocabularium Persico-Belgicum, f. 111v of European foliation system (MS LTK 589)

Since, to avoid this confusion, another system has been introduced, with the terms ‘left’ and ‘right’ instead of ‘upper’ and ‘lower’ or ‘front’ and ‘back’.

Even though the mainstream Western tradition preserved the “cover to cover” binding model as we know it today, historically, book craftsmen, at times, experimented with more unusual forms: from “dos-à-dos” (back to back) “Siamese twins” books, to a book that opens in six ways:

Where West meets East

Sometimes, the information on the origin comes from the very structure of the book, or the way the leaves are bound. The Dutch-Formosan dictionary from Utrecht University Library looks nothing out of ordinary when we look at the beautifully digitised book online. However, in the original, every second page is blank: the rice paper it’s written on is very thin, so only one side of each page is used, verso and recto, and the next centre fold (pages facing each other) remain blank. The blank pages were skipped in digitisation (or at least in the online presentation), and only comparing the page edges reveals that recto does not always match verso:

Source: Universiteitsbibliotheek Utrecht Hs. 1483.

Source: Universiteitsbibliotheek Utrecht Hs. 1483.

This format resembles the Chinese “butterfly binding”. Traditional Chinese books were usually printed on one side of the paper. If the page was folded inward in the middle, the binding is called ‘butterfly’ (hudie zhuang), if folded outward – ‘wrapped-back’ or ‘thread-binding’ (xianzhuang):

Chinese book binding types. Source: Burkus-Chasson 2005: 372.

Chinese book binding types. Source: Burkus-Chasson 2005: 372.

Unfortunately, due to a later re-binding, it is hard to check how the pages of the manuscript from Utrecht were originally glued together. It would be interesting to compare the binding with those of contemporary Chinese manuscripts from Taiwan to confirm whether the MS was initially created there by a local bookbinder.

Adding sophistication

The technical description of quires and number of pages in each quire is called collation. It can be enlightening – or really confusing. On the basic level, it shows whether a manuscript was bought blank and bound, or whether the binding took place after the writing. However, the history rarely stops there; books and manuscripts are notoriously being “doctored”, i.e. leaves are added or removed to produce a “more perfect”, or sophisticated copy. It takes a real expert to uncover such practices when they are done for monetary gain; but even when the modifications are done openly, the motives may not be clear. Anquetil Duperron added his introduction as well as extra title page in the middle of Thesaurus Linguae Indianae by Francois-Marie de Tours ­– was he possibly preparing it for publication?

Sadly enough, loose pages from manuscripts, especially illuminated codices, accumulate more money at auctions than the complete manuscript would. At this stage, the only way to reunite them is by reassembling them in virtual space – the main objective of projects such as manuscriptlink.

But appearances can be misleading. If we look at a manuscript of the Dutch-Malay vocabulary from Erpenius Collection in Cambridge, we might be outraged that three pages of the text have been brutally cut off:

Source: Cambridge University Library, Gg.6.40, Part IV

Source: Cambridge University Library, Gg.6.40, Part IV

However, when we look at the quire structure, we realise that in fact, three pages have not been removed, but added at the beginning. They must have come from a book of which further part was not relevant to the Malay language and therefore discarded.

Membra disjecta

As bookbinding materials, especially parchment, were quite expensive yet durable, fragments of older manuscripts were often recycled into new bindings. We can find them as membra disjecta, or scattered fragments, in much later books, like in this example from 16th century (Nationaal Archief, Coll. Sypesteyn):

disjecta_membra_01

Two pages from a 13th century French missal were folded and used to strengthen the cover stitching. (Although in this case, the pieces were evaluated as not important enough to undo the original 16th century binding, the conservator assured me that they would undo it if requested by an interested medievalist.)

The analysis of disjecta membra can also add to the understanding of book’s history.

Provenance

Provenancing, i.e. determining the chronology of the ownership and location of a book or a manuscript, can be studied in two ways: by examining the item itself (bookseller plates; labels; symbols and inscriptions), or by finding references in external sources, such as auction catalogues, library records, etc. Personally, I’m particularly interested in ‘catalogues du feu…’ (‘of the late…’), prepared after the death of a (famous) person: it’s as close to peeking into the persons’ library as it can get, trying to understand their influences.

We have to keep in mind that provenance is not the same as origin. However, it can help authenticate the object. It can also be as lucrative as it is fascinating, even in modern manuscripts and books, where a proven ownership by an important or famous person can increase the value of a book tremendously. Biggest auction houses hire exceptionally skilled ‘book detectives’ who can easily recognize less obvious clues, such as bookseller’s price codes (booksellers typically avoided writing any prices on books explicitly, yet they still needed to remember how much they paid for a book, so for this reason they developed idiosyncratic price codes they could use to identify the price).

Yet-unidentified symbols, possibly price codes at the rear pastedown of Ketelaar’s Instructie (Custodia MS 1991-A615)

Still unidentified symbols, possibly price codes at the rear pastedown of Ketelaar’s Instructie (Custodia MS 1991-A615)

In the case of the Dutch linguistic documents from the times of the East India Company (VOC), provenance is particularly important for two reasons: in many cases, we find linguistically significant texts with no information on the author; equally often, we may know of famous Orientalists – but lack any actual books written by them. Knowing the history of individual manuscripts, we can trace the connections, textual transmission, and even establish the authorship.

In the example below, we see identical bookseller plates on two unrelated 17th c. Dutch manuscripts, which proves that they were in the same bookshop in Paris at around the same time. This may explain the mistaken dating of the first Hindustani grammar; Emilio Teza, who bought the Malay grammar (right), was also the first one to mention the year in relation to Ketelaar’s work (left). Ketelaar’s manuscript disappeared for years, yet the date 1715 entered into the received history of linguistics.

Right: Malay grammar (Biblioteca Marciana, Legato Teza, Or. 237).

Left: Ketelaar’s Hindustani grammar (Fondation Custodia MS 1991-A615). Right: Malay grammar (Biblioteca Marciana, Legato Teza, Or. 237). The number 2550 refers to Maisonneuve’s catalogue from 1872. Identical bookseller plates on two unrelated 17th c. Dutch manuscripts proving that around the same time they were in the same bookshop in Paris may lead to understand the mistaken dating of the first Hindustani grammar.

Left: Ketelaar’s Hindustani grammar (Fondation Custodia MS 1991-A615). The number 2550 refers to Maisonneuve’s catalogue from 1872.

 

The principle of archive provenance states that fonds (documents originating in the same source) and collections should be kept together. When the only available piece of information is what other books or manuscripts are next to the particular item on the shelf, with some luck and a lot of searching, it may nevertheless be a useful start to uncover its history.

Annotations

The study of marginalia, or the handwritten notes and comments left in the margins by the reader (presumably owner) contribute to our understanding of reading practices, as well as the social and intellectual impact of the text.

One great example is a monumental study of all 560 copies of first and second edition of Copernicus’ De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (1543) tracked down by Owen Gingerich. He described the fascinating story of his research in The Book Nobody Read: Chasing the Revolutions of Nicolaus Copernicus. 

Appreciating the true value of what may seem to many to be simple vandalism, twelve special collections libraries from the Netherlands, US and England joined forces to create a digital archive of early modern annotated books. Other libraries create their own online projects, as University of Pennsylvania Rare Book & Manuscript Library did, appealing to the broader public for help with identifying annotations.


We are merely an episode in the life of objects. I hope the next time you hold a crumbling and stained manuscript in your hands, you’ll search for the story it has to tell; the story of people who created and owned it over the years; the memory of places enshrined in plant fibres, leather, ink, and sand.

With special thanks to Alberto Campagnolo

Selected bibliography:

Burkus-Chasson, Anne. 2005. “Visual Hermeneutics and the Act of Turning the Leaf”. In Cynthia J. Brokaw, Kai-Wing Chow. Printing and Book Culture in Late Imperial China. University of California Press.

Brown, Michelle P. 1994. Understanding Illuminated Manuscripts: A Guide to Technical TermsJ. Paul Getty Museum: Malibu and British Library: London.

Pearson, David. 1998. Provenance Research in Book History: a Handbook. New Castle, Delaware and London, England: Oak Knoll Press and The British Library.

–––– 2012. Books As History: The Importance Of Books Beyond Their Texts. New Castle, Delaware and London, England: Oak Knoll Press and The British Library.

Pickwoad, Nicholas. 2000. “The Use of Fragments of Medieval Manuscripts in the Construction and Covering of Bindings on the Printed Books.” In Interpreting and Collecting Fragments of Medieval Books. Proceedings of The Seminar in the History of the Book to 1500, Oxford, 1998. Brownrigg, Linda L. & Smith, Margaret M. (eds.) 1–20. Los Altos Hills (CA); London: Anderson-Lovelace; Red Gull Press.

Sharpe, John Lawrence. 1999. “The Earliest Bindings with Wooden Board Covers: The Coptic Contribution to Binding Construction.” In International Conference on Conservation and Restoration of Archival and Library Materials. Erice 22nd-29th April 1996, edited by Carlo Federici and Paola Munafò, 2:455–78. Palermo: Palumbo Editore.

How to cite this post:

Pytlowany, Anna. 2015. Examining material aspects of manuscripts. Part II: Bindings and provenance. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2015/02/25/examining-material-aspects-of-manuscripts-part-ii-bindings-and-provenance

Some Remarks on Objectivity in Pragmatics

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Samuel Lewin
University of Sydney

I

Let me start with some background. In recent decades, linguists and philosophers have debated the role played by context in determining what we say, as opposed to what we imply or otherwise mean, when we utter a sentence. The debate hinges on whether the grammar of a sentence is sufficient to establish something truth-valued, granting, of course, that some context-sensitivity is grammatically mandated – the reference of personal pronouns, for example. The way theorists answer this question dictates their initial conception of pragmatics (viz. narrow linguistic pragmatics; for a broader historical picture, see Nerlich 2006). Take Gazdar’s formulation:

Pragmatics has as its topic those aspects of the meaning of utterances which cannot be accounted for by straightforward reference to the truth conditions of the sentences uttered. Put crudely: PRAGMATICS = MEANING TRUTH CONDITIONS (1979: 2)

In this picture, truth is the crucial semantic notion. Words in a sentence are paired with meanings (usually assumed to be senses) that combine, according to the rules of the language, to produce something truth-valued, a proposition or thought. Apparently, we can understand an astonishing number of novel thoughts because the sentences that express them decompose into familiar elements. This wouldn’t be possible, in Frege’s venerated words, “wenn wir in dem Gedanken nicht Teile unterscheiden könnten, denen Satzteile entsprächen, so daß der Aufbau des Satzes als Bild gelten könnte des Aufbaues des Gedankens” (1993: 72).

At one pole in the current debate, then, the minimalist takes the view that saying is sensitive to context “only when this is necessary to ‘complete’ the meaning of the sentence and make it propositional”, whereby necessary context-sensitivity extends to only a limited number of context-dependent expressions, like “I” and “yesterday” (my usage here follows Recanati 2004: 7-8). As minimalists Herman Cappelen and Ernie Lepore put it, “context interacts with meaning only when triggered by the grammar of the sentence” (2005b: 70). If this is right, the proper object for pragmatics is what speakers mean, imply, suggest, over and above what they say. To revisit Gazdar’s useful crudity, PRAGMATICS = MEANING TRUTH CONDITIONS.

At the opposite pole lies radical contextualism, the view that context-sensitivity is pervasive (I am again following Recanati’s usage; for a survey of intermediate positions, see his 2004). Charles Travis calls this “the pragmatic view”:

It is intrinsically part of what expressions of (say) English mean that any English (or whatever) sentence may, on one speaking of it or another, have any of indefinitely many different truth conditions, and that any English (or whatever) expression may, meaning what it does, make any of many different contributions to truth conditions of wholes in which it figures as a part. (1997: 87)

If this is right, then truth can’t be a purely semantic notion. I’ll illustrate this by reproducing one of Travis’s examples, an utterance of “The kettle is black”. Suppose this is said when “the kettle is normal aluminum, but soot covered; normal aluminum but painted; cast iron, but glowing from heat; cast iron, but enameled white on the inside; on the outside; cast iron with a lot of brown grease stains on the outside; etc.” (1985: 197). Without knowing what will count as a black kettle on a given occasion, which is by no means self-evident, it remains unclear how I am supposed to ascribe truth-conditions to “The kettle is black”. This seems to suggest, to quote Austin, that “the apparently common-sense distinction between ‘What is the meaning of the word x’ and ‘What particular things are x and to what degrees?’ is not of universal application by any means” (1979: 74). To maintain that “black” contributes identically to what is said whenever someone uses it, the minimalist has to argue for a context-insensitive notion of something like blackness. How such a notion might figure in communication is, at best, opaque. It is preferable, the radical contextualist argues, to generalise context-sensitivity, and to allow that “black” can contribute variously to what is said, just like expressions traditionally acknowledged to be indexical, context-dependent. Truth, then, is necessarily also pragmatic. For the radical contextualist, pragmatics cuts across the distinction between what a speaker says and what she means. But so much for background.

II

I have been aware of this debate at least since my first, undergraduate reading of Recanati’s Literal Meaning, and I have been thinking seriously about it since. I am what Capellen and Lepore might call an “impure, contaminated student” (see their 2005a: 1); I find the arguments in favour of radical contextualism quite convincing. But I don’t want to revisit them here. Rather, I want to plumb the idea of communication that seems to me to underlie the whole debate. I am impressed, namely, by an apparent consensus that knowledge of a word’s meaning (whether this is understood to be a sense or something less than a sense) is fungible, and that what a speaker says is public, objective. This is implicit, of course, in the unavoidable expression “what is said”. Given that pragmatics occupies a “remedial” position in the history of linguistics and philosophy (so descibed, for example, in the preface to Levinson 1983), it is hardly surprising that this sort of objectivity is a virtue; the constitutive idealizations of Chomskyan linguistics and formal semantics were simply carried over in various articulations of the new discipline. This is a matter for intellectual history. Yet objectivity is still presupposed in the Fragestellung of the debate, in the very way that questions about saying are asked, and so both sides skirt epistemological problems, such as the status of speakers’ assumption that they share a language (see Davidson 2001). I want to turn to such problems here, in order to complicate the picture somewhat.

It is easy to see how objective meaning figures in a minimalist view of communication. If grammar drives context-sensitivity, then two speakers of the same language will just recognize what is said. Despite its largely begging the question of what communication consists in, the simplicity of this picture is often suggested as an argument supporting minimalism. A telling example can be found in Capellen and Lepore’s ingenuous chapter ‘Objections to Radical Contextualism (II): Makes Communication Impossible’. They object that, “[i]f RC were true, it would be a miracle if speakers in different contexts were ever able to agree, disagree, or more generally, share contents” (my emphasis, 2005a: 124). The chapter is valuable because the authors’ position rests openly on their intuition that communication is the dressing and undressing of thought in words. Their response to the very possibility of uncertainty in communication is simply to say “it’s not a bullet we would like to bite” (2005a: 126-27). Reading this, I am reminded that “[a]ll epistemology begins in fear” (Daston and Galison 2010: 372). If the expectation that communication is content-sharing turns out to be unwarranted, they feel, then we simply can’t be communicating. It seems to me that this way of thinking is quite common, although it is seldom so conspicuous.

Another reason for thinking that saying is objective is that this seems to be required by the adoption of Grice’s account of intentional communication (I assume that this is reasonably familiar to anyone interested in pragmatics). I want to focus on this. For a word to mean something is, pace Grice, for it to be involved in an intentional communicative act; for a speaker to mean something is for the speaker to intend an utterance “to produce some effect in an audience by means of the recognition of this intention” (1957: 220). If saying is to be recognizable, then the speaker’s intention has to be overt, public, which is guaranteed by the language. This view is enshrined in Recanati’s Availability Principle, “according to which ‘what is said’ must be analysed in conformity to the intuitions shared by those who fully understand the utterance” (2004: 14). The difficulty for Recanati is that, as others have argued, pervasive context-sensitivity allows at least for the possibility that intuitions are not shared. At this point, radical contextualism strains against the ideal of content-sharing (and see chapter 8 of Recanati 2004). Recanati can maintain that full understanding is shared only by equating what is said with “what a normal interpreter would understand as being said”. The normal interpreter “knows which sentence was uttered, knows the meaning of that sentence, knows the relevant contextual facts” (2004: 19- 20). The normal interpreter is able to recognize the speaker’s intention.

But this is contrived. It’s not at all clear what normal interpretation is supposed to cover. Donald Davidson writes:

If we ask for a cup of coffee, direct a taxi driver, or order a crate of lemons, we may know so little about our intended interpreter that we can do no better than to assume that he will interpret our speech along what we take to be standard lines. But this is relative. In fact we always have the interpreter in mind; there is no such thing as how we expect, in the abstract, to be interpreted. (my emphasis, 1986: 170)

This fact is neglected in the rush to secure what is said, at both poles of the debate. Consider this little story, told by Grice:

I was listening to a French lesson being given to the small daughter of a friend. I noticed that she thinks that a certain sentence in French means “Help yourself to a piece of cake,” though in fact it means something quite different. When there is some cake in the vicinity, I address to her this French sentence, and as I intended, she helps herself. I intended her to think (and to think that I intended her to think) that the sentence uttered by me meant “Help yourself to some cake”; and I would say that the fact that the sentence meant and was known by me to mean something quite different is no obstacle to my having meant something by my utterance (namely, that she was to have some cake). (1969: 162-63).

The normal interpreter would be helpless. Clearly, what matters is that Grice can correctly guess what the girl will take him to mean in using that certain French sentence. This depends not on shared linguistic knowledge, but on Grice’s having observed her using it in interacting with her environment. As Davidson argues, the preponderance of such examples gives us good reason to think that we have different interpretive theories for different speakers (1986: 171). Communication is possible in such cases because speakers and hearers agree massively in their knowledge of the environment, in their extra-linguistic knowledge. Davidson goes on to acknowledge that, “if we do say this, then we should realize that we have erased the boundary between knowing a language and knowing our way around in the world generally” (173). Now, I admit, this is a far more radical view than I suspect Grice would allow, yet this is where the general import of something like his Cooperative Principle becomes most evident. If communication depends on general principles for rational interaction, as Grice clearly thinks it does, then there is no need for an autonomous notion of what is said. Word meanings, especially, do not need to be fungible, as we can converge on words’ use in other ways.

Let’s return, finally, to Travis’s kettle. Abstracting a little, I feel that the category in question – “black kettles”, say – is a Streitgegenstand, is up for grabs, rather than being given in context. Surely, communication succeeds when two people can jointly agree that something counts as a member of that category, which in no way depends on there being an established fact of the matter about what they have said. This is assuming, too, that they have the kettle in front of them. Without the kettle in front of them, it seems obvious to me that two people who hear or read “The kettle is black” will have different – and differently black – kettles in mind. Moreover, there’s simply no need for them to agree. If we view communication as motivated by principles of cooperation, or charity, rather than sheer linguistic agreement, cases like this don’t pose anything like the problems that they seem to. This gives us reason enough to doubt whether the objectivity of what is said is necessary to communication, and, therefore, what place it deserves in linguistic and philosophical theory. This is also a good place to stop, as the present line of thinking carries us well beyond the bounds of the debate and into a reconstruction of linguistic semantics (for which, see Peregrin 1999). As I said before, however, I do feel that radical contextualism strains in that direction.

References

Austin, J. L. (1979): ‘The Meaning of a Word’. Philosophical Papers, Oxford University Press: 55-75.

Cappelen, H. and E. Lepore (2005a): Insensitive Semantics: A Defense of Semantic Minimalism and Speech Act Pluralism, Blackwell.

Cappelen, H. and E. Lepore (2005b): ‘Radical and Moderate Pragmatics: Does Meaning Determine Truth Conditions?’. Semantics Versus Pragmatics. Z. Szabo, Oxford University Press: 45- 71.

Daston, L. and P. Galison (2010): Objectivity, Zone Books.

Davidson, D. (1986): ‘A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs’. Philosophical Grounds of Rationality: Intentions, Categories, Ends, Clarendon: 157-74.

Davidson, D. (2001): ‘Radical Interpretation’. Inquiries into Truth and Interpretation, Oxford University Press: 125-39.

Frege, G. (1993): Logische Untersuchungen, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Gazdar, G. (1979): Pragmatics: Implicature, Presupposition, and Logical Form, Academic Press.

Grice, P. (1957): ‘Meaning.’ The Philosophical Review 66(3): 377-88.

Grice, P. (1969): ‘Utterer’s Meaning and Intention’ The Philosophical Review 78(2): 147-77.

Levinson, S. (1983): Pragmatics, Cambridge University Press.

Nerlich, B. (2006): ‘Pragmatics: History’. Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics, Elsevier.

Peregrin, J. (1999): ‘The Pragmatization of Semantics’. The Semantics/Pragmatics Interface from Different Points of View. K. Turner, Elsevier: 419-42.

Recanati, F. (2004): Literal Meaning, Cambridge University Press.

Recanati, F. (2010): Truth-Conditional Pragmatics, Oxford.

Szabo, Z., Ed. (2005): Semantics Versus Pragmatics, Oxford University Press.

Travis, C. (1985): ‘On What Is Strictly Speaking True’. Canadian Journal of Philosophy 15(2): 187- 229.

Travis, C. (1997): ‘Pragmatics’. A Companion to the Philosophy of Language. B. Hale and C. Wright, Blackwell: 87-107.

Turner, K., Ed. (1999): The Semantics/Pragmatics Interface from Different Points of View, Elsevier.

How to cite this post:

Lewin, Samuel. 2015. Some Remarks on Objectivity in Pragmatics. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2015/03/13/some-remarks-on-objectivity-in-pragmatics


Sensualism for Dummies

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Els Elffers
University of Amsterdam

1. From sensualism to intentionalism. Four examples.

What do Wilhelm Wundt (1832-1920), Jacques van Ginneken (1877-1945), Ernst Cassirer (1894-1945) and Martinus Langeveld (1905-1989) have in common?

Apart from the fact that they were all men, prominent scholars, and active in the first half of the 20th century, there seem to be few common features at first sight. Wundt was a pioneer German psychologist, Van Ginneken was a well-known Dutch linguist, Cassirer was a famous German neo-Kantian philosopher, and the Dutchman Langeveld was one of the founders of pedagogy as a scientific discipline.

However, they shared one interest: language, and its relation to thought. In Wundt’s most famous work, the ten-volume Völkerpsychologie, two volumes are devoted to language and its psychological foundations. For Van Ginneken, this issue was the central theme of his internationally recognized Principes de linguistique psychologique. Also Cassirer’s three-volume Philosophie der Symbolischen Formen deals with this theme and is regarded as his most original work. Finally, Langeveld started his successful career with his influential thesis Taal en denken (Language and thought), written when he was still a language teacher, which explains why he connects the theme to problems of language education at secondary schools.[1]

What is more, the positions of the four scholars in the contemporary language-and-thought debate are similar. In very general terms, this debate concerned the transition from sensualism to intentionalism.

According to sensualism, mental life mainly consists of representations and associations, all based upon sense data and internal sensations; language exteriorizes mental life, so meanings are mainly equated with successive representations. This view became prominent in the 18th century and, despite criticism (for example by Humboldt), it continued during the whole 19th century. Condillac, Steinthal and Paul are well-known defenders. From the end of the 19th century onwards, this view was gradually abandoned in favor of a more active view of mental life. Meanings of words and sentences were no longer seen as purely representational. As their mental counterparts, more complex volitional acts were assumed. Initially these acts were conceived as purely intra-psychical. Later on, genuine intentional acts were assumed: acts not definable solely in terms of internal occurrences in the speaker’s mind, but also in terms of their purpose, their appeal to the listener, and, moreover, in terms of their being about objects and states-of-affairs. The work of Marty and especially Bühler exemplifies this transition. Bühler’s famous triangular organon-model can be regarded as the pinnacle of this development: linguistic signs are not only symptoms, expressing the speaker’s mental state, but also purposeful signals, appealing to the listener, and symbols, representing external objects and states of affairs (Bühler 1990 [1934]: 34).

The four scholars all participated in this general transition, each in his own way. They took steps away from sensualism, and towards a more active and intentionalist view of mental life and linguistic semantics. But the main reason why I focus on these four scholars is that they all exhibit remarkable and similar ideas about special, allegedly “lower-level” types of language and thought; for example the language and thought of small children, of so-called primitive people, or of mentally deficient people. The language and thought of these groups is described in purely sensualistic terms.

This is somewhat surprising: the four scholars all regard non-sensualistic features as essential for human language and thought in general. At the same time there appears to be residual sensualism in their description of these special types of human language: sensualism for dummies.[2]

How did they defend these seemingly paradoxical views?

2. Intentionalism for normal people, sensualism for dummies.
2.1 Wundt

In general, Wundt ’s view of language and thought is still near to sensualism. He regards language as a pure exteriorization of the speaker’s inner mental processes, in which representations and associations are central elements.

A non-sensualistic aspect is, however, his appeal to apperception, an active inner process that is essential to language. Wundt rejects the earlier idea of sentences as simple concatenations of words, each word corresponding to a representation. Separate representations (Einzelvorstellungen) are not regarded as the basic elements of thought, they come about through isolation from a holistic substrate, the Gesamtvorstellung, by means of apperception, which is an act of willful focusing on specific mental elements. In the act of apperception [during word isolation], there is a “voluntary isolation of […] elements, which results in separate representations.[…] If there is an inclination to communication, an outward reaction necessarily accompanies this apperception as a natural expressive movement” (Wundt 19113: 615).[3]

But Wundt also claims that primitive people (“Naturmenschen”) proceed in a quite different way. They lack the essential capacity of breaking up a holistic Gesamtvorstellung into elements. “It is different for primitive people, in whose thought words do not exist as isolated elements; only sentences appear as units of thought” (Wundt 19113: 611).

So there is a paradox about primitive language: there are sentences but they lack the main feature attributed to sentences by Wundt: their being an outward reaction to the analysis of a Gesamtvorstellung.

2.2 Van Ginneken

Like Wundt, Van Ginneken still defends some sensualistic ideas. For example, in a book about child language, he describes children’s sentences as direct reflexes of what the child “sees” through the “window” of its consciousness. Van Ginneken owed a lot to Wundt but he also wanted to surpass him. For example, he rejected Wundt’s concept “apperception” as too vague and confusing. Instead, he developed a concept “assent” (“adhésion” in his Principes), which refers to active claims about states-of-affairs. This goes beyond Wundt, because it relates language to extra-mental entities.

Van Ginneken argues that language cannot exist without reality-assent: “The question is: are representations of words and objects sufficient to make language possible? […] Our answer is: they are not sufficient. The facts of language show that assent is necessary as well” (Van Ginneken 1904-1906: 54).

He even ridicules the idea that speakers only want to convey their mental images to their listeners. As an example, he refers to the soldiers in Xenophon’s Anabasis, who began running to the sea after hearing the joyous cry “Thalassa!” His comment: “Of course they did not run because of a mental image, but because of the expectation of the real sea” (Van Ginneken 1904-1906: 62). In all its simplicity, this is a substantial step towards intentionalism.

At the same time, we are told that feeble-minded people lack the capacity of reality-assent. Van Ginneken extensively studied the work of pioneer psychiatrists of his day, such as Janet and Binet. Janet observed that during the progression of mental deficiency, psychical functions disappear in a strict hierarchical sequence: first the more exacting and complex functions, later the simpler ones. The first function to disappear is the “reality function” (la fonction du réel). Van Ginneken equates this function with reality-assent and thus concludes that mentally disabled people lack this capacity, whereas representations and especially visual images, remain available: “Until the last stages of [mental] illness, representations are staying, they even become more clear and vivid, but reality-assent has disappeared.” (Van Ginneken 1904-1906: 57-58). So their language conforms to the sensualist mode of pure expression of representations.

Again the paradox: a non-sensualistic feature regarded as inherent in language is denied to the language of a specific group of people.

2.3 Cassirer

Cassirer is the first of our four scholars who explicitly rejects a sensualist approach to linguistics. Discussing the complexities of language and thought, his conclusion is: “Sensualism strives in vain to derive them from the immediate content of particular impressions” (Cassirer 19687: 94).

His own view reflects many ideas of Wundt, but also of Humboldt. His central claim about language and art is that they do not copy reality but create reality. Especially linguistic symbolism implies an active grasp of the world through conceptual schemes. Against passive sensualism, and in line with intentionalism, he claims that even a sense datum is inherently symbolic, it “reaches beyond itself”. For language this implies that “…not in proximity to the immediately given, but in progressive removal from it, lie the value and the specific character of linguistic as of artistic formation, […] Language […] begins only where our immediate relation to sensory expression […] ceases”( Cassirer 19687: 106).

Nevertheless, for Cassirer, the language of small children and primitive people consists of an exact copy of the speaker’s sense data. Precisely the situation which, according to Cassirer himself, makes impossible even the beginnings of language, applies to these groups: “Here the sounds seeks to approach the sensory impression and reproduce its diversity as faithfully as possible. This striving plays an important part in the speech both of children and “primitive” people” (Cassirer 19687: 190). Again the same paradox.

2.4 Langeveld

Langeveld is the latest of our four scholars. When he wrote Taal en denken, he could, unlike the others, benefit from Bühler’s most elaborate versions of his views of language and thought (esp. Bühler 1934). Like Cassirer and Bühler himself, Langeveld explicitly rejects sensualism. He sharply criticizes the view of a colleague-teacher who regards language as a kind of inner storehouse, with perception-based “photo-images” of objects and their associations with words: “This has nothing to do with language […] Word comprehension does not consist in the appearance of a visual image of the object referred to […], as one should expect according to sensualistic ideas” (Langeveld 1934: 88-90). Langeveld claims that language embodies intentional acts of thought, which are guided by abstract conceptual schemes, corresponding to grammatical structures.

However, in a later passage Langeveld again refers to this colleague’s ideas, this time not to reject them, but to apply them, namely to specific types of language use: the language of small children and of primitive people. But in Langeveld’s case, there are other “dummies” as well. Due to his practice as a teacher and his wide reading of psychological and pedagogical literature, he includes the language of deaf and dumb people, and especially the language of what he calls “eloquent stupids”: unintelligent children who talk fluently and impeccably, but go off the rails in tasks such as retelling a story. According to Langeveld, all these types of language use are direct reflexes of chaotic explosions of images, uncontrolled by the abstract organizing schemes.[4] Again, several types of languages use are characterized in terms of sensualistic ideas, in Langeveld’s case: ideas characterized by himself as “having nothing to do with language”.

3. Explaining the paradox

How can these paradoxical views be explained? I can go into this question only in a tentative way. First, we have to take into account that the entire transition from sensualism to intentionalism was a difficult and complex development, which proceeded not at all smoothly and coherently. There were more paradoxes than the one just discussed. Knobloch (1988: 298), in his outstanding book about linguistics and psychology in 19th-century Germany, justifiably characterizes the transition as “a long process, beset with contradictions”.

Of course, the paradox was also facilitated by the contemporary intellectual climate, which allowed labeling peoples and groups as “primitive” and “incapable of abstract and logical thought”.

But more specific triggers must be relevant, if only because these remnants of sensualism are not at all omnipresent. For example, they are entirely absent in Bühler’s work, and also in the work of the contemporary linguist Reichling (Bühler 1990 [1934], Reichling 19672 [1935]).

A crucial factor seems to be the presence or absence of some rudimentary sensualistic elements in the total theory of language and thought. If present, such elements are located in a sensualistic substrate, a “primitive” bottom layer of representations and associations, upon which intentional acts take place. Such a view facilitates and is facilitated by ideas about levels in the development of language and thought.

Precisely this is what we find in the work of the four scholars. I mentioned Van Ginneken’s appeal to Janet’s hierarchy of psychical functions. The others defend their own hierarchies. In Wundt’s developmental model, the very first stage, preceding conscious thought and Gesamtvorstellungen, consists of a substrate of representations. Cassirer presents his own well-known layered view of mimetic, analogical and symbolic expression. Finally, Langeveld appeals to layered models of human consciousness, developed by contemporary psychologists (especially Sassenfeld), whose first layer consists of separate representations. Given such a stratified view of language and thought, and the assumption of a sensualist lowest level, it is a small step towards applying the levels in the way we observed to allegedly lesser developed forms of language.

For Bühler and Reichling, such levels don’t exist. For Bühler (1990 [1934]: 45), the purposive appeal function of language is essential, even in animal language: “[…] all forms of learning, ranging from those encountered in the infusoria to human learning, involve […] objectively detectable reactions to signals.” For Reichling (19672 [1935]: 123), the very first words of infants are intentionally directed: “it [the child] utters its strivings towards a purpose, a purpose that can consist in a “thing” or an “action”, or, better formulated, a “thing to be acted upon”.

My tentative conclusion: a fundamental and broad intentionalism prevents all sensualism. In the works of our four scholars, intentionalism is either only rudimentarily present (Wundt and Van Ginneken) or present in the narrow intellectualistic variety of abstract conceptual schemes (Cassirer and Langeveld). In both cases, “sensualism for dummies” may appear, especially in relation to a layered model of language.

Notes

[1] Full titles:
W. Wundt – Die Sprache (vol. 1 and 2 of Völkerpsychologie. Eine Untersuchung der Entwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythus und Sitte). Leipzig 1900.
J. van Ginneken – Principes de linguistique psychologique. Essay synthétique. Amsterdam 1907.
E. Cassirer – Philosophie der symbolischen Formen. Vol.1-3. Berlin 1923-1929.
M. Langeveld – Taal en denken. Een theoretiese en didaktiese bijdrage tot het voortgezet onderwijs in de moedertaal, inzonderheid tot dat der grammatika. Groningen 1934.

[2] There may be more scholars whose work contains remnants of sensualism. These are the four I know about; further research may reveal other examples.

[3] Translations from German and Dutch into English are mine (E.E.), if published translations were not available (see the References).

[4] Language performance can, therefore, be improved through grammatical training, according to Langeveld. He thus provided a rather influential pro-argument in the contemporary debate about the usefulness or uselessness of school grammar.

References (see also note 1)

Bühler, K. 1990 [1934]. Theory of language: the representational function of language. Transl. by D.F Goodwin, with an introd. by A. Eschbach. Amsterdam etc.

Cassirer, E. 19687. The philosophy of symbolic forms. Vol 1: Language. Transl. by R. Manheim. Preface and introd. by Ch. W. Hendel. New Haven etc.

Ginneken, Jac. van 1904-1906. Grondbeginselen van de psychologische taalwetenschap. Eene synthetische proeve. 2 vols. Reprint from Leuvensche Bijdragen VI. Lier (orig. Dutch version of Van Ginneken 1907).

Knobloch, C. 1988. Geschichte der psychologischen Sprachauffassung in Deutschland von 1850 bis 1920. Tübingen.

Reichling, A. 19672 [1935]. Het woord. Een studie omtrent de grondslag van taal en taalgebruik. Zwolle.

Wundt, W. 19113 [1900]. Die Sprache (vol. 1 of Völkerpsychologie. Eine Untersuchung der Entwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythus und Sitte). Leipzig.

How to cite this post

Elffers, Els. 2015. Sensualism for dummies. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2015/03/25/sensualism-for-dummies

Le Formalisme russe dans l’histoire de la linguistique

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Patrick Flack
sdvig press

Le Formalisme russe, à bien des égards, constitue un phénomène paradoxal. Il a, c’est bien connu, fourni les fondements d’une approche systématique de la littérature (ou du « langage poétique « ) et contribué à produire une grande partie du lexique et de l’arsenal conceptuel de la théorie littéraire moderne. A ce double titre, il figure comme une étape essentielle et reconnue dans le développement de cette discipline comme « science »  autonome. Toutefois, on sait aussi que le Formalisme russe n’a jamais opéré en tant qu’école ou mouvement unifié : le terme dénote un ensemble de travaux et de personnalités au demeurant très divers. Malgré leur fécondité conceptuelle et leur souci de fonder une théorie systématique de l’analyse littéraire, les formalistes russes n’ont pas non plus formulé un corps de doctrine spécifique ou bien défini. Surtout, la plupart des idées formalistes ont été très tôt vivement critiquées pour leur manque de rigueu. Le modèle formaliste a ainsi vite été remplacé par un paradigme plus puissant, celui de la linguistique structurale.

Les interprètes du Formalisme russe (Victor Erlich, Aage Hansen-Löve, Tsvetan Todorov, etc.) ont tous résolu le paradoxe que représente son originalité et son influence d’une part, ses évidentes lacunes d’autre part en suggérant que les contributions formalistes n’ont constitué de fait qu’une phase transitoire ou « inter-paradigmatique » (Steiner 1984, p.10) dans l’évolution de la théorie littéraire. Par ailleurs, ils s’accordent sur le fait non seulement que l’évolution de la théorie littéraire formaliste, sous l’égide en particulier de Roman Jakobson, s’est faite clairement dans la direction et avec l’appui du paradigme structuraliste, mais aussi que cette évolution a assuré sa pérennité et son influence. Ces deux conclusions, en elles-mêmes, sont parfaitement justifiées: il est incontestable que les intuitions fondatrices des formalistes russes quant aux propriétés du phénomène littéraire et des méthodes de son analyse ont été pour l’essentiel récupérées avec succès d’abord dans le contexte du Cercle Linguistique de Prague, du structuralisme tchèque (Jan Mukařovský, Felix Vodička), puis, bien entendu, du structuralisme français (Todorov, Barthes, etc.). De même, l’œuvre de Tynjanov démontre aussi sans l’ombre d’un doute que la transition vers le structuralisme a été délibérément voulue et a débuté à l’intérieur même de la mouvance formaliste (cf. Ehlers 1992).

Il n’en reste pas moins que l’histoire du Formalisme russe et de sa transition vers le structuralisme est marquée par une rupture majeure au début des années 1930. Sous la pression du régime stalinien, l’énergie créatrice des formalistes restés en URSS s’est estompée quasi définitivement à ce moment là. Plus important encore, les échanges entre le nouveau centre névralgique du développement de la linguistique structurale (Prague) et les penseurs soviétiques ont été interrompus, alors pourtant que les parties concernées (Roman Jakobson, Jurij Tynjanov, Viktor Šklovskij) étaient à la recherche d’un renouvellement de leur collaboration et de la dynamique du Formalisme de la première heure (cf. Depretto 2005). En raison à la fois de cette rupture et, plus généralement, des problèmes qui ont accompagné la réception en Occident de la pensée soviétique des années 1920-30 (cf. Sériot 2008), certains des aspects les plus radicaux et les plus typiques des idées formalistes n’ont dès lors pas reçu l’écho qu’ils auraient mérité, que ce soit dans le structuralisme praguois, ou bien moins encore, dans le structuralisme français.

Mon objectif ici sera de réévaluer positivement l’importance théorique du Formalisme pour le structuralisme, et notamment pour la linguistique structurale. Pour ce faire, je compte indiquer très brièvement que certaines des idées constitutives les plus radicales du tout premier Formalisme – la notion de langage poétique, la perceptibilité de la forme poétique, le mot comme chose (vešč) concrète et expressive – ont contribué à forger chez Jakobson une conception de la linguistique structurale qui est fort différente de celle proposée par Saussure. Démontrer de la sorte l’originalité « formaliste » de la linguistique structurale jakobsonienne est un élément essentiel dans la défense du potentiel linguistique du Formalisme russe. La linguistique structurale (et en particulier la phonologie), en effet, constitue un modèle théorique scientifiquement rigoureux, qui peut fournir une base cohérente aux idées littéraires souvent vagues et immatures des formalistes. De surcroît, elle fut la matrice du développement du structuralisme comme paradigme des sciences humaines.

Le rôle accordé à la linguistique par les Formalistes eux-mêmes demeure à vrai dire très imprécis. On sait bien sûr que le Formalisme russe s’est développé dans deux centres distincts, l’OPOJAZ de St-Pétersbourg et le Cercle Linguistique de Moscou. On sait tout aussi bien que l’OPOJAZ, avec Šklovskij, Tynjanov ou Eichenbaum, a adopté une orientation clairement littéraire, contrastant avec une conception plus linguistique du projet formaliste défendue par les moscovites, Jakobson en particulier. En d’autres termes, il est clairement admis que le Formalisme russe comporte une dimension linguistique. Du fait de la disjonction géographique et méthodologique entre l’OPOJAZ et le Cercle Linguistique de Moscou, cependant, la critique a eu tendance à considérer leurs productions isolément l’une de l’autre. Le Formalisme russe est ainsi bien souvent présenté comme une pure théorie littéraire associée presque exclusivement à l’OPOJAZ pétersbourgeois. Ses débouchés linguistiques, par exemple les travaux des moscovites Jakobson et Trubeckoj en phonologie ou sur le fonctionnalisme du langage, sont quant à eux considérés comme relevant déjà du paradigme structuraliste. Même sans remettre en cause ni l’existence des fertiles échanges entre les deux centres, ni le fait que l’on retrouve de nombreux concepts de l’OPOJAZ dans la linguistique de Jakobson, l’impression qui se dégage est que la composante linguistique du Formalisme russe s’est développée indépendamment. Il semble ainsi que les éléments littéraires de l’OPOJAZ sont en fait intégrés et systématisés de façon originale par Jakobson dans un modèle structuraliste préexistant (celui de la linguistique saussurienne), plus qu’ils ne contribuent à produire un modèle linguistique inédit, d’origine incontestablement « formaliste ».

Dans la perspective de l’histoire de la linguistique, on retrouve des doutes similaires quant à l’unité et à la pertinence du rôle joué par les Formalistes russes dans le développement de la linguistique structurale (même dans sa forme praguoise). Les interprétations traditionnelles ne reconnaissent certainement pas le développement d’une pensée linguistique qui soit particulière et intrinsèque au Formalisme russe. Cette position critique est bien reflétée par deux arguments qui confirment la prépondérance de la linguistique saussurienne sur le développement à la fois du structuralisme dans son ensemble, et de l’œuvre de Jakobson en particulier. Le premier de ces arguments suggère simplement que Jakobson n’a de facto été que très peu influencé par les travaux linguistiques de ses collègues formalistes et que ses propres contributions s’inscrivent donc dans la directe lignée de Saussure (Koerner 1997). Le second argument, plus polémique, avance que dans la mesure où Jakobson (selon ses propres affirmations) propose un modèle linguistique différent de celui de Saussure, ce modèle s’avère plus faible et moins cohérent que celui esquissée par Saussure (Harris 2001).

Tout en évitant de m’aventurer trop avant sur le sujet contesté de l’influence relative de Saussure sur les Formalistes (et ex-Formalistes) russes, je me propose maintenant de critiquer les positions négatives mentionnées ci-dessus quant au rôle des formalistes dans l’histoire de la linguistique et, inversement, quant à celui de la linguistique structurale comme expression plus mature de leurs concepts littéraires. Pour ce faire, je veux d’abord mettre en avant trois éléments du modèle linguistique de Jakobson qui le démarque clairement de Saussure, ou plutôt, qui témoigne d’une influence directe entre l’OPOJAZ et le Cercle Linguistique de Moscou sur le terrain spécifique de la linguistique.

Le premier élément typique de la linguistique jakobsonienne qu’il est clairement erroné de vouloir attribuer à Saussure plutôt qu’aux formalistes est l’insistance de Jakobson sur l’importance de la dimension « poétique » du langage comme relevant à part entière de l’analyse linguistique. (Il est intéressant de remarquer que ceux qui reprochent à Jakobson un manqué d’unité systématique (Harris), ou relativisent l’influence des formalistes sur celui-ci (Koerner) ont tendance à accorder moins (ou aucune) importance à la dimension poétique de son oeuvre). Pour Jakobson, comme pour tous les formalistes sans exceptions, le langage est un phénomène essentiellement et irréductiblement poétique. La distinction majeure entre Jakobson et, par exemple, Šklovskij, est que celui-là intègre et explique cette dimension poétique dans un modèle systématique et fonctionnel du langage, plutôt que de postuler l’existence d’un « langage poétique » comme phénomène autonome.

Le deuxième élément qui rapproche le linguiste Jakobson des formalistes est sa notion de « fonction poétique », qu’il définit ainsi dans son article-bilan Linguistique et Poétique: “This function, by promoting the palpability of signs [c’est moi qui souligne], deepens the fundamental dichotomy of signs and objects.” (Jakobson 1971). L’idée de la « palpabilité » du signe est liée, sans conteste, au concept de « défamiliarisation » et au primat qu’il accorde à l’acte de perception sensible comme une fin esthétique en soi (Šklovskij 1983). Mais ici encore, Jakobson remplace un concept vague (Šklovskij n’explicite jamais les implications psychologiques, cognitives ou même existentielles de la défamiliarisation) par une explication linguistique beaucoup plus précise : la poéticité du langage correspond à son expressivité en tant que système de signes concrets, perceptifs.

Le dernier élément qui différencie Jakobson de Saussure est justement cette notion poétique de « signe concret », dont l’origine semble bien être formaliste. Pour Jakobson, en effet, le signe ne correspond pas à la conception saussurienne, qui en fait une pure valeur dans un système d’oppositions négatives et différentielles. Comme le démontre sa définition du phonème comme une hiérarchie de traits acoustiques, le signe implique l’idée d’une structuration expressive d’un matériau concret tout autant que celle de la différenciation et de l’organisation idéale d’éléments abstraits. En d’autres termes, le phonème est un “objet” concret, dont les propriétés sont liées inséparablement à sa structure expressive et à sa valeur linguistique. A ce titre, la définition jakobsonienne du phonème recèle, je pense, la clé du potentiel théorique du Formalisme russe vis-à-vis du structuralisme et représente la culmination scientifique de idées littéraires formalistes sur la dimension à la fois concrète et formellement expressive du langage et de la perception. En tous les cas, les problématiques du statut du phonème comme objet (psychologique, fictif, ou phénoménologique) et de la relation qu’il institue entre ses couches phonétique (sensible, perceptive) et phonologique (intelligible, idéale) impliquent en condensé des enjeux fondamentaux sur la relation entre forme et perception, et plus généralement, sur les origines du sens et de la signification –linguistique ou non – dans la perception sensible (cf. Holenstein 1975).

Pour compléter mon (très superficiel) argument quant aux inflexions spécifiquement formalistes de la linguistique jakobsonienne et sa capacité à donner des fondements méthodologiquement plus solides aux idées d’un Šklovskij sur le pouvoir poétique « perceptif » de la forme littéraire, je souhaite conclure en indiquant l’existence d’une étape intermédiaire dans le processus de maturation des idées du premier Formalisme en direction de la linguistique. Cette étape intermédiaire est constituée par les œuvres de Evgenij Polivanov et de Lev Jakubinskij. Le rôle de ces linguistes, tous deux très tôt membres de l’OPOJAZ, est de plus particulièrement intéressante du fait qu’il souligne l’étendue des interactions entre linguistes et théoriciens de la littérature au sein du Formalisme russe et rompt avec l’idée d’une coupure nette entre l’OPOJAZ littéraire et le Cercle Linguistique de Moscou. En effet, la contribution autant de Polivanov que de Jakubinskij est concrète (ils publient dans les premiers recueils de l’OPOJAZ) et leur influence sur le travail littéraire de leurs collègues est réelle (Šklovskij, p.ex. cite Jakubinskij dans “L’art comme procédé”).

Pour éviter tout malentendu, je tiens à préciser que je ne cherche pas à suggérer ici qu’il y ait eu une véritable continuité entre Polivanov, Jakubinskij et Jakobson en ce qui concerne leurs principes généraux quant au langage ou à la linguistique. Les linguistes pétersbourgeois, tous deux élèves de Baudouin de Courtenay, sont restés fortement marqué par le “psychologisme” de leur maître, ce qui les distancie fortement de l’orientation structuraliste de Jakobson (Cette opposition au psychologisme est un des arguments majeurs employés par les critiques d’une continuité intra-formaliste, au profit d’une source plus saussurienne de la linguistique de Jakobson). Leur orientation vers les problèmes de la sociolinguistique, leurs définitions essentiellement “communicatives” du langage et leurs affinités avec le Marxisme ne se retrouvent pas non plus chez Jakobson.

Cela dit, en ce qui concerne Polivanov plus particulièrement, deux aspects de son œuvre le profilent malgré tout comme un “chainon manquant” entre les intuitions littéraires d’un Šklovskij et la pensée linguistique de Jakobson. Il s’agit, au premier chef, de l’importance accordée par Polivanov aux propriétés poétiques du langage. Pour être plus précis, Polivanov est connu pour avoir été un des premiers linguistes à avoir suggéré que les effets poétiques du langage peuvent être expliqués en termes de propriétés purement linguistiques. Il aurait, par exemple, voulu écrire un “Corpus poeticarum”, i.e. une étude comparée des langues et de leurs systèmes poétiques (On retrouve des aspects de ce projet dans Polivanov (1963)). Cette idée d’une “linguistique poétique” se retrouve évidemment chez Jakobson, de façon même encore plus puissante, puisque non seulement il explique les effets poétiques du langage en termes linguistiques, mais il associe la fonction poétique de façon constitutive et essentielle (au moyen d’un modèle fonctionnel inspiré par Jakubinskij) à la définition même du langage (cf. Jakobson 1971).

Le second élément qui souligne l’origine formaliste des idées jakobsoniennes mentionnées ci-dessus est le traitement fait par Polivanov de la question de la phonétique. Ici encore, il faut remarquer que Polivanov reste très marqué par Baudouin, et que son influence sur Jakobson en matière de phonologie pure se résume à des aspects spécifiques (par exemple, à l’idée de convergence et divergence des phonèmes). Mais ce qui rapproche Polivanov de Jakobson est son insistance sur le rôle poétique des aspects phonétiques du langage (Polivanov 1916, 1963). Selon Polivanov, en effet, les propriétés poétiques d’une langue sont liées directement à sa structure phonétique (ou phonologique). En donnant ainsi une base clairement linguistique à l’intuition des formalistes que le langage doit sa poéticité d’abord à sa nature concrète, acoustique, cet aspect de l’œuvre de Polivanov montre le potentiel générique des intuitions de Šklovskij à recevoir une interprétation linguistique. Il confirme aussi l’origine poétique des recherches sur le phonème de Jakobson, confirmée bien sûr par les travaux de Jakobson lui-même, par exemple sur le vers tchèque (cf. Kiparsky 1983, p.20).

Bibliographie

Depretto, Catherine (2005). “La correspondance des formalistes”, in coll., Les Formalistes Russes, Paris, Revue Europe.

Ehlers, Klaas-Hinrich (1992). Das dynamische System : zur Entwicklung von Begriff und Metaphorik des Systems bei Jurij N. Tynjanov, Frankfurt am Main, Peter Lang.

Hansen-Löve, Aage (1978). Der russische Formalismus : methodologische Rekonstruktion seiner Entwicklung aus dem Prinzip der Verfremdung, Wien, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften.

Harris, Roy (2001). “Jakobson’s Saussure”, in : Saussure and his interpreters, Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh.

Holenstein, Elmar (1975). Roman Jakobsons phänomenologischer Strukturalismus, Frankfurt am Main, Suhrkamp.

Jakobson, Roman (1971). “Linguistics and Poetics: Closing Statement,” in: Thomas Sebeok, Style in Language, Cambridge Mass., M.I.T. Press.

Kiparsky, Paul (1983). “The Grammar of Poetry”, in Morris Halle, Jakobson – What he taught us, Columbus, Slavica Publ.

Koerner, E.F.K. (1997). “Remarks on the Sources of R. Jakobson’s Linguistic Inspirations”, in Sériot (ed,), Roman Jakobson entre l’Est et l’Ouest, Lausanne, Cahiers de l’ILSL 9.

Polivanov, Evgenij (1916). “Po povodu “zvukovyh žestov” japonskogo jazyka, Sborniki po teorii poetičeskogo jazika 1, Petrograd, 1916.

– (1963). “Obščij fonetičeksij princip vsjakoj poetičeskoj tehniki”, Voprosy jazykoznanija 1.

Sériot, Patrick (2008). Langage et Pensée: Union Soviétique années 1920 – 1930, Lausanne, Cahiers de l’ILSL 24.

Šklovskij, Viktor (1983) [1925]. O teorii prozy, Moscou, Sovetskij pisatel’.

Steiner, Peter (1984). Russian Formalism: A Metapoetics, Ithaca, Cornell University Press.

How to cite this post

Flack, Patrick. 2015. Le Formalisme russe dans l’histoire de la linguistique. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2015/04/23/le-formalisme-russe-dans-lhistoire-de-la-linguistique/

Translation as a search for divine meanings: Fray Francisco Blancas de San José and his grammar of the Tagalog language

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The frontispiece of Fray Gaspar de San Agustín's "Conquistas de las Islas Philipinas" (1698)

This frontispiece of Fray Gaspar de San Agustín’s Conquistas de las Islas Philipinas (1698) is an allegory of the relationship between the colonial State and Church in the Philippines. King Philip II of Spain (right) is seen pointing to the Philippine islands, while St Augustine (left), the founder of the Augustinian order, offers his heart, the usual iconographic symbol for this saint, to illuminate the archipelago through divine light, as symbolized by the Christogram above. Behind the saint are Fray Andrés de Urdaneta and Fray Martín de Rada, the first Augustinians in the Philippines.

Marlon James SALES
Monash University

The pastoral visit of Pope Francis to the Philippines in January 2015, which gathered the biggest crowd ever assembled for a Papal event in history, has put to fore the nexus between translation and religion in this Southeast Asian archipelago. During his many engagements, the Pontiff delivered off-the-cuff homilies in his native Spanish, which were then translated into English by Monsignor Mark Miles of the Vatican Secretariat of State. There were also some instances—such as when the Pope had lunch with victims of typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan) in Leyte, or when he spoke with two former street children during a catechesis at the University of Santo Tomas—that even required that interpretation be done into Filipino, with Manila archbishop Luis Antonio Cardinal Tagle stepping in to provide some help.

The oldest extant grammar of Tagalog

The role that translation played in the recent Papal visit is indicative of the history of evangelization and colonization of this overwhelmingly Catholic nation. Christianity was introduced into the country by Catholic missionaries, who began arriving in the 16th century as members of expeditions financed by the Spanish Crown. Although the Philippines proved to be a profitless enterprise, it was retained for more than three centuries as a strategic colonial outpost in the Pacific and as a springboard for the evangelization of other Asian nations, most notably China and Japan (Kamen 2002, 203, Phelan 1959, 14). A corollary to the establishment of Spanish settlements in the archipelago was the repartition of its many ethnolinguistic groups as objects of Catholic mission among various religious orders present there (Sueiro Justel 2007, 51). Given that Spanish migration into the country remained scant throughout the colonial period, the priests were the closest contact many Filipinos had with Spain (Ridruejo 2003, 181).

Beyond the spiritual exigencies of their ministry, the priests were likewise tasked to perform civic and temporal duties, and were regarded as a complete arsenal of both Empire and Church. This view was best summed up in a 1765 missive that the Viceroy of New Spain reportedly sent to Charles III: “En cada fraile que pise el suelo filipino, V[uestra] M[ajestad] tiene un capitán general y un ejército” (Anonymous 1898, 39).[i] One important consequence of this symbiotic relationship between the colonial State and Church—which was so deftly allegorized in the frontispiece of Fray Gaspar de San Agustín’s history—was that in order to carry out their mission to spread the Catholic faith, the priests pioneered an extensive and systematic textualization of local knowledges through the publication of the first grammars, dictionaries and other similar texts on and in the indigenous languages. Sueiro Justel (171) notes that by 1898 there were about 124 grammars and 108 references to vocabularies of Philippine languages, which in absolute terms constituted an achievement that was similar to, if not greater than, that of Latin America. It was in this context that the Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala, the oldest extant grammar of Tagalog, came into being.

Title page of the Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala. From the collection of the Biblioteca Nacional de España

Title page of the first edition of Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala (1610). The book was printed on papel de China or rice paper measuring 14 x 20 cms (Quilis 1997, 29). From the collection of the Biblioteca Digital Hispánica of the Biblioteca Nacional de España.

Published in 1610 in the province of Bataan some 116 kilometers northwest of the capital city of Manila, the Arte was considered by the missionaries as the most authoritative colonial grammar of Tagalog, one of the major languages in the island of Luzon, and was often recommended as a supplement to other grammars printed subsequently. Its author, the Dominican friar Francisco Blancas de San José, a native of Tarazona, Spain who arrived in the Philippines in 1595 (Aduarte 1693, 403-413, Ocio 1895, 25-26), was described in Philippine missionary writings as the Achilles (San Agustín 1787 [1703], n.p.), Demosthenes (Noceda and Sanlúcar 1832 [1754], n.p.), and Cicero (Totanés 1745, n.p.) of the Tagalog language. His Arte proved to be so important a resource that the University of San Tomas in Manila printed a second edition in 1752, while a third edition, printed by José María Dayot, came out in 1832 (Quilis 1997, 31-32). In the course of my PhD research at Monash University, I have discovered that the State Library of Victoria houses what seems to be the only extant copy of the Arte on Australian soil. As far as I know, this copy has never been included in previous catalogues of Philippine missionary linguistics.

Even though the book appears at first glance as a mere grammatical treatise that compared Tagalog to Latin through Castilian Spanish as a metalanguage, an approach that was, by and large, the accepted mode of grammatization during the colonial period (cf., Auroux 1994, Esparza Torres 2007, Rafael 1993), we also find in Arte an early formulation of a theory of translation that emplaced the Tagalog people and their language into the grand narrative of Christian redemption. A common trope in missionary grammars was to imagine linguistic diversity as a defect incurred at the Tower of Babel (Barnstone 1993, 43). As such, it was not uncommon for missionaries to refer to linguistic diversity as a corruption of an original and unitary state of grace. Jesuit historian Francisco Colín, for example, wrote that, “se oluida la lengua común, y cada vno queda con la suya tan corrompida[ii] (1663, 57). Franciscan grammarian Sebastián de Totanés, on the other hand, dismissed indigenous modes of speech as uncivilized, and even added that the Tagalogs were “toscos, zafios y de poca reflexión”.[iii] These views call to mind Antonio de Nebrija’s take on the transcendence of reducing a language to grammatical rules “para que lo que agora et de aqui adelante en él se escriviere pueda quedar en un tenor, et estender se en toda la duración de los tiempos que están por venir…[iv] (Quilis 1980, 100-101).

The majesty of divine meanings

To grammatize a language for the preaching of Christian truth was therefore to restore it to its pre-Babelian state of grace (Mühlhäusler 1996, 171). The study of languages per se was not seen as relevant; Blancas himself, in his 1605 Memorial de la vida cristiana, argued that,

[p]orque si bien la lengua Tagala por lo que en si es ella, es negocio de poca importancia, y que vá poco en errar, ó en acertar á hablarla; pero en cuanto por medio de ella predicamos la verdad de Dios á Gentes que no le conocían, cierto que es ya como otra en el valor. (457) [v]

Missionaries regarded themselves as mediators between God and the colony, who by virtue of the gift of tongues dispensed to the Apostles on Pentecost, were equally empowered to convey God’s truth in a multitude of languages (Rafael 1993, 31). “Lengua de fuego os pido,” the Dominican prayed at the beginning of his Arte in allusion to the Holy Spirit that the Apostles received on that fateful day, “con q̃ abrasado mi pecho, se enciendan los oyentes con vuestro amor.”[vi] Blancas located the labors of the missionary grammarian in the interstitial niche between the divine and the colony. The gift of language must be granted to him first, the grammarian ensconced in that colonial in-betweenness, before the Christian doctrine could reach the colonized Filipinos, whom he described as gullible and weak of heart.

In the course of my research, I found in the State Library of Victoria a copy of the third edition of Blancas' Arte

In the course of my research, I found a copy of the third edition of Blancas’ Arte at the State Library of Victoria in Melbourne. As far as I can tell, this copy is unaccounted for in the bibliographies on Philippine missionary linguistics.

Along these lines, translationality in the grammatization of languages was imagined as a search for divine meanings. Blancas spoke of a certain divinorum sensuum maiestatem as an operative term in the publication of a grammar. The concept, which was borrowed from St Jerome’s epistle to Hedibia and was acknowledged by the author in the marginalia, differentiated linguistic competence from translational competence. Not all preachers were blessed with the gift of tongue, according to the commentary of Cardinal Tommaso de Vio Cajetan on the promise of language to the early Church, which Blancas cited in his exhortation to ministers. In Cajetan’s view, the “discovery” of what was thought of then as the uncharted regions of the world belied the prodigiousness of Pentecost (“Experimento enim apparet Ecclesiam lingua, vel linguis carere multarum gentium temporibus istis repertarum…”). The new reality of colonial expansion led some ministers of the Gospel to rely on translators (“interpretes”) in the performance of their mission. St Paul himself, Blancas continued, was not capable of speaking Greek in a way that was worthy of the majesty of divine meanings (“diuinorum sensuum maiestatem, digno non poterat græci eloquii explicare sermone”), even though he certainly possessed the gift of tongues and had a command of the Scriptures. It was for this reason that the Apostle of the Gentiles had to rely on St Titus for interpretation (“Habebat ergo Titum interpretem”), and St Titus acted as his mouth in preaching the Gospel (“Ergo et Paulus Apostolus contristatur, quia prædicationis suæ in præsentirum fistulam organum que per quod Christo caneret non inuenerat”).

Blancas emphasized that translational competence was contingent upon one’s familiarity with a particular textual typology and semantic field. Basing his explanation on a passage from the Summa theologica of St Thomas Aquinas, the Dominican missionary wrote that the linguistic knowledge that permitted his brothers in the cloth to preach on matters of faith was not necessarily sufficient to allow them to study the ‘acquired sciences’, such as arithmetic and geometry (“non autem quantum ad omnia quæ per scientiam acquisitam cognoscuntur; puta de conclusionibus Arithmeticæ vel Geometriæ”). In other words, while language was ideated as a numinous gift, the extent to which it could be utilized outside the realm of religion depended on other considerations. Language was thought of as an instrument to gain understanding of other fields of knowledge, a view that echoed the humanist traditions in Europe (Sánchez Salor 2002, 293, 297-298, Ynduráin 1994, 74, 202). Grammar was both translatus and translatio: it was both the product and the process of transfer.

The foregoing discussion on Fray Francisco Blancas de San José’s Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala provides a preamble on a bigger research project that I am completing for my dissertation. The next stages of my investigation will look into specific examples of translationality and the establishment of a schematic equivalent effect by emplotting linguistic knowledge into a Christian(ized) discourse. That, I guess, will be for another post.

 

Notes

[i] ‘In each friar who steps on Philippine soil, Your Majesty has a captain general and an army.’ All translations from Spanish are mine.

[ii] ‘The common tongue is forgotten, with each one speaking in his own corrupt language.’

[iii] ‘crude, uncouth and of little reflection’

[iv] “so that whatever will be written in it from here on now can retain a certain tenor, and extend itself throughout the age that is about to come…”

[v] ‘The Tagalog language in itself is an endeavor of little importance, and it does not matter so much if one errs or does well in speaking it. Once through it we preach God’s truth to people who did not know Him, its value then becomes rightfully different.’

[vi] ‘A tongue of fire I ask from You so that after burning my heart, it will then illumine my listeners with Your love’

 

 

References

Aduarte, Diego de. 1693. Historia de la provincia del Sancto Rosario de Filipinas, Iapon, y China de la sagrada Orden de Predicadores. Zaragoza: Domingo Gascón.

Anonymous. 1898. Los frailes filipinos. Madrid: Imprenta de la viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos.

Auroux, Sylvain. 1994. La révolution technologique de la grammatisation: Introduction à l’histoire des sciences du langage, Philosophie et langage. Liège: Mardaga.

Barnstone, Willis. 1993. The poetics of translation : history, theory, practice. New Haven; London: Yale University Press.

Blancas de San José, Francisco. 1610. Arte y reglas de la lengva tagala. Bataan: Tomás Pinpin [typesetter].

Blancas de San José, Francisco. 1832 [1605]. Memorial de la vida Christiana en lengua tagala [Librong mahal na ang ngala’y Memorial de la Vida Christiana]. 2nd ed. Manila(?): Imprenta de José Mª Dayot, Tomás Oliva [typesetter].

Colín, Francisco. 1663. Labor euangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Iesvs : fvndacion, y progressos de su Prouincia en las islas Filipinas. 4 vols. Vol. 1. Madrid: Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia

Esparza Torres, Miguel Angel. 2007. “Nebrija y los modelos de los misioneros lingüistas del náhuatl.” In Missionary Linguistics III/ Lingüística Misionera III: Morphology and Syntax-Selected papers from the Third and Fourth International Conference on Missionary Linguistics, edited by Otto Zwartjes, Gregory James and Emilio Ridruejo, 3-40. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company.

Kamen, Henry Arthur Francis. 2002. Spain’s road to empire : the making of a world power, 1492-1763. London: Allen Lane.

Mühlhäusler, Peter. 1996. Linguistic ecology : language change and linguistic imperialism in the Pacific region. London, New York: Routledge.

Noceda, Juan de, and Pedro de Sanlúcar. 1832 [1754]. Vocabulario de la lengua tagala. 2nd ed. Valladolid: Higinio Roldán.

Ocio, Hilario María. 1895. Compendio de la reseña biográfica de los religiosos de la provincia del Santisimo Rosario de Filipinas desde su fundacion hasta nuestros dias. Manila: (Estab. Tip. del Real Colegio de Sto. Tomas).

Phelan, John Leddy. 1959. The Hispanization of the Philippines : Spanish aims and Filipino responses, 1565-1700. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

Quilis, Antonio. 1980. Antonio de Nebrija, Gramática de la lengua castellana. Madrid: Editora Nacional.

Quilis, Antonio. 1997. Fray Francisco Blancas de San José, Arte y reglas de la lengua tagala. Estudio y edición. Madrid: Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica-AECI.

Rafael, Vicente L. 1993. Contracting colonialism : translation and Christian conversion in Tagalog society under early Spanish rule. Durham and London: Duke University Press.

Ridruejo, Emilio. 2003. “La primitiva tradición gramatical sobre el pampango.” In Missionary Linguistics/Lingüística misionera-Selected papers from the First International Conference on Missionary Linguistics, edited by Otto  Zwartjes and Even Hovdhaugen, 179-200. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company.

San Agustín, Gaspar de. 1787 [1703]. Compendio de la arte de la Lengua Tagala. 2nd ed. Manila: Convento de Nra. Sra. de Loreto.

Sánchez Salor, Eustaquio. 2002. De las “elegancias” a las “causas” de la lengua : retórica y gramática del humanismo. Alcañiz-Madrid: Ediciones del Laberinto.

Sueiro Justel, Joaquín. 2007. Historia de la lingüística española en Filipinas (1580-1898). 2nd ed. Lugo: Axac.

Totanés, Sebastián de. 1745. Arte de la lengua tagala, y manual tagalog, para la administracion de los santos sacramentos. Sampaloc, Manila: Convento de Nra. Sra. de Loreto.

Ynduráin, Domingo. 1994. Humanismo y renacimiento en España. Madrid: Cátedra.

How to cite this post

Sales, Marlon James. 2015. Translation as a search for divine meanings: Fray Francisco Blancas de San José and his grammar of the Tagalog language. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2015/05/06/translation-as-a-search-for-divine-meanings-fray-francisco-blancas-de-san-jose-and-his-grammar-of-the-tagalog-language

Hugo Schuchardt and his Network of Knowledge

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Johannes Mücke & Silvio Moreira de Sousa [1]
Hugo Schuchardt Archiv, University of Graz

“Information is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not truth.”
Frank Zappa (1979)

Hugo Schuchardt Archiv

Hugo Schuchardt (1842-1927)
Source: Hugo Schuchardt Archiv

Information:

The goal of the project “Network of Knowledge” (runtime 2012-2015, FWF project number P 24400-G15, main researcher: Bernhard Hurch) appears to be very linear at first sight: the online, open access presentation (and consequent analysis) of the papers of Hugo Schuchardt (1842-1927), combining the digital facsimile edition of all of Schuchardt’s publications with the also digital edition of his correspondence and a bibliography of secondary literature.

Preserved at the University’s library in Graz, the Hugo Schuchardt Papers account for nearly 14,000 letters received from virtually all over the world. The actual tally for the digital edition of Schuchardt’s correspondence is at the moment (May 2015) around more than 2,000 edited letters. Furthermore, all of Schuchardt’s works (a growing number of them also as OCR scanned searchable PDFs) are already available for consultation, together with an ever increasing collection of more than 315 reviews, which are being processed and will be put online. In order to allow the connection between different kinds of sources, an over-arching search tool is being developed, composed of a controlled vocabulary (thesaurus) for source document tagging. For example, a letter, a publication, and a review can be linked through the keyword ‘Neo-grammarians’ or ‘French-based creole languages’.

The analysis of these sources will provide the means to reconstruct the scientific network developed during the second half of the 19th century in the language sciences along the lines of the following hypothesis (cf. also Hurch 2009): innovations that occurred in 19th-century (communication) media, such as a) the formation of a modern global system of postal services and b) the creation of modern printing and publishing companies, followed by the foundation of scientific periodicals, are interrelated with changes in the language sciences, e. g. the opening of new fields of research, the establishment of new scientific discourse practices, new ways of obtaining knowledge, and a differentiation of scientific disciplines, coupled with their institutionalization in universities or scientific societies.

Uebersichtskarte des Weltverkehrs

Chart of worldwide traffic and postal communication
Source: Brockhaus’ Konversations-Lexikon (1894-1896). 14th edition. Leipzig: Brockhaus.

Knowledge:

The world wide web of postal service enabled the global movement of goods, capital, and knowledge. In the 19th century, the amount of posted mail exploded. The necessary preconditions were not only infrastructural and technical developments, such as the railroad network across Europe or the growing number of public postboxes, but also organizational innovations; for example, the development of postage, which went from the first stamp in the modern sense in 1840 (“One Penny Black” in Great Britain) to the foundation of the World Postal Union in 1874 (as “General Postal Union”) in Bern, which established rules for an international postal service.

A growing number of new journals could well be simultaneously the cause and consequence of the increased use of new technologies in the printing of periodicals, thus enabling a larger number of copies and an accelerated rhythm of publication. In addition, the new process of pulping wood fibers, which made paper an object of mass production, also contributed to this outcome. In this context, researchers and publishers became entrepreneurial partners. One could say that this was a Gründerzeit – a “Founder’s Era” – in modern language sciences. There is a whole generation of researchers, mostly born in the 1840s or later, who established periodicals from the late 1860s onward. Names like those of Gaston Paris and Paul Meyer (who founded the Romania in 1872), Graziadio Ascoli (Archivio Glotologico Italiano, 1872), Adalbert Bezzenberger (Beiträge zu Kunde der Indogermanischen Sprachen or “Bezzenberger’s Beiträge”, 1877) or Gustav Gröber (Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie or “Gröber’s Zeitschrift”, 1877) represent a European phenomenon that affected all disciplines of the language sciences (see Tagliavini 1968: 132-135). All of these founder-editors were in more or less frequent epistolary contact with Schuchardt.

Wisdom:

There are two possible approaches for a historiographic investigation into the interrelationships between these developments. On the one hand, there is the classical qualitative or hermeneutic approach of interpreting the content of the sources, e.g. the linguistic data, bibliographical references they contain, or whether they represent polemics, comments, descriptions or wrong conclusions. On the other, there is a quantitative or statistical approach for investigating metadata, which is used a lot in the Digital Humanities. Metadata don’t lie: the fact that a letter was sent from one person to another at a certain time is a historical fact quite separate from the content of the letter. Using both methods on the Hugo Schuchardt Papers, one finds strong arguments for the hypothesis sketched above.

One example for the qualitative method: on September 12th 1886, Schuchardt wrote to Otto Jespersen (consult the letter here) having just read and positively reviewed an article written by the Danish linguist (Jespersen 1886) in the Deutsche Litteraturzeitung (Schuchardt 1886). Jespersen had asked Schuchardt if he would be in favour of a German translation, to which Schuchardt not only approved, but went on to recommend a journal that reached a wider circulation and a greater audience, along with a journal that had no Neo-grammarian as a founder-editor. In addition, Schuchardt stressed that time is a key factor, since every new development in the ongoing debate between the Neo-grammarians and their critics was being brought up nearly every month in 1886 (Hurch & Constantini 2007). In the end, the translation (Jespersen 1887) was published in 1887 in the Internationale Zeitschrift für allgemeine Sprachwissenschaft (or “Techmer’s Zeitschrift”).

Techmer's Zeitschrift (1884)

Front page of Techmer’s Zeitschrift for 1884. 1st volume.

Using the quantitative approach, it is possible to give structural information about Schuchardt’s contacts to the scientific journals of his time. Schuchardt corresponded to a great extent with those founder-editors in whose periodicals he published a lot, for example with Gröber (160 received letters, 288 articles and 9 reviews in “Gröber’s Zeitschrift”), and where his works were reviewed quite often (12 reviews). Another argument making a strong case for the connection between communication, publication, and reception is the fact that Schuchardt did not receive many letters from those founder-editors in whose periodicals he did not publish. Subsequently, Schuchardt was not much reviewed in those same periodicals. While this seems to be quite obvious, there are indications of anomalies: Schuchardt maintained an extensive mail exchange with Gaston Paris (98 received letters), but he published only 9 articles in the Romania – despite having his works reviewed 19 times in that periodical. Moreover, even though there was intensive epistolary contact between Schuchardt and Ascoli (139 received letters; cf. Lichem & Würdinger 2013), Schuchardt neither published anything in the Archivio Glottologico Italiano, nor had he any of his work reviewed there. But both Paris and Ascoli were part of Schuchardt’s network of knowledge: by comparing the epistolary inventories, one establishes the fact that Ascoli and Schuchardt have 130 common correspondents, and Paris and Schuchardt as many as 175.

All this resulted in a broad variety of new types and specific modes of reference: if on one side there is mixing of text forms, on the other there is also merging of text forms. We see an entanglement of text forms: how very often the scientific discourse is not limited to one specific text form, but continues over a variety of different communication media (letters, reviews, replies, postscripts, etc.). Some discussions alternate between different discourse forms (cf. Mücke 2015). Another phenomenon we observe is the amalgamation of text forms: how boundaries between public and private text forms become blurred. Several transitional text forms can be found: scientific publications in the form of letters, letters published as scientific essays, open letters, letters to the editor or even personal dedications.

Another instance supporting the assumption that the network of language sciences at the turn of the 19th century was indeed international is the advisory board of several periodicals. Ascoli, Coelho, Gabelentz, Lepsius, Pott or Miklosich – all of them part of the advisory boards of “Techmer’s Zeitschrift” – are present with letters in Schuchardt’s legacy. But, also important, they stood presumably in postal contact with each other.

Truth:

So, it should be quite clear by now that the current project “Network of Knowledge” not only stands for itself, but can also be seen as preliminary groundwork for a joint investigation of the linked networks of knowledge in Europe at Schuchardt’s time.

 

[1] This blog entry is partly based on a presentation held by one of the authors together with Bernhard Hurch at the International Conference of the History of the Language Sciences (ICHoLS) 2014 in Vila Real. The authors would like to thank Bernhard Hurch for his support and advice in the project work.

 

References:

Hurch, Bernhard & Francesco Costantini. 2007. “Die Korrespondenz zwischen Otto Jespersen und Hugo Schuchardt”. In Bernhard Hurch (ed.) (2007-). Hugo Schuchardt Archiv. Online: http://schuchardt.uni-graz.at/korrespondenz/briefe/korrespondenzpartner/516 (4.5.2015).

Hurch, Bernhard. 2009. “Bausteine zur Rekonstruktion eines Netzwerks I: Einleitung – Prolegomena”. In: Hurch, Bernhard (ed.). Bausteine zur Rekonstrukion eines Netzwerks I: Caroline Michaëlis, Elise Richter, Hugo Schuchardt und Leo Spitzer. Graz: Institut für Sprachwissenschaft (= Grazer Linguistische Studien 72), 5-17.

Jespersen, Otto. 1886. “Til spörgsmålet om lydlove”. In Nordisk tidskrift for filologi. Ny Række 7: 207-245.

Jespersen, Otto. 1887. “Zur Lautgesetzfrage”. In Internationale Zeitschrift für allgemeine Sprachwissenschaft 3: 188-216.

Lichem, Klaus & Wolfgang Würdinger. 2013. “Die Korrespondenz zwischen Graziadio Isaia Ascoli und Hugo Schuchardt”. In Bernhard Hurch (ed.) (2007-). Hugo Schuchardt Archiv. Online: http://schuchardt.uni-graz.at/korrespondenz/briefe/korrespondenzpartner/254 (4.5.2015).

Mücke, Johannes. 2015. “‘… unsere freundschaftlichen Beziehungen…’. Zum Verhältnis von Hermann Paul und Hugo Schuchardt”. In: Melchior, Luca; Mücke, Johannes (eds.). Bausteine zur Rekonstruktion eines Netzwerks IV: Von Diez zur Sprachanthropologie. Graz: Institut für Sprachwissenschaft (= Grazer Linguistische Studien 80), 125-164.

Schuchardt, Hugo. 1886. “[Rez. von:] Otto Jespersen, Til spörgsmålet om lydlove; Jakob Hornemann Bredsdorff, Om Aarsagerne til Sprogenes Forandringer. Paa ny udgivet af Vilh. Thomsen”. In Deutsche Literaturzeitung 7: 1557-1559 (HSA 197). Online: http://schuchardt.uni-graz.at/werk/online/548  (4.5.2015).

Tagliavini, Carlo. 1968. Panorama di storia della linguistica. Bologna: R. Patron.

Zappa, Frank. 1979. “Packard Goose”. In Joe’s Garage, Act III. Zappa Records.

How to cite this post

Mücke, Johannes and Silvio Moreira de Sousa. 2015. Hugo Schuchardt and his Network of Knowledge. History and Philosophy of the Language Sciences. http://hiphilangsci.net/2015/05/20/hugo-schuchardt-netknowl

Salon: Anachronism in linguistic historiography

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Welcome to the first salon. The purpose of our salons is to provide a forum for discussing topics of interest in linguistic historiography and related fields. This salon will focus on ‘anachronism in linguistic historiography’. The discussion opens below with contributions from:

Everyone is invited — and indeed encouraged — to continue the conversation in the comments thread.


John E. Joseph
University of Edinburgh

Corpse Puppetry: Anachronisms of consistency, continuity and progress in the history of linguistics

[L]’histoire […] n’est, après tout, qu’un ramas de tracasseries qu’on fait aux morts.
Voltaire to Pierre-Robert Le Cornier de Cideville, 9 Feb. 1757

The Ventriloquist's Dummy, Dead of Night (1945)

To teach or write effectively, it helps to think about one’s audience and their concerns, interests and needs. Thinking about the audience does however open cans of worms when teaching or writing the history of an academic field. A figure from the 13th century belonged to a world vastly different from the one that I, my colleagues and our students inhabit. It’s an uphill struggle convincing them that anything Thomas Aquinas wrote about language relates to their own concerns. Were I to take them on an intellectual archaeological dig to establish simply what ‘language’ meant to Aquinas, some would be fascinated, but most would see it as a retrograde diversion.

What I find myself doing, then, is making figures from the past appear to share present-day concerns: corpse puppetry, we might call it, one of the ‘harrassments inflicted on the dead’, as Voltaire describes history in the epigram above. When writing about Plato’s Cratylus, I ventriloquize Socrates saying ‘word’ (or in some contexts ‘noun’) where what Plato wrote was onoma, traditionally translated as ‘name’. Modern linguistics doesn’t have a clear place for names. It has one for ‘word’, less central than the place for morpheme or sign, but that’s all right: the slight eccentricity of ‘word’ gives my translation the tinge of exoticism that connotes authenticity. The first English translation of Humboldt’s Kawi-Sprache (1971) didn’t ring true because it used terms such as ‘phoneme’. That isn’t to dismiss the translators as disastrous anachronists, but they did make Humboldt come off as a half-baked structuralist rather than a far-seeing man of his time.

Having Plato discuss ‘words’ or Humboldt ‘phonemes’ is anachronism at its most striking, but for that very reason also its least deceptive. Harder to see through is the level of anachronism brought out in Bergs’s (2012) discussion of how ‘social class’ is used in historical sociolinguistics. Deeper still are the anachronisms that, Quentin Skinner (1969) argued, produce ‘mythologies’. He was reacting to the notion of ‘paradigm’ in Gombrich (1960) and Kuhn (1962), which when applied to the history of ideas, Skinner says, fosters a mythology that how people thought at any given period was more unified than has ever historically been the case. This then leads to further mythologies:

The most persistent mythology is generated when the historian is set by the expectation that each classic writer ([…]) will be found to enunciate some doctrine on each of the topics regarded as constitutive of his subject. It is a dangerously short step from being under the influence (however unconsciously) of such a paradigm to ‘finding’ a given author’s doctrines on all of the mandatory themes. The (very frequent) result is a type of discussion which might be labelled the mythology of doctrines. (Skinner 1969: 7)

One then ends up ‘mistaking some scattered or incidental remarks by one of the classic theorists for his “doctrine” on one of the themes which the historian is set to expect’, or else ‘a classic theorist who fairly clearly does fail to come up with a recognizable doctrine on one of the mandatory themes is then criticized for his failure to do so’ (ibid., p. 14). At its worst, this can become ‘a means to fix one’s own prejudices on to the most charismatic names, under the guise of innocuous historical speculation. History then indeed becomes a pack of tricks we play on the dead’ (pp. 13-14).

While Skinner was essentially right, I prefer to avoid the terms ‘myth’ and ‘mythology’ because, once introduced, they impede a neutral investigation. Moreover, the ‘myth’ metaphor doesn’t lend itself to capturing the fact that in scientific and intellectual history something like Newton’s Third Law of Motion applies, whereby every conceptual action has an equal and opposite reaction. A case in point is the polarization between Nature and Subject/Society that Latour (1991) posits as defining the ‘constitution’ of ‘modern’ thought. Since the 17th century, people writing on various subjects have tried to ‘purify’ their work onto one or the other pole – an impossible aim, Latour argues. Its result has been the covert proliferation of ‘hybrids’ within the space between the two poles.

Skinner’s mythology of authorial consistency has its polarized reaction in a mythology of authorial inconsistency based on an assumption of progress from an early to a late phase of an individual’s work. It was long the received wisdom about Saussure that his interest in general linguistics began with his lectures on the topic in 1907. Hence his manuscripts at Harvard exploring general linguistic and semiological issues were assumed to date to late in his career. Marchese’s (1995) close study of the manuscripts has shown however that they are from the early 1880s – which means that there wasn’t actually an ‘early’ and ‘late’ Saussure, but a man whose core interests were consistent from his early 20s until his death. On the other hand, some key aspects of his thought didn’t develop into their final form until he was actually lecturing on them, revisiting them and refining them.

Identifying a consistency/inconsistency polarization and locating an individual in the hybrid middle ground is an example of Latourian ‘symmetrical anthropology’. I shall briefly discuss two further examples: continuity/discontinuity, and progress/regress.

The first question concerning continuity/discontinuity is: how far can we take ‘linguistics’ back into a time when the term itself isn’t yet attested, and long before it was institutionalized as an academic subject in the 19th and 20th centuries? Attempts at skirting this question by replacing ‘linguistics’ with ‘linguistic thought’ are another case of an anachronism that is possibly more misleading because subtler. ‘Linguistic thought’ still means projecting back into the past the concerns about language that present-day linguists can relate to, or, alternatively – and herein lies the symmetry – denying that they relate to present-day concerns, and exoticizing them to the point that they are ghettoized into a dusty historical cupboard, further strengthening assumptions of our present-day superiority.

To write the history of linguistics well requires navigating a path through this polarized conceptual field. It means constantly bearing in mind, and finding discreet ways to remind readers, that our continuity with the past is always a semi-fictional construct; and not forgetting what Skinner’s point about consistency implies: that views belonging to the distant past often still have a reflex somewhere, and the potential to be rediscovered as what Levelt (2013) calls ‘sleeping beauties’.

Progress/regress follows on from Skinner’s point about expecting each writer to maintain a consistent doctrine. We also expect later writers to have either absorbed or rejected the doctrines that preceded them (this despite our awareness that our own contemporaries in linguistics are seldom masters of the discipline’s history). And so we anticipate an arc of progress over the centuries, or, symmetrically, of regress. Either provides a good narrative frame (though progressive ones tend to attract more grant funding). This can lead us, when doing our research, to cherry-pick just those texts and ideas that fit our plot of progress or regress, and to read past the ones that don’t – or, if we include them, to downplay them, even if they were hugely important. That, again, is deep-level anachronism.

An example with direct implications for the history of linguistics is the question of whether the head or the heart is the location of the mind/soul. For Plato it was the head, but Aristotle, his student, the ‘prince of philosophers’ and son of a physician, with a far greater knowledge of anatomy, believed it was the heart. An awkward blip like this one works nicely in a historical account, lending interest, reminding us that Aristotle was human and that regress happens. But it wasn’t a one-off blip. Four centuries after Aristotle, Galen demonstrated that the brain was in fact the controlling centre: squeeze the heart of a living creature with forceps, he wrote, and it will merely spasm and cry out, whereas squeezing the brain results in total silent paralysis. Yet for a further 1500 years medical, theological and philosophical texts go on siding messily with either Plato or Aristotle. So too with the body’s management of the vital and animal spirits, which relate directly to views on the production and reception of language. The result of the messiness is that histories of mind and language tend to ignore all this, preferring a massive historical erasure of everything between Aristotle and Descartes, or simply before Descartes.

Skinner’s mythology metaphor itself reflects a desire to purify history of anachronism, playing into a polarized ideology of progress. Of course uncontrolled anachronism must be avoided – that’s too obvious to bear stating. But I began this paper by trying to show that controlled anachronism can have positive effects, helping us to teach and write history that contemporary linguists can appreciate; and I have argued that we should locate history within the space of hybrids, between the poles of consistency and inconsistency, continuity and discontinuity, progress and regress. Skinner was right to reject any pre-set expectation that all classic writers will have a consistent doctrine regarding every aspect of the present-day academic field with which they are associated, but no better is the polarly opposed alternative of assuming that no such doctrine can be reconstructed for anyone from the past. Much research into intellectual history and personal biography is needed before one can make an informed decision concerning any individual writer.

There is another way of interpreting my phrase ‘corpse puppetry’: that we historians are the dummies, and that it is the corpse ventriloquists who speak through us. This is the illusion most of us want to foster, indeed to believe ourselves. What we do would be simpler and more elegant if context informed by deep research provided the key to a full reading of the ideas and texts of the past, or if a ‘history of ideas’ were detachable from the people who enunciated, received and recirculated them. But that is chimerical. Each of us needs finally to interpret the texts and ideas, becoming in the process the puppeteers of their authors’ corpses.

The scariest film ever, Cavalcanti’s ‘The Ventriloquist’s Dummy’ sequence in Dead of Night (1945), plays on our deep fear of how controller and controlled are inextricably intertwined, each eventually becoming the other. Corpse puppetry may mean that each of us, living historian and historicized corpse, has our hand up the other’s backside. Unpleasant, but I have chosen the metaphor in an attempt at brutal honesty, which is invariably ugly. Ultimately what I have tried to propose is that we should aim, not for a polarized extreme of embracing or eschewing anachronism, but for a hybrid practice that allows us to maximise its positive uses.

References

Bergs, Alexander. 2012. ‘Uniformitarianism and the risk of anachronisms in language and social history’, in Handbook of Historical Sociolinguistics, edited by Juan Manuel Hernández-Campoy & Juan Camilo Conde-Silvestre, 80-98. Malden, Mass., Oxford & Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell.

Gombrich, E. H. 1960. Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation. London: Phaidon; New York: Pantheon.

Humboldt, Wilhelm von. 1971 [1836]. Linguistic Variability and Intellectual Development. Trans. by George C. Buck & Frithjof A. Raven. Coral Gables, Fla.: University of Miami Press.

Kuhn, Thomas S. 1962. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Latour, Bruno. 1991. Nous n’avons jamais été modernes: Essai d’anthropologie symétrique. Paris: La Découverte.

Levelt, Willem J. M. 2013. A History of Psycholinguistics: The Pre-Chomskyan Era. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Marchese, Maria Pia (ed.). 1995. Ferdinand de Saussure, Phonétique: Il manoscritto di Harvard Houghton Library bMS Fr 266 (8). Padova: Unipress.

Skinner, Quentin. 1969. ‘Meaning and understanding in the history of ideas’, in History and Theory 8/1: 3-53.



Gerda Haßler
Universität Potsdam

‘Communicating the past to the present’: Is anachronism inevitable? Desirable?

On the question as to whether anachronism is inevitable or perhaps even desirable in the history of linguistics there are two diametrically opposed views: that of fundamentalist historicism, according to which any theory can only be explained from a historical perspective and can only be understood in terms of its historical background; and that of radical utilitarianism, which maintains that history of linguistics should only be undertaken with a view to its use for modern linguistics. If we take the first position, anachronism becomes something objectionable. From the second position, by contrast, anachronism is simply a matter of course. Precisely where an individual researcher will place themselves between these two extremes depends on their intentions and the area in which they work. I cannot say that I have always avoided these two extremes, even though I see myself as a linguist who (also) has historiographic interests and do indeed think it is sensible to avoid these two extremes.

1. Historicism without anachronism

There can be no place for anachronism when investigating previously unexamined or relatively poorly known texts. For example, when examining manuscripts written as entries in the 1797 competition of the Institut National on the question of the influence of signs on ideas, it would not help us at all to assume the categories of modern cognitive linguistics and to blithely identify these in these early texts. Rather, we have to adopt the epistemological outlook of the time, see the authors’ arguments in relation to it, and compare their arguments with one another. The history of institutions, personal history and social history are also required here to understand such problems as why the prize was advertised again two years later and why the winning entry deviated significantly from the expectations as outlined in the prize call and yet met those of the jury. Historical-philological work that seeks to orient itself to the outlook of the time and to avoid anachronisms is not at all obsolete. Working through the store of treatises, grammars, dictionaries, letters and other texts that in part remain unexamined is an important task of linguistic historiography. This work is not only about capturing past manifestations of linguistic consciousness, but is also a part of cultural history, which has received differing degrees of attention in different periods and regions.

Anachronisms in the form of references to later linguistic approaches or even to modern theories should not be ruled out here, but they do not lead to a better understanding of the texts being examined. In some cases they can lead the reader or even the researcher astray, in that they might prompt premature and simplistic conclusions about the impact of the texts on later thought.

2. Anachronisms and their use for modern linguistics

The opposing position, according to which anachronisms are considered necessary for historiographic work, is one I have taken in several articles in which I wanted to highlight a possible false path taken in modern linguistics. From colleagues who work in the modern field of information structure I have repeatedly heard the following claim in various forms: “Inversions of word order cause higher costs.” What they mean is that the preposing of the object as a definite marking in the information structure causes higher processing costs – that is, is cognitively more expensive and raises the question of cost and benefit. A classic example of such a marking is the inversion of subject and object that is, for instance, permitted and indeed unproblematic in German:

[Es ist gut],
[It is good]
[It is good]
dass
that
that
Maria
Mariadat
the TEACHer
die Lehrerin
thenom teachernom
helps
hilft.
helps.
Maria.

In the German sentence Maria appears in the first position and so is interpreted as the subject of the sentence. Since it is morphologically ambiguous and could be either a nominative, dative or accusative, it will initially be interpreted as the subject and the teacher as the direct object. But then we recognise, on a further level of analysis, that the verb hilft governs an argument in the nominative and another in the dative. This new analysis leads us to correct our original interpretation of the sentence and arrive at the right one:

…, dass Maria die Lehrerin hilft.
1st analysis
*subject *direct object verb
2nd corrected analysis
indirect object subject verb

The greater effort required for the two-step analysis in cases of inversion can be observed by measuring the activity of certain brain regions or by examining eye movements while reading. If no inversions are used or when a language does not allow them at all, the effort required for comprehension would be smaller, the brain activity lower and eye movements less extensive.

This line of argument reminds me of the doctrine of natural word order, which reached its climax in France in the 17th century. Of course we cannot expect to find attempts at experimental verification of the doctrine of an easier, natural word order in the 17th century, but something similar is proposed by Le Laboureur when he characterises the preferred order in French of subject-verb-object as that dictated by nature. The Latin-speaking Romans could not have thought in a different way from the French, since their minds were shaped the same way – they must therefore have thought in the same order, applied reorderings only in their expression, and through this additional effort made it difficult for themselves to speak logically and intelligibly. So the order was in fact the same in all languages; it was just that the French had the best chance to follow it also in their expression.

Nous suivons en tous nos discours exactement l’ordre de la pensée qui est celui de la Nature; […] l’usage et la coûtume ne sauraient nous imposer en cela, où la raison se fait presque sentir et toucher.[1]

The question of whether the large differences between Latin and French word order mean that the Romans thought differently from the French is answered on the basis of the rationalist separation of language and thought. Raison, and by consequence the laws of thought, are the same for all nations. In the context of Descartes’ rationalism there can be no doubt about the uniformity and indivisibility of raison.

There is a parallel to the rationalist theory of word order in modern research. The fixed word order subject-verb-object is treated as the unproblematic basic form, and all orders that deviate from this are seen as effects of information structure. The rationally determined syntactic structure is described as the ID structure, while the word order that comes about as the result of a language-specific ordering is characterised as an LP surface form independent of the ID structure.

The rationalist theories and modern neurolinguists are in agreement that inversions of word order involve greater cognitive effort for comprehension. But how do we really determine the effort involved? The subjects who are given these sentences while in the CT scanner are offered neither a broader context nor a natural speech situation; they must therefore rely solely on the sentence they are given and the word order used in it. As a result, they must of course expend greater effort to understand the sentence …dass Maria die Lehrerin hilft. In the context Paul hat niemanden, der ihm bei den Hausaufgaben helfen würde. Es ist gut, dass Maria die Lehrerin hilft. the effort required would be significantly less, possibly even less than in the sentence with the ‘normal’ word order. To determine what the actual ‘costs’ would be, we really need pragmatic investigations of information structure that seek to capture the process of understanding in its full complexity.

The need to consider the intention of the speaker and the pragmatic context of the utterance when judging the naturalness of word order was already brought into the vigorous discussion of the 18th century. Charles Batteux presented a new, sensualistic dogma when he said that there was no natural word order in French, but rather only inversions. The standard for naturalness here is not a prefigured rationalist sequence of thought, but the order of thoughts according to their importance for the speaker. So we say rotundus est sol, since this sentence is about a property of the sun and not whether or not it exists. When we want to emphasise particular properties of an object, the appropriate place for the adjective is before the substantive. So in the presence of a Roman we would say romanum imperium and not imperium romanum.[2] Diderot went even further when he described the fixed order subject-verb-object not as the natural order, but as the institutional or didactic order. He supposed it to be the result of a craving for rules of word order and the development of syntactic norms. He redefined the term ordre naturel and used it to describe the original word order based on the senses, from which we have progressively moved further away in the course of the development of language and thought.

It is undoubtedly an anachronism to use a historical analogy to back up the demand to investigate information structure as a pragmatic phenomenon and to relativise its rationalist foundation, but it is an anachronism that strikes me as very appropriate. Admittedly this line of argument has been ignored by modern linguists and has not been understood by historians of linguistics. Perhaps we should draw from this the conclusion that there is no value in anachronisms in the historiography of linguistics. But it seems to me that offering a way to rethink modern theories and methods is also a legitimate task of historiographic research.

3. Anachronism for research into conceptual history?

Whether or not anachronisms are appropriate for historiographic work is a question that must be continually addressed especially in the context of conceptual history. A conceptual work that looks at a period that is far away from present-day thinking on language itself has to come to terms with the question of whether it should proceed retrospectively or whether it should try to reconstruct the authentic concepts of the period under consideration. Key concepts of the present – such as ‘pragmatic’, ‘functional’, ‘generative’, ‘modular’, ‘cognitive’, ‘structural’ – may illustrate just how complex the intertwining of problems and their concepts can be, as long as we are dealing with authentic self-descriptions and not polemical or tendentious descriptions imposed from outside. In this context the question arises as to what extent we should adopt present-day claims about language itself that are conceptually anchored in one or more theories as the point of departure for historiographic research, or whether we should attempt to exclusively reconstruct concepts from the linguistic thought of the period being investigated, in an effort to avoid any kind of teleological perspective.

Research in the history of science is not concerned with the properties of language, but with the discourse of linguistic research. But a claim about language is not always transparent: as a form of expression, it is always dependent on the conditions under which it was made. A high priority for the historian of science is to reconstruct these conditions for recipients who do not have the same forms of expression and are not part of the situation in which they emerged.

Every cognitive act is a historical fact; its form of existence is not the ideal timelessness of the logical level of truth. Because of its historical limitedness, knowledge has a horizon of retrospection and a horizon of projection.[3] Science does not destroy its past, but rather organises it, selects, forgets, interprets, idealises, just as it anticipates and construes its future. What is special about historiographic work as opposed to the approach of the scientist who is simply interested in the history of their discipline can be seen precisely in the reconstruction of the emergence of theories and positions in context. For this task it is quite appropriate to warn against anachronisms. The correction of retrospective selections of facts and of mainstream opinions will necessarily also lead to accentuating forgotten or marginalised knowledge.

If we have the goal of examining conceptualisations in linguistic thinking before the institutionalisation of linguistics and do not want to rule out that such an undertaking can contribute to our understanding of the points of departure and foundations of the conceptual positions that today differ significantly among individual schools and currents of linguistics, then both a retrospective view and a prospective view from the perspective of the period being considered is implied. Despite constant change of conceptual contents, we can establish also for the metalinguistic realm a relative continuity in the foundational structures and relations. Kosellek asserted this for general conceptual history with the following words: “Man kann Begriffsgeschichte(n) als Wandel von Bedeutungen und Pragmatiken nur thematisieren, wenn man weiß, daß eine ganze Menge anderes sich gleich bleibt und also repetitiv ist.”[4]

Of course this cannot be allowed to lead to the establishment of linear continuities that take no account of either the conditions under which individual concepts formed or the network of relations in which they exist. The basis of the comparison across time must rather be sufficiently general questions that tend to lead to comparable answers. To describe this kind of questions and solutions I prefer the term conceptualisations, which draws out the process-like nature of the phenomenon described. A static description of the concept could only produce results which for their own part would have to be made transparent through examination in the context of their historical relations and the historical conditions of their emergence.

Concepts are units of knowledge that group phenomena and objects together into classes according to their characteristics and which determine their relation to other classes of phenomena. While phenomena change over time, concepts generalise and subsume in their grouping. The networks of relations and functional connections that are represented in this way can be described with a sufficient degree of generality to capture greater commonalities in questions and answers even in the case of greater historical changes. The search for authentic concepts of a period makes the characteristics on which the formation of classes are based transparent, justifies them in their historical boundedness and determines the place of the concept in the time-bound network. Work in conceptual history then proceeds retrospectively when it starts with those conceptual characteristics that correspond to the views on the subject matter of a particular period and seeks earlier conceptualisations that are comparable. Retrospective observation can help to establish sufficiently general characteristics for conceptualisations, but it must of course not be allowed to make the mistake of laying a temporally bound ‘standard’ on an earlier period of linguistic thought. Occasionally it is only through such a view that we will even notice authentic concepts that correspond to contemporary research questions, since they can be obscured through the lack of current lexical forms.

In this way we will search in vain for terms that correspond to our focalisation and topicalisation in the late 18th century. However, the research question corresponding to this concept appears under the less specific term Nachdruck (emphasis) in Daniel Jenisch’s Philosopisch-kritische Vergleichung und Würdigung von vierzehn ältern und neuern Sprachen Europens (1796) and is even introduced in its relation to other conceptualisations (grammatischer Bau ‘grammatical structure’, Wortstellung ‘word order’, Syntax, Sprache ‘language’ vs. (Strom der) Rede ‘(stream of) speech’):

Zu dem grammatikalischen Bau, in so fern er auf den Nachdruck der Sprache Beziehung hat, gehört vorzüglich auch die Wortstellung (Syntax). Sind die Gesetze derselben für jeden Fall durchaus bestimmt und unab­änderlich, wie z. B. in der Französischen Sprache: so kann der Geist da, wo es der Strom der Rede und die Heftigkeit der Empfindung erfordert, daß der Gegenstand aus der Masse der Ideen besonders herausgehoben und dem Auge nahe gebracht werde, und wo ofte das, was in dem ruhigen Flusse der Rede das erste Wort seyn würde, das letzte seyn muß, und umgekehrt; – so kann er hier Empfindung und Leidenschaft nicht mit aller der Fülle und nach allen den Nüanzen in der Sprache darstellen, als er’s ohne dieß würde thun können.[5]

As this example shows, the retrospective view also leads us into the region of the onomasiological approach. The corresponding question here might be: How was the movement of sentence constituents according to their communicative value that is now known as topicalisation conceptualised in the late 18th century and how was the corresponding concept named? The question of conceptualisation could be broken down into the following sub-questions:

  • Were linguistic phenomena put into classes on the basis of the characteristic ‘movement with a change in communicative value’?
  • Were there current or, as the case may be, even specific names for this class?
  • What relational networks and functional connections were put together in other classes?

The way we have posed this question makes it clear that we are focussing on cognitive processes in concept formation and that we do not reduce the onomasiological question to a listing of authentic terms for a fixed concept. This grouping by characteristics during the process of conceptualisation can also be observed at a pre-conceptual stage, which can be revealed at a linguistic level by non-specific or periphrastic terms. The establishment of a concept itself is generally not concluded with the coining of a term, since the network of relations in which the concept is situated might only solidify later or could be reconstituted. Even a change in the constitutive characteristics of the conceptual formation is possible here.

In our example of Nachdruck we have taken a very non-specific term for the change in the communicative value of a sentence constituent, which however, because of its explicit relations, is part of a meaningful network. The grammatischer Bau is introduced as something superordinate and can only be brought partially into relation with Nachdruck, while Wortstellung is put into an immediate relation and explained in brackets with Syntax. A clear relation of Nachdruck to Strom der Rede is also set up.

We could say the same about the use of the word language in metalinguistic statements of earlier times. Here we also have to consider the various ranges of meaning associated with this word in different languages. Since Saussure there is a terminological distinction usually made in French between langue, parole, and langage, which it is difficult to reproduce in English and German. But even the identification of this tripartition with Saussure is in fact an anachronism. A differentiation of langue as a system of means of expression, langage as the faculty of language, and parole as the product of this faculty was already inherent in the French language, as the following excerpt from the Cours de psychologie (1801) by Benoni Debrun shows:

C’est-à-dire, que la voix, l’écriture et le geste deviennent les trois moyens que nous employons pour la communication des pensées, et un système quelconque de ces moyens, est ce qu’on nomme une langue, du principal organe que nous employons à cette communication; c’est à la faculté d’employer ces moyens, prise d’une manière générale, qu’on donne le nom de langage, et à l’Acte de cette faculté, qu’on donne celui de parole.[6]

It is therefore not so much the distinction that should be attributed to Saussure, but rather the settling of the terms, which answered to the need for conceptualisation in his time.

In research into conceptual history a certain degree of anachronism is inevitable. Anachronism can even help us to recognise connections. Such a view is of course susceptible to the criticism that certain concepts ‘belong’ to certain authors. But does the notion of linguistic relativity really belong to Wilhelm von Humboldt, for instance, and does the arbitrary nature of the linguistic sign belong to Saussure? Ideas and theories do not come out of the blue. When we examine their development retrospectively or prospectively, we of course proceed anachronistically. There is no harm in anachronism as long as we are conscious of its possibilities and limits.

Notes

[1] Le Laboureur, Louis, Avantages de la langue françoise sur la langue latine. Paris: G. de Luyne 1669, 173

[2] Batteux, Charles, “Lettres sur la phrase françoise comparée avec la phrase latine, à Monsieur l’abbé d’Olivet de l’Académie Françoise”. Cours de belles-lettres distribué par exercices. Paris : Desaint et Saillant 1747-1748, Vol. II, 18

[3] Auroux, Sylvain, ‟Science et temporalité”, Language Philosophies and the Language Sciences. A Historical Perspective in Honour of Lia Formigari, ed. by Daniele Gambarara & Stefano Gensini & Antonino Pennisi, Münster, Nodus Publikationen 1996: 27-32 : horizon de rétrospection, horizon de projection.

[4] Koselleck, Reinhart, Begriffsgeschichten, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp 2006, 60.

[5] Jenisch, Daniel, Philosophisch-kritische Vergleichung und Würdigung von vierzehn ältern und neuern Sprachen Europens, namentlich: der Griechischen, Lateinischen; Italienischen, Spanischen, Portugiesischen, Französischen; Englischen, Deutschen, Holländischen, Dänischen, Schwedischen; Polnischen, Russischen, Litthauischen. Eine von der Königl. Preuss. Akademie der Wissenschaften gekrönte Preisschrift des Herrn D. Jenisch, Prediger in Berlin. Berlin: Friedrich Maurer 1796, 26/27

[6] Debrun, François-Joseph-Bénoni, Cours de psycologie. Traite de psycographie […] Traité de Grammaire. Laon: Derbigny 1801, 64.



Andrew Linn
University of Sheffield

Communicating the past to the present: Is anachronism inevitable? desirable?

One of the most dramatic chapters in European history is the mass migration to North America and beyond during the nineteenth century. The statistics are jaw-dropping. Some 60 million Europeans departed in the course of a hundred year period, with around 43 million finding their way to North America. In 1800 the population of Norway was a mere 883,000, but a century later around the same number of Norwegians had emigrated to the USA, such that there are now as many Norwegian-Americans as there are Norwegian Norwegians. What the top-level figures fail to express, and what is also lost in the surviving evidence, such as port records, is that this comprises an aggregation of personal stories and dramas. There is plenty of debate about the extent to which push factors or pull factors predominated, but “there is, of course, no general explanation” (Norman & Runblom 1988: 112); the past is made of millions of individual stories. 19th-centry emigration is not remote history. There are records and there are photographs and there are surviving artefacts and stories in the possession of the descendants, so surely it must be possible to capture those personal realities. Surely, with all the technology at our disposal, it must be possible to communicate this particular past to the present in a direct way.

Ola Nordmann

I have recently completed a project which sought to present Norwegian emigration history to a modern audience using 3D virtual-world technology. One aim of this project was to animate the journey made by a generic Norwegian peasant (Ola Nordmann or the Norwegian Everyman) from rural Norway via what by the 1880s had become the standard emigration route, from Bergen to Hull to Liverpool and on to New York. The 3D world was fully informed by the evidence and involved the reconstruction of 19th-century places and buildings, means of transport and artefacts. 21st-century computer users could then enter the world and accompany our generic emigrant on his journey and literally enter the past. Although the project is now complete and no new accounts can be created, the website is still available and contains more information about this attempt to bridge the gap between the past and the present using computer technology (www.olanordmann.co.uk) and a full account and discussion of the project is in Linn (2015).

Was it successful? In some ways, yes. We did what we set out to do, but this could never recapture the reality of the journey. There were no sounds or smells in the ports or on board ship. There were no other travellers in the world, which is completely unrealistic given the vast numbers in transit. However, this was another way of getting into the past. There were some deliberately anachronistic moments, such as the modern Norwegian signage to show visitors where to go, and the chance to fly through the world and be teleported from one location to another, but it all contributes to the number of access points to the past. It may be that we will always be looking at the past through a lens tinted by our own context, but more lenses result in greater clarity, and anyway the past isn’t going to engage many visitors if it’s not fun to go there.

What can this project suggest to historians of linguistics? Here are some ideas, which will, I hope, prove fruitful for further discussion via this blog:

  • Strikingly absent from the history of linguistics is the view from below, the experience of the recipient of linguistics: the pupil, the learner, the reader. History from below is hard work, but it can be done, especially if we can be a bit less precious about the nature of our sources.
  • What would a virtual-world history of linguistics look like? It is a colourful world of global travel, of scholars and institutions and debates. Who wouldn’t want to visit it?
  • The history of linguistics is typically a desiccated enterprise of books and articles and conference papers. Where is the technology in its research, its dissemination and its teaching?
  • Anachronism should be celebrated. Ola Nordmann’s world was about preventing the individual and the personal disappearing from sight amongst the historical stats. The historiography of linguistics is about allowing the voices of those who can no longer speak for themselves to continue to contribute to our ongoing efforts to make sense of language.
References

Norman, Hans & Harald Runblom 1988. Transatlantic Connections: Nordic Migration to the New World after 1800. Oslo: Norwegian University Press.

Linn, Andrew 2015. From Voss to New York: Norwegian transmigration to America and the use of virtual worlds in historical research. Historisk tidsskrift 94, 232-259.

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