Ursula K. Le Guin's novel The Left Hand of Darkness is another interesting example of a science fiction novel that confronts the reader with "difference" and asks him to shift his perspective during the course of the narrative, "seeing" the world finally through other eyes (I use 'he' deliberately here for the generic pronoun, as the novel arguably assumes a masculine point-of-view even while it interrogates notions of gender.)
The inhabitants of Gethen - Winter - are androgynous; they only have distinct sexual characteristics for a few days a month, during "kemmer", when any individual may become either male or female. What interests me here is not their sex, but how this is transmitted to the reader using language, namely, through gendered pronouns.
Le Guin generally uses the masculine pronoun to refer to these people, although she mixes it up sometimes by combining mascuine pronouns with feminine kinship terms or titles, or on rare occasions by switching pronouns (for example, to indicate that an individual has become female during kemmer). One of her short stories, "Winter's King," which is set in the same world, was rewritten to use female pronouns throughout combined with masculine titles.
Le Guin has sometimes been faulted for her decision to use the masculine as a generic pronoun, rather than using an artificial genderless pronoun (either one of her own or extant options such as "s/he" or "sie"), and she herself has taken various positions on the topic, suggesting that she might have made a different decision were she to write the novel now. (See her essays "Is Gender Necessary?", "Is Gender Necessary: Redux" and her afterward to the novel written in 1994). However, I think the use of the masculine pronoun works, and it creates a very different effect than if she had used an invented pronoun which would have emphasized the Gethenians' strangeness. Because the point is not that they are "alien", but rather the extent to which gendered categories are rooted within our thinking and our perception of the world, that we have trouble getting beyond these categories even when they are not useful.
The world is described primarily from the perspective of an outsider, Genly Ai, who is visiting Winter as a sort of diplomat and who constantly projects his notions of gender upon a people for whom this category is scarcely relevant. Genly acts as a mediator for the reader, his use of pronouns is a reminder of his - and our - inability to comprehend the Gethenians for what they are. Until the end, when he comes to see this "unsexed" state as being natural, and ourselves as trapped within a divided, unnatural state. What the book finally offers is a gradual transformation, a way to get a glimpse of a world in which we are not primarily male or female but simply human.
Although this movement seems in some ways to be the opposite of what I was looking at in my previous post, I think the hermeneutic process is ultimately quite similar. In both cases the familiar is made strange -- in Riddley Walker through a deformation of familiar language, in The Left Hand of Darkness through an interpretive dead-end, that is, through a failed attempt to apply familiar categories which results in the need to discard these categories.
And just for the sake of it, I append a bibliography of articles dealing with language and the linguistic construction of gender in The Left Hand of Darkness. I started collecting this list for a term paper (which I ended up not writing) in a linguistics class, so it's limited to topics that seemed relevant to the project at the time -- i.e., I was concerned with language/gender, not sexuality per se, even if these are arguably never completely separate.
Barrow, Craig and Diana. “The Left Hand of Darkness: Feminism for Men.” Mosaic 20.1 (1987).
Cornell, Christine. “The Interpretive Journey in Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness.” Extrapolation 42.4 (2001).
Fayad, M. “Aliens, Androgynes, and Anthropology: Le Guin's Critique of Representation in The Left Hand of Darkness.” Mosaic 30.3 (1997): 59-73.
Myers, V. “Conversational Technique in Ursula Le Guin: A Speech-act Analysis.” Science-Fiction Studies 10 (1983): 306-16.
Pennington, John. “Exorcising Gender: Resisting Readers in Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness.” Extrapolation 41.4 (2000).
Also interesting is the study Pronoun Envy: Literary Uses of Linguistic Gender by Anna Livia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), in particular the chapter "Epicene Neologisms in English" which contains an extensive discussion of The Left Hand of Darkness along with a number of other science fiction novels.
Posts mit dem Label linguistics werden angezeigt. Alle Posts anzeigen
Posts mit dem Label linguistics werden angezeigt. Alle Posts anzeigen
Dienstag, 1. März 2011
Freitag, 11. Februar 2011
Language as Verfremdung
I'm interested in the way some science fiction novels transform language in order to emphasize the 'otherness' of the society being portrayed so that the reader is forced to actively negotiate this difference in the process of understanding the story. We might call this a form of Verfremdung. I'm abusing Brecht's terminology here, but I'm not sure that there's another term that expresses what I mean. Shklovsky's ostranenie is no better, because he -- like Brecht -- is concerned with it primarily as an aesthetic effect, that of making the familiar strange. In the stories I want to look at, something else happens, a form of negotiation between the familiar (self) and the strange (the 'other)', i.e., precisely that which resists being subsumed into the familiar. The emotional distancing, which is so crucial to Brecht's theory, and perhaps implicit in Shklovsky's, is counterproductive here: the story requires a certain amount of identification, of Einfühlung, in order to be most effective. Caryl Emerson speaks of "subject - object relations" in Shklovsky rather than "subject - subject" relations**, which captures the point pretty well.
I'm thinking in particular of Hoban's Riddley Walker and Burgess' A Clockwork Orange, which are narrated in a heavily modified form of English. This is important: instead of interlacing the story with vocabulary in an invented language, they alter the reader's own language. The effect created by this technique is considerably different, I think. Inventing terms in a foreign language marks them clearly as being embedded in a specific context, one which is, moreover, separate from the world of the reader. And by including -- as is so often done -- an explanation or translation of these foreign terms, the 'otherness' of this world is mediated for the reader, the strangeness is in a sense concealed precisely because it is explicitly labelled as foreign. However, when it is our own language that is being distorted nearly to the point of incomprehensibility, we are confronted all the more forcefully by the fact that we cannot take comprehension for granted.
(Both of these stories have first-person narrators, and this, too, may help produce this effect -- the reader is put inside the narrator's head, so to speak, asked to share his point of view. It is not, I think, necessary however.)
One might compare this method with that of those translators who maintain that a translation should not read like an original, that it should maintain a strangeness which reminds the reader that they are reading a translation.
Schleiermacher puts this in a manner which is useful in this context: Entweder der Übersetzer läßt den Schriftsteller möglichst in Ruhe, und bewegt den Leser ihm entgegen [this is our 'faithful' translation]; oder er läßt den Leser möglichst in Ruhe und bewegt den Schriftsteller ihm entgegen [i.e., a naturalizing translation. (From: Über die verschiedenen Methoden des Übersetzens, 1813)
** See Emerson, Caryl. "Shklovsky's ostranenie, Bakhtin's vnenakhodimost' (How Distance Serves an Aesthetics of Arousal Differently from an Aesthetics Based on Pain)". Poetics Today 26.4 (2005) : 637-664.
I'm thinking in particular of Hoban's Riddley Walker and Burgess' A Clockwork Orange, which are narrated in a heavily modified form of English. This is important: instead of interlacing the story with vocabulary in an invented language, they alter the reader's own language. The effect created by this technique is considerably different, I think. Inventing terms in a foreign language marks them clearly as being embedded in a specific context, one which is, moreover, separate from the world of the reader. And by including -- as is so often done -- an explanation or translation of these foreign terms, the 'otherness' of this world is mediated for the reader, the strangeness is in a sense concealed precisely because it is explicitly labelled as foreign. However, when it is our own language that is being distorted nearly to the point of incomprehensibility, we are confronted all the more forcefully by the fact that we cannot take comprehension for granted.
(Both of these stories have first-person narrators, and this, too, may help produce this effect -- the reader is put inside the narrator's head, so to speak, asked to share his point of view. It is not, I think, necessary however.)
One might compare this method with that of those translators who maintain that a translation should not read like an original, that it should maintain a strangeness which reminds the reader that they are reading a translation.
Schleiermacher puts this in a manner which is useful in this context: Entweder der Übersetzer läßt den Schriftsteller möglichst in Ruhe, und bewegt den Leser ihm entgegen [this is our 'faithful' translation]; oder er läßt den Leser möglichst in Ruhe und bewegt den Schriftsteller ihm entgegen [i.e., a naturalizing translation. (From: Über die verschiedenen Methoden des Übersetzens, 1813)
** See Emerson, Caryl. "Shklovsky's ostranenie, Bakhtin's vnenakhodimost' (How Distance Serves an Aesthetics of Arousal Differently from an Aesthetics Based on Pain)". Poetics Today 26.4 (2005) : 637-664.
Montag, 20. Dezember 2010
Aristotle & Semantics (V)
(It seems that I never got around to posting the continuation of this series. So here is the much-belated final installment.)
De Partis Animalibus I, 1. 640b 31 – 641a 5
φησὶ γοῦν παντὶ δῆλον εἶναι οἷόν τι τὴν μορφήν ἐστι ὁ ἀνθρωπος, ὡς ὄντος αὐτοῦ τῷ τε σχήματι καὶ τῷ χρώματι γνωρίμου. καίτοι καὶ ὁ τεθνεὼς ἔχει τὴν αὐτὴν τοῦ σχήματος μορφήν, ἀλλ’ ὅμως οὐκ ἔστιν ἄνθρωπος. ἔτι δ’ ἀδύνατον εἶναι χεῖρα ὁπωσοῦν διακειμένην, οἷον χαλκῆν ἤ ξυλίνην, πλὴν ὁμωνύμως, ὥσπερ τὸν γεγραμμένον ἰατρόν. οὐ γὰρ δυνήσεται ποιεῐν τὸ ἑαυτῆς ἔργον, ὥσπερ οὐδ’ αὐλοὶ λίθινοι τὸ ἑαυτῶν ἔργον, οὐδ’ ὁ γεγραμμένος ἰατρός. ὁμοίως δὲ τούτοις οὐδὲ τῶν τοῦ τεθνηκότος μορίων οὐδὲν ἔτι τῶν τοιούτων ἐστί, λέγω δ’ οἷον ὀφθαλμός, χείρ.
He [Demokritos] says that it is clear to each what sort of thing man is in respect to his form, since he is recognizable as being such by his shape and color. However, a dead body also has the same form and shape, but nevertheless is not a man. Moreover, it is impossible [for something] in any way to be a hand, if it is made of bronze or wood, except homonymously, the way a doctor drawn in a picture [is a doctor]. For it will not be able to do its own work, just like a stone flute or a painted doctor cannot perform their functions. Like them, none of the parts of a dead body – say, an eye or a hand – are still of a sort sufficient [to do this].
ὁμωνύμως as it is used here might easily be translated “by analogy”.
Aristotle’s teleological view of nature is particularly evident in this passage, and his assertion that a dead body is not a man must be understood in terms of the fundamental philosophical distinction he draws between potentiality and actuality. He is not talking about language use per se, but using names in a specific, restricted sense to make an analytical point.
Semantically, the passage is interesting, however. Although modern descriptive linguistics rejects the assumption that some uses of words are “more proper” than others, nevertheless, certain senses of words seem to be more central than others. For example, certain kinds of birds seem to be more typically “birdlike” than others (a robin as opposed to a penguin or ostrich). These prototypes should not be confused with biological classification: a whale fits our concept of “fish” in many ways better than our concept of “mammal” (Saeed 37). Something similar seems to happen when we return to Aristotle’s own examples, although the problem is a bit different. The use of “flute” to describe a semblance made of stone feels somehow metaphorical; the sense, in any case, is different than when it is used for a musical instrument, and the stone flute tends to feel less properly a flute than the ‘real’ flute, as our language use when talking about the two demonstrates. Similarly, although Aristotle’s argument about a dead body not being a man is unlikely to be acceptable to most people in a linguistic sense, as we regularly think about and refer to corpses as men (albeit dead ones), on another level Aristotle seems to have a point. A dead man is not a man in the same way that a living, adult human being is; the meaning is less central and requires qualification to make the distinction. What this suggests is interesting; namely, that language is sensitive to the distinction Aristotle makes between having merely the form of something, and having the function as well
De Partis Animalibus I, 1. 640b 31 – 641a 5
φησὶ γοῦν παντὶ δῆλον εἶναι οἷόν τι τὴν μορφήν ἐστι ὁ ἀνθρωπος, ὡς ὄντος αὐτοῦ τῷ τε σχήματι καὶ τῷ χρώματι γνωρίμου. καίτοι καὶ ὁ τεθνεὼς ἔχει τὴν αὐτὴν τοῦ σχήματος μορφήν, ἀλλ’ ὅμως οὐκ ἔστιν ἄνθρωπος. ἔτι δ’ ἀδύνατον εἶναι χεῖρα ὁπωσοῦν διακειμένην, οἷον χαλκῆν ἤ ξυλίνην, πλὴν ὁμωνύμως, ὥσπερ τὸν γεγραμμένον ἰατρόν. οὐ γὰρ δυνήσεται ποιεῐν τὸ ἑαυτῆς ἔργον, ὥσπερ οὐδ’ αὐλοὶ λίθινοι τὸ ἑαυτῶν ἔργον, οὐδ’ ὁ γεγραμμένος ἰατρός. ὁμοίως δὲ τούτοις οὐδὲ τῶν τοῦ τεθνηκότος μορίων οὐδὲν ἔτι τῶν τοιούτων ἐστί, λέγω δ’ οἷον ὀφθαλμός, χείρ.
He [Demokritos] says that it is clear to each what sort of thing man is in respect to his form, since he is recognizable as being such by his shape and color. However, a dead body also has the same form and shape, but nevertheless is not a man. Moreover, it is impossible [for something] in any way to be a hand, if it is made of bronze or wood, except homonymously, the way a doctor drawn in a picture [is a doctor]. For it will not be able to do its own work, just like a stone flute or a painted doctor cannot perform their functions. Like them, none of the parts of a dead body – say, an eye or a hand – are still of a sort sufficient [to do this].
ὁμωνύμως as it is used here might easily be translated “by analogy”.
Aristotle’s teleological view of nature is particularly evident in this passage, and his assertion that a dead body is not a man must be understood in terms of the fundamental philosophical distinction he draws between potentiality and actuality. He is not talking about language use per se, but using names in a specific, restricted sense to make an analytical point.
Semantically, the passage is interesting, however. Although modern descriptive linguistics rejects the assumption that some uses of words are “more proper” than others, nevertheless, certain senses of words seem to be more central than others. For example, certain kinds of birds seem to be more typically “birdlike” than others (a robin as opposed to a penguin or ostrich). These prototypes should not be confused with biological classification: a whale fits our concept of “fish” in many ways better than our concept of “mammal” (Saeed 37). Something similar seems to happen when we return to Aristotle’s own examples, although the problem is a bit different. The use of “flute” to describe a semblance made of stone feels somehow metaphorical; the sense, in any case, is different than when it is used for a musical instrument, and the stone flute tends to feel less properly a flute than the ‘real’ flute, as our language use when talking about the two demonstrates. Similarly, although Aristotle’s argument about a dead body not being a man is unlikely to be acceptable to most people in a linguistic sense, as we regularly think about and refer to corpses as men (albeit dead ones), on another level Aristotle seems to have a point. A dead man is not a man in the same way that a living, adult human being is; the meaning is less central and requires qualification to make the distinction. What this suggests is interesting; namely, that language is sensitive to the distinction Aristotle makes between having merely the form of something, and having the function as well
Freitag, 16. Juli 2010
more threats and promises
Discussions of "semi-modal" promise and threaten (see my previous post) generally discuss the two verbs together, under the assumption that they function similarly, the only major difference being the evaluation by the speaker (negative or positive/neutral) of the expected event. However, there are a couple of fairly striking differences in their occurence patterns which I still can't think of any explanation for.
A search of the Corpus of Contemporary American English produced the following results:
"threatens to": 1192
"promises to": 2273
"threatening to": 2335
"promising to": 847 (scarcely any examples of promise2)
"threatened to": 3738
"promised to": 3860 (few examples of promise2)
What's odd here is the difference in frequency in the progressive. Since the corpus doesn't distinguish between different usages of the verbs, I checked a sample of 100 results for each of the variations and counted the number of examples that are to be interpreted in the "semi-modal" sense. For both threatening to and promises to this was around 35-40%. For promising to (which was far less frequent to begin with) I found a total of 3 examples.
This suggests that there is an aspectual difference between the two verbs which makes it difficult to use promise2 in the progressive. Furthermore, promise2 -- in contrast to threaten2 -- appears fairly frequently with the verb complement to be.
This also seems to be the case with the regular meaning of promise and threaten: I can say "The child promises to be good", but "The child threatens to be bad" is odd. This may be related to the highly formalized performative nature of promise, which always seems to indicate a verbal act. Threatening, however, does not have to be verbal (one can threaten with a gesture). Furthermore, a promise generally seems to refer to an action which will take place in the future; while a threat may concern something that is already in its beginning phases.
What I don't see is how all of this fits together. Granted that the verbs have different situational semantics in their original sense, I'm not sure what effect this would have on the "semi-modal" usage. And, as noted in previously, this is not irrelevant to the question of their meaning, since there are correlations between modality and aspect. Even if we interpret them as having future meaning (analogous to "be going to") rather than phasal (analogous to "begin), it doesn't explain why the two verbs should behave so differently from each other.
Fortunately I'm not a linguist so I can leave these little puzzles for someone else to solve.
A search of the Corpus of Contemporary American English produced the following results:
"threatens to": 1192
"promises to": 2273
"threatening to": 2335
"promising to": 847 (scarcely any examples of promise2)
"threatened to": 3738
"promised to": 3860 (few examples of promise2)
What's odd here is the difference in frequency in the progressive. Since the corpus doesn't distinguish between different usages of the verbs, I checked a sample of 100 results for each of the variations and counted the number of examples that are to be interpreted in the "semi-modal" sense. For both threatening to and promises to this was around 35-40%. For promising to (which was far less frequent to begin with) I found a total of 3 examples.
This suggests that there is an aspectual difference between the two verbs which makes it difficult to use promise2 in the progressive. Furthermore, promise2 -- in contrast to threaten2 -- appears fairly frequently with the verb complement to be.
This also seems to be the case with the regular meaning of promise and threaten: I can say "The child promises to be good", but "The child threatens to be bad" is odd. This may be related to the highly formalized performative nature of promise, which always seems to indicate a verbal act. Threatening, however, does not have to be verbal (one can threaten with a gesture). Furthermore, a promise generally seems to refer to an action which will take place in the future; while a threat may concern something that is already in its beginning phases.
What I don't see is how all of this fits together. Granted that the verbs have different situational semantics in their original sense, I'm not sure what effect this would have on the "semi-modal" usage. And, as noted in previously, this is not irrelevant to the question of their meaning, since there are correlations between modality and aspect. Even if we interpret them as having future meaning (analogous to "be going to") rather than phasal (analogous to "begin), it doesn't explain why the two verbs should behave so differently from each other.
Fortunately I'm not a linguist so I can leave these little puzzles for someone else to solve.
Montag, 19. April 2010
Trolls and Lurkers
Someone in a message board I read was complaining about "trolls" - in this case, the context was a discription of users who indicated interest in a reading group and then failed to participate when the time for discussion came around.
This usage puzzled me -- for me a "troll" is someone who deliberately makes inflammatory posts for no other purpose than annoying other users; i.e, there is an actively disruptive element to this kind of behavior.
For the situation at hand I would be more inclined to use "lurker".
Am I behind the times? Is the meaning "users who refuse to participate/contribute" familiar to anyone else, or is it simply an idiosyncratic usage?
This usage puzzled me -- for me a "troll" is someone who deliberately makes inflammatory posts for no other purpose than annoying other users; i.e, there is an actively disruptive element to this kind of behavior.
For the situation at hand I would be more inclined to use "lurker".
Am I behind the times? Is the meaning "users who refuse to participate/contribute" familiar to anyone else, or is it simply an idiosyncratic usage?
Dienstag, 23. März 2010
"The term paper threatened to be a disaster"?
I keep telling people I'm not a linguist.
No doubt that's why I'm writing a linguistics paper this semester on the English verbs "threaten" and "promise" -- and for a seminar on German modal verbs at that. (Perfectly logical connection, I know.)
I had intended to write a paper for a different course on theories of tragedy -- a nice straightforward analysis of whether Aristotle's Poetics forms a logically consistent theory. A subject which I actually know something about. But...one thing led to another and my masochistic impulses won out and so here I am writing a paper which is threatening to turn into something quite different than I had planned.
I was foolish enough to visit the professor in her office hours with a couple of questions and allowed myself to be talked into writing a paper. (I should have known better than to go in quest of knowledge. One always regrets it, I assure you.)
First a bit of background: The German verbs drohen and versprechen (and their English equivalents threaten and promise) have a second meaning besides their lexical usage to refer to speech acts (of the sort "The boss is threatening to fire the employee."). This second usage instead makes a prediction about impending events: "The storm is threatening to destroy the harvest." There's a debate in the scholarly literature about whether this usage should be understood as epistemic and quasi-modal (thus belonging to a class with verbs such as seem, which evaluate the likelihood of a statement based on the speaker's knowledge), or as aspectual verbs (in German "Phasenverben") such as begin or continue which focus on a specific stage of an event. That is, it is unclear whether a sentence such as that above indicates a belief based on unspecified evidence that it is likely the harvest will be destroyed, or a description of an event which is already occurring (the fields are starting to show damage).
My idea for the paper was based on an insight that certain characteristics of the English verb system could be used to help solve this problem. Unlike German, English has progressive as well as simple present tense forms. Now, modal verbs -- in both epistemic and deontic usages -- normally cannot form the progressive. We can't say: *He is seeming to be sick. However, because aspectual verbs describe an action which is in progress, they have a close relationship with the English progressive. Therefore: if English threaten and promise can be used in the progressive in their second sense, this speaks against an epistemic meaning for the verbs. Since they can, this suggests one more piece of evidence to support the aspectual verb hypothesis.
So far, so good. The problem is, I started coming across other little details which didn't quite fit, and which started making me wonder whether either hypothesis is correct, or whether there may be a third explanation. One key difference from aspectual verbs is that threaten and promise don't describe an action which is already happening, but rather make a statement about future events. This is not insignificant. Statements about the future are always predictions; they describe things which are not yet factual. There is thus a connection between modality (expressions of necessity, ability and probability) and the future tense. A number of current scholar argue, in fact, that English and German do not in fact have a grammaticalized future tense. The future can be expressed using the present ("I'm going to the store"), for example. The modal verbs will/be going to (and the German werden) arguably do not function solely as future markers. Rather, they frequently indicate volition ("I will stop that from happening if it's the last thing I ever do") or epistemicity ("That will be the postman").
So I've started wondering whether the relevant comparison for threaten and promise is to a construction such as the English be going to, and rather than with a verb such as begin. This is NOT exactly a direction I wanted to take this paper, as it threatens to be rather speculative, and I really would prefer to write about something where I'm a little more sure of myself.
In any case, I spent last week in the library reading up on the intricacies of the progressive and future in English, as well as some more confusing excursions into Aktionsarten. I've learned a lot (quite a bit more than I intended)...which I suppose is enough to make every educator jump for joy - that is supposed to be the point of term papers, after all: learning something, not just regurgitating lectures.
I think in this case, however, I would have been satisfied with learning just a little bit less, particularly when I have two other term papers that need my attention.
No doubt that's why I'm writing a linguistics paper this semester on the English verbs "threaten" and "promise" -- and for a seminar on German modal verbs at that. (Perfectly logical connection, I know.)
I had intended to write a paper for a different course on theories of tragedy -- a nice straightforward analysis of whether Aristotle's Poetics forms a logically consistent theory. A subject which I actually know something about. But...one thing led to another and my masochistic impulses won out and so here I am writing a paper which is threatening to turn into something quite different than I had planned.
I was foolish enough to visit the professor in her office hours with a couple of questions and allowed myself to be talked into writing a paper. (I should have known better than to go in quest of knowledge. One always regrets it, I assure you.)
First a bit of background: The German verbs drohen and versprechen (and their English equivalents threaten and promise) have a second meaning besides their lexical usage to refer to speech acts (of the sort "The boss is threatening to fire the employee."). This second usage instead makes a prediction about impending events: "The storm is threatening to destroy the harvest." There's a debate in the scholarly literature about whether this usage should be understood as epistemic and quasi-modal (thus belonging to a class with verbs such as seem, which evaluate the likelihood of a statement based on the speaker's knowledge), or as aspectual verbs (in German "Phasenverben") such as begin or continue which focus on a specific stage of an event. That is, it is unclear whether a sentence such as that above indicates a belief based on unspecified evidence that it is likely the harvest will be destroyed, or a description of an event which is already occurring (the fields are starting to show damage).
My idea for the paper was based on an insight that certain characteristics of the English verb system could be used to help solve this problem. Unlike German, English has progressive as well as simple present tense forms. Now, modal verbs -- in both epistemic and deontic usages -- normally cannot form the progressive. We can't say: *He is seeming to be sick. However, because aspectual verbs describe an action which is in progress, they have a close relationship with the English progressive. Therefore: if English threaten and promise can be used in the progressive in their second sense, this speaks against an epistemic meaning for the verbs. Since they can, this suggests one more piece of evidence to support the aspectual verb hypothesis.
So far, so good. The problem is, I started coming across other little details which didn't quite fit, and which started making me wonder whether either hypothesis is correct, or whether there may be a third explanation. One key difference from aspectual verbs is that threaten and promise don't describe an action which is already happening, but rather make a statement about future events. This is not insignificant. Statements about the future are always predictions; they describe things which are not yet factual. There is thus a connection between modality (expressions of necessity, ability and probability) and the future tense. A number of current scholar argue, in fact, that English and German do not in fact have a grammaticalized future tense. The future can be expressed using the present ("I'm going to the store"), for example. The modal verbs will/be going to (and the German werden) arguably do not function solely as future markers. Rather, they frequently indicate volition ("I will stop that from happening if it's the last thing I ever do") or epistemicity ("That will be the postman").
So I've started wondering whether the relevant comparison for threaten and promise is to a construction such as the English be going to, and rather than with a verb such as begin. This is NOT exactly a direction I wanted to take this paper, as it threatens to be rather speculative, and I really would prefer to write about something where I'm a little more sure of myself.
In any case, I spent last week in the library reading up on the intricacies of the progressive and future in English, as well as some more confusing excursions into Aktionsarten. I've learned a lot (quite a bit more than I intended)...which I suppose is enough to make every educator jump for joy - that is supposed to be the point of term papers, after all: learning something, not just regurgitating lectures.
I think in this case, however, I would have been satisfied with learning just a little bit less, particularly when I have two other term papers that need my attention.
Samstag, 14. November 2009
More Contrastive Focus Reduplication
Als ich gestern frühstücken wollte, waren zwei Mitbewohner bereits in der Küche und diskutierten gerade die Bedeutung des Wort 'satt'. Vorigen Tag nämlich hatte jemand die etwas merkwürdig klingende These geaüßert, daß Kaffee satt macht, und jetzt fragten sie sich, ob man das eigentlich sagen könnte. Gemeint in diesen Fall war nicht, daß man keinen Hunger mehr hatte, sondern keine Durst.
Es scheint wirklich hier ein semantisches Loch zu geben. Für das Gegensatzpaar
'hungrig -- satt'
'durstig -- ???'
gibt es kein entsprechendes Wort für 'nicht mehr durstig'.
Dann kam natürlich die obligatorische Frage, ob es ein englisches Äquivalent für das deutsche Wort 'satt' gibt. Nein, eigentlich nicht so genau, das hat mir auch schon mal gefehlt, obwohl man 'full' oder 'satisfied' sagen kann. Und das gesuchte Wort für 'nicht durstig' haben wir wohl auch nicht. Also auch hier keine Lösung. (Im Nachhinein fällt es mir ein, daß man auf Englisch 'quench one's thirst' sowie auch auf Deutsch 'Durst stillen' sagen kann. Aber gesucht war eigentlich ein brauchbares Adjektiv...)
Ich habe dann gefragt, als Nichtmuttersprachler, ob man unter 'satt' sowohl 'nicht durstig' als auch 'nicht hungrig' verstehen kann. Man kann ja 'satt' im übertragenen Sinn gebrauchen, etwas wie 'keine Lust mehr haben'. Hmm, OK, vielleicht, war die Meinung, aber ich habe das Gefühl gekriegt, auf jeden Fall wäre diese Bedeutung, wenn überhaupt möglich, gar nicht so zentral wie 'keinen Hunger haben'.
Mittlerweile waren ihre Eier fertig, und eine von den Mädels hat beschwert, daß sie schon satt war. Und dann hat sie hinzugefügt: 'satt-satt, nicht kaffee-satt'. Und wir haben alle gelacht.
Also contrastive focus reduplication gibt es doch auf Deutsch.
(Eine interessante Diskussion zum Thema 'nicht durstig' gibt es übrigens hier bei Leo.)
Es scheint wirklich hier ein semantisches Loch zu geben. Für das Gegensatzpaar
'hungrig -- satt'
'durstig -- ???'
gibt es kein entsprechendes Wort für 'nicht mehr durstig'.
Dann kam natürlich die obligatorische Frage, ob es ein englisches Äquivalent für das deutsche Wort 'satt' gibt. Nein, eigentlich nicht so genau, das hat mir auch schon mal gefehlt, obwohl man 'full' oder 'satisfied' sagen kann. Und das gesuchte Wort für 'nicht durstig' haben wir wohl auch nicht. Also auch hier keine Lösung. (Im Nachhinein fällt es mir ein, daß man auf Englisch 'quench one's thirst' sowie auch auf Deutsch 'Durst stillen' sagen kann. Aber gesucht war eigentlich ein brauchbares Adjektiv...)
Ich habe dann gefragt, als Nichtmuttersprachler, ob man unter 'satt' sowohl 'nicht durstig' als auch 'nicht hungrig' verstehen kann. Man kann ja 'satt' im übertragenen Sinn gebrauchen, etwas wie 'keine Lust mehr haben'. Hmm, OK, vielleicht, war die Meinung, aber ich habe das Gefühl gekriegt, auf jeden Fall wäre diese Bedeutung, wenn überhaupt möglich, gar nicht so zentral wie 'keinen Hunger haben'.
Mittlerweile waren ihre Eier fertig, und eine von den Mädels hat beschwert, daß sie schon satt war. Und dann hat sie hinzugefügt: 'satt-satt, nicht kaffee-satt'. Und wir haben alle gelacht.
Also contrastive focus reduplication gibt es doch auf Deutsch.
(Eine interessante Diskussion zum Thema 'nicht durstig' gibt es übrigens hier bei Leo.)
Donnerstag, 8. Oktober 2009
Contrastive Focus Reduplication in German
I've long been intrigued by a phenomenon in colloquial English referred to by linguists as Contrastive Focus Reduplication, in which a potentially ambiguous word or phrase is repeated in order to pick out a more prototypical meaning. For example, "Oh, that's a potato salad, not a SALAD-salad" (i.e., a green salad) or "I'm up, I'm just not UP-up" (i.e, I'm awake, but not out of bed and dressed and so forth). The canonical article on this is the "Salad-Salad Paper" by Jackendoff et. al.
As far as I know, this phenomenon has not been widely observed in languages other than English, although there seems to be no particular reason why it should necessarily be restricted to English.
Therefore, I was fascinated to hear the following in Deutsche Welle's program "Bücherwelt" during a discussion of a new Krimireihe by the literary publisher Suhrkamp:
Here we have contrastive focus reduplication not once, but three times, and a similar contrastive intonation in the first usage of Kriminalliteratur to mean"literary mysteries" (Paul Auster's New York Trilogy, perhaps?) rather than "mystery fiction" which would be the usual meaning of the term.
Edit 8.11.09: "Literaturliteratur" seems to be a (fairly recent?) coinage for what I am accustomed to hearing referred to as 'Belletristik' - that is, 'literary fiction' - with perhaps an extra connotation of metafictional play and literary references. Or, as one writer puts it: "Literatur, die weltvergessen um den eigenen Bauchnabel kreist." (An English equivalent might be something like 'literature with a capital L,' an expression which for obvious reasons wouldn't make much sense German, or perhaps the term 'writers' writer' for the creator of such works.)
So 'Krimikrimi' would be formed in imitation of this expression, and there also seem to be the terms 'Kunstkunst' and 'Filmfilm' (discussion) which makes me less certain that this is quite the same phenomenon as the English contrastive focus reduplication, in that it's apparently restricted to a fairly small semantic field (i.e., the realm of 'high culture' vs. 'popular culture' or some such).
As far as I know, this phenomenon has not been widely observed in languages other than English, although there seems to be no particular reason why it should necessarily be restricted to English.
Therefore, I was fascinated to hear the following in Deutsche Welle's program "Bücherwelt" during a discussion of a new Krimireihe by the literary publisher Suhrkamp:
Was mir fehlt ist so, sagen wir mal, das Herausragende und Neue, das man insgeheim doch ein Bisschen von Suhrkamp und der Suhrkampliteratur erwartet hätte. Aber vielleicht ist genau das auch das Schlaue, das die Macher dieser Krimireihe an Suhrkampverlag geschafft haben. Sie machen nicht Kriminal-Literatur, sondern sie machen Krimi-Krimi. Man sagt ja immer Suhrkamp würde Literatur-Literatur machen, und im jeden Fall machen sie Krimi-Krimi, also Kriminalliteratur, die wie ein Lektor mir sagte, in der Bahnhofsbuchhandlung auch ihren Platz findet neben ganz anderen Verlagen. Also man unterläuft die Erwartungen, die im Grunde genommen da waren.(The audio file is available here, with the relevant section starting at about 10:00.)
Here we have contrastive focus reduplication not once, but three times, and a similar contrastive intonation in the first usage of Kriminalliteratur to mean"literary mysteries" (Paul Auster's New York Trilogy, perhaps?) rather than "mystery fiction" which would be the usual meaning of the term.
Edit 8.11.09: "Literaturliteratur" seems to be a (fairly recent?) coinage for what I am accustomed to hearing referred to as 'Belletristik' - that is, 'literary fiction' - with perhaps an extra connotation of metafictional play and literary references. Or, as one writer puts it: "Literatur, die weltvergessen um den eigenen Bauchnabel kreist." (An English equivalent might be something like 'literature with a capital L,' an expression which for obvious reasons wouldn't make much sense German, or perhaps the term 'writers' writer' for the creator of such works.)
So 'Krimikrimi' would be formed in imitation of this expression, and there also seem to be the terms 'Kunstkunst' and 'Filmfilm' (discussion) which makes me less certain that this is quite the same phenomenon as the English contrastive focus reduplication, in that it's apparently restricted to a fairly small semantic field (i.e., the realm of 'high culture' vs. 'popular culture' or some such).
Samstag, 5. September 2009
Aristotle & semantics (IV)
Categoriae 1. 1a 1-15
Ὁμώνυμα λέγεται ὧν ὄνομα μονον κοινόν, ὁ δὲ κατὰ τοὔνομα λόγος τῆς οὐσίας ἕτερος, οἷον ζῷον ὅ τε ἄνθρωπος καὶ τὸ γεγραμμένον. Τουτων γὰρ ὄνομα μόνον κοινόν, ὁ δὲ κατὰ τοὔνομα λόγος τῆς οὐσίας ἕτερος· ἄν γάρ τις ἀποδιδῷ τί ἐστιν αὐτῶν ἑκατέρῳ τὸ ζῴῳ εἶναι, ἴδιον ἑκατέρου λόγον ἀποδωσει.
Συνώνυμα δὲ λεγεται ὧ τό τε ὄνομα κοινὸν καὶ ὁ κατὰ τοὔνομα λόγος τῆς οὐσίας ὁ αὐτός, οἷον ζῷον ὁ τε ἄνθρωπος καὶ ὁ βοῦς. ὁ γὰρ ἄνθρωπος καὶ ὁ βοῦς κοινῷ ὀνόματι προσαγορεύεται ζῷον, καὶ ὁ λόγος δὲ τῆς οὐσίας ὁ αὐτός· ἐὰν γὰρ ἀποδιδῷ τις τὸν ἑκατέρου λόγον, τί ἐστιν αὐτῶν ἑκατέρῳ τὸ ζῴῳ εἶναι, τὸν αὐτὸν λόγον ἀποδώσει.
Homonymous are called those things which have only the same name, but which have a different account of their essence [λόγος τῆς οὐσίας] in relation to the name; in such a way ‘animal’ [ζῷον] is used for both a human being and a drawing. For only the name is common to both, while the account of the essence for this name is different. For if someone were to explain what it is for each of them to be an animal, he will give a particular account of each.
Synonymous are called those things which have both the same name and the same account of their essence in relation to the name; in such a way ‘animal is used for both a human and an ox. For man and ox are both called animal with the same name, and the account of their essence is the same. For if someone were to give the account of what it is for each of them to be an animal, he will give the same account.
λόγος τῆς οὐσίας: translated by Ackrill as “definition”; the emphasis, however, is slightly different than that of ὁρισμὸς in the Physica above.
ζῷον: originally meant ‘animal’ or ‘living thing’, but also came to refer to paintings or other artistic representations.
Aristotle’s use of “homonym” and “synonym” is different than the modern one. Ackrill (71) points out that they apply to things, not types of words. I have followed him in translating ὁμώνυμα and συνώνυμα in the passage as though they were adjectives in order to make this relationship clearer.
The distinction Aristotle makes between homonyms and synonyms seems to involve what we would call different word senses. That is, he distinguishes between two instances of a word where it is being used in the same sense (synonymous) and two instances where the sense is different (homonymous). Note that in his description of synonyms he is not saying that ‘human’ and ‘ox’ mean the same thing, but rather that, since both are hyponyms of ‘animal’, the name applies to each of them in the same way (in Aristotle’s terms, by virtue of their being possessed of both a nutritive and a motive/perceptive soul), whereas a drawing is an animal only insofar as it represents, or has the form necessary for, an animal.
For Aristotle, as will be seen in the section from De partis animalibus below, this homonymous (we might say, ‘metaphorical,’ although where non-metaphorical extension of meaning ends and metaphor begins is difficult to say) use of language seems to be inferior; each word has a central meaning which is connected to the physical thing which it describes.
παρώνυμα δὲ λέγεται ὅσα ἀπό τινος διαφέροντα τῇ πτώσει τὴν κατὰ τοὔνομα προσηγορίαν ἔχει, οἷον ἀπὸ τῆς γραμματικῆς ὁ γραμματικὸς καὶ ἀπὸ τῆς ἀνδρείας ὁ ανδρεῖος.
Paronymous are called those things of a sort which have the name they are called by from something else, while differing in their ending; thus, the grammarian from grammar, and the brave man from bravery.
πτωσις: “falling” or “fall”. Usually used in grammar for the cases of a word, but here Aristotle is using it to refer to derivational, not inflectional morphemes.
Unlike the previous terms, “paronym” corresponds fairly closely with modern usage, although once again it probably refers to things rather than words. Ackrill also suggests that “the derivativeness in question is not etymological. Aristotle is not claiming that the word ‘brave’ was invented after the word ‘bravery’. He is claiming rather that ‘brave’ means ‘having bravery’; the brave is so called because of (‘from’) the bravery he has” (72). This interpretation would be consistent with Aristotle’s thought in general and his concern with qualia in particular, as it does not simply register a grammatical fact (we can derive words from other words), but a certain type of relationship between the name and the characteristics of the thing named. The Greek tends to support this: the use of ἀπό τινος “from something” instead of ἀπὸ ἄλλου ὀνόματος “from another word,” and the examples Aristotle chooses, which both start with the abstract quality from which the noun (for a person) is derived.
References:
Ackrill, J.L. Trans & Commentary. 1963. Aristotle. Categories and De Interpretatione. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Ὁμώνυμα λέγεται ὧν ὄνομα μονον κοινόν, ὁ δὲ κατὰ τοὔνομα λόγος τῆς οὐσίας ἕτερος, οἷον ζῷον ὅ τε ἄνθρωπος καὶ τὸ γεγραμμένον. Τουτων γὰρ ὄνομα μόνον κοινόν, ὁ δὲ κατὰ τοὔνομα λόγος τῆς οὐσίας ἕτερος· ἄν γάρ τις ἀποδιδῷ τί ἐστιν αὐτῶν ἑκατέρῳ τὸ ζῴῳ εἶναι, ἴδιον ἑκατέρου λόγον ἀποδωσει.
Συνώνυμα δὲ λεγεται ὧ τό τε ὄνομα κοινὸν καὶ ὁ κατὰ τοὔνομα λόγος τῆς οὐσίας ὁ αὐτός, οἷον ζῷον ὁ τε ἄνθρωπος καὶ ὁ βοῦς. ὁ γὰρ ἄνθρωπος καὶ ὁ βοῦς κοινῷ ὀνόματι προσαγορεύεται ζῷον, καὶ ὁ λόγος δὲ τῆς οὐσίας ὁ αὐτός· ἐὰν γὰρ ἀποδιδῷ τις τὸν ἑκατέρου λόγον, τί ἐστιν αὐτῶν ἑκατέρῳ τὸ ζῴῳ εἶναι, τὸν αὐτὸν λόγον ἀποδώσει.
Homonymous are called those things which have only the same name, but which have a different account of their essence [λόγος τῆς οὐσίας] in relation to the name; in such a way ‘animal’ [ζῷον] is used for both a human being and a drawing. For only the name is common to both, while the account of the essence for this name is different. For if someone were to explain what it is for each of them to be an animal, he will give a particular account of each.
Synonymous are called those things which have both the same name and the same account of their essence in relation to the name; in such a way ‘animal is used for both a human and an ox. For man and ox are both called animal with the same name, and the account of their essence is the same. For if someone were to give the account of what it is for each of them to be an animal, he will give the same account.
λόγος τῆς οὐσίας: translated by Ackrill as “definition”; the emphasis, however, is slightly different than that of ὁρισμὸς in the Physica above.
ζῷον: originally meant ‘animal’ or ‘living thing’, but also came to refer to paintings or other artistic representations.
Aristotle’s use of “homonym” and “synonym” is different than the modern one. Ackrill (71) points out that they apply to things, not types of words. I have followed him in translating ὁμώνυμα and συνώνυμα in the passage as though they were adjectives in order to make this relationship clearer.
The distinction Aristotle makes between homonyms and synonyms seems to involve what we would call different word senses. That is, he distinguishes between two instances of a word where it is being used in the same sense (synonymous) and two instances where the sense is different (homonymous). Note that in his description of synonyms he is not saying that ‘human’ and ‘ox’ mean the same thing, but rather that, since both are hyponyms of ‘animal’, the name applies to each of them in the same way (in Aristotle’s terms, by virtue of their being possessed of both a nutritive and a motive/perceptive soul), whereas a drawing is an animal only insofar as it represents, or has the form necessary for, an animal.
For Aristotle, as will be seen in the section from De partis animalibus below, this homonymous (we might say, ‘metaphorical,’ although where non-metaphorical extension of meaning ends and metaphor begins is difficult to say) use of language seems to be inferior; each word has a central meaning which is connected to the physical thing which it describes.
παρώνυμα δὲ λέγεται ὅσα ἀπό τινος διαφέροντα τῇ πτώσει τὴν κατὰ τοὔνομα προσηγορίαν ἔχει, οἷον ἀπὸ τῆς γραμματικῆς ὁ γραμματικὸς καὶ ἀπὸ τῆς ἀνδρείας ὁ ανδρεῖος.
Paronymous are called those things of a sort which have the name they are called by from something else, while differing in their ending; thus, the grammarian from grammar, and the brave man from bravery.
πτωσις: “falling” or “fall”. Usually used in grammar for the cases of a word, but here Aristotle is using it to refer to derivational, not inflectional morphemes.
Unlike the previous terms, “paronym” corresponds fairly closely with modern usage, although once again it probably refers to things rather than words. Ackrill also suggests that “the derivativeness in question is not etymological. Aristotle is not claiming that the word ‘brave’ was invented after the word ‘bravery’. He is claiming rather that ‘brave’ means ‘having bravery’; the brave is so called because of (‘from’) the bravery he has” (72). This interpretation would be consistent with Aristotle’s thought in general and his concern with qualia in particular, as it does not simply register a grammatical fact (we can derive words from other words), but a certain type of relationship between the name and the characteristics of the thing named. The Greek tends to support this: the use of ἀπό τινος “from something” instead of ἀπὸ ἄλλου ὀνόματος “from another word,” and the examples Aristotle chooses, which both start with the abstract quality from which the noun (for a person) is derived.
References:
Ackrill, J.L. Trans & Commentary. 1963. Aristotle. Categories and De Interpretatione. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Montag, 31. August 2009
Aristotle & semantics (III)
Been attending lectures to keep myself busy until I leave next month, and I can't seem to get away from Aristotle, even in courses which theoretically have nothing to do with him. So I figure it's a good time to resume my series of reflections on language in Aristotle.
Physica B 3. 194b 16 – 195a 3
Διωρισμένων δὲ τούτων ἐπισκεπτέον περὶ τῶν αἰτίων, ποῖάτε καὶ πόσα τὸν ἀριθμόν ἐστιν. ἐπεὶ γὰρ τοῦ εἰδέναι χάριν ἡ πραγματεία, εἰδέναι δὲ οὐ πρότερον οἰόμεθα ἕκαστον πρὶν ἂν λάβωμεν τὸ διὰ τί περὶ ἕκαστον (τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶ τὸ λαβεῖν τὴν πρώτην αἰτίαν), δῆλον ὅτι καὶ ἡμῖν τοῦτο ποιητέον καὶ περὶ γενέσεως καὶ φθορᾶς καὶ πάσης τῆς φυσικῆς μεταβολῆς, ὅπως εἰδότες αὐτῶν τὰς ἀρχὰς ἀνάγειν εἰς αὐτὰς πειρώμεθα τῶν ζητουμένων ἕκαστον. ἕνα μὲν οὖν τρόπον αἴτιον λέγεται τὸ ἐξ οὗ γίγνεταί τι ἐνυπάρχοντος, οἷον ὁ χαλκὸς τοῦ ἀνδριάντος καὶ ὁ ἄργυρος τῆς φιάλης καὶ τὰ τούτων γένη· ἄλλον δὲ τὸ εἶδος καὶ τὸ παράδειγμα, τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶν ὁ λόγος ὁ τοῦ τί ἦν εἶναι καὶ τὰ τούτου γένη (οἷον τοῦ διὰ πασῶν τὰ δύο πρὸς ἕν, καὶ ὅλως ὁ ἀριθμός) καὶ τὰ μέρη τὰ ἐν τῷ λόγῳ. ἔτι ὅθεν ἡ ἀρχὴ τῆς μεταβολῆς ἡ πρώτη ἢ τῆς ἠρεμήσεως, οἷον ὁ βουλεύσας αἴτιος, καὶ ὁ πατηρ τοῦ τέκνου, καὶ ὅλως τὸ ποιοῦν τοῠ ποιουμένου καὶ τὸ μεταβάλλον τοῦ μεταβαλλομένου. ἔτι ὡς τὸ τέλος· τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶν τὸ οὗ ἕνεκα, οἷον τοῦ περιπατεῖν ἡ ὑγίεια· διὰ τί γὰρ περιπατεῖ; φαμέν «ἵνα ὑγιαίνῃ», καὶ εἰπόντες οὕτως οἰόμεθα ἀποδεδωκέναι τὸ αἴτιον. καὶ ὅσα δὴ κινήσαντος ἄλλου μεταξὺ γίγνεται τοῠ τέλους, οἷον τῆς ὑγιείας ἡ ἰσχνασία ἢ ἡ κάθαρσις ἢ τὰ φάρμακα ἢ τὰ ὄργανα· πάντα γὰρ ταῦτα τοῦ τέλους ἕνεκά ἐστιν, διαφέρει δὲ ἀλλήλων ὡς ὄντα τὰ μὲν ἔργα τὰ δ’ ὄργανα.
Having defined these things, one must give consideration to the αἰτίαι, of what sort and how many there are. For since our investigation is for the sake of knowing, and we do not think we know each thing before we grasp the ‘why’ [διὰ τί] concerning it, which means to grasp the primary αἰτία, it is clear that one must do this for creation and decay and all natural change, so that knowing the principles of these things we may try to refer each thing which we seek to them. [1] In one way the thing out of which something comes to be is said to be responsible [αἴτιον] for it; thus bronze for a statue, and silver for a bowl, and things of that type. [2] In another way the form and the pattern is responsible [αἴτιον]; that is, the account of [a thing] being what it is and things of this type (thus [the αἰτία] of an octave [is] two in relation to one, or number in general) and the parts in the account. [3] Additionally, [an αἰτία is that] from which the first principle of change or stillness [comes]; thus one who advises is responsible [αἴτιος], and the father [is responsible for] the son, and generally, the making for the thing being made and the changer for the thing changed. [4] Further, [an αἰτία is] like an end [τέλος], that is, the thing for the sake of which; thus, health [is an αἰτία] of walking around. For what does he walk? We say, so that he may be healthy, and saying this we think that we have explained its cause [αἴτιον]. And such are all things which, once something else has begun the motion, meanwhile become [something] for the end.
αἴτιον, αἰτία: originally “responsibility, blame, accusation”, related to αἰτέω “to ask, beg”. In the Hellenistic period it also has the meaning of a story explaining the origins of a custom, which is fairly close to how Aristotle uses it here. It governs the genitive.
‘Αἰτία’ has no good English equivalent. The usual translation is “cause”, and the four αἰτίαι Aristotle lists are conventionally known as [1] material cause, [2] formal cause, [3] efficient cause, and [4] final cause. However, this translation is unsatisfactory for a number of reasons which will become clear. While the Latin causa is similar in meaning to the Greek, ‘cause’ in English is much more restricted. It implies an event, or at least an agent which makes something else happen; the only one of Aristotle’s causes which makes sense in this meaning is efficient cause.
“Reason” or “explanation” (if understood as referring to things, not words) would not be inappropriate, but are often required to translate the Greek λόγος. “Things because of which” is closer to Aristotle’s meaning, but awkward. I have translated the adjective as “responsible” where sense permitted; elsewhere I have used the Greek word.
Moravcsik, who points out that Aristotle’s αἰτίαι are typically not events or propositions, but things, argues that this passage should be interpreted as a theory about understanding (what is necessary in order to ‘know’ something), and that the translation “cause” is therefore highly misleading. Instead, Moravcsik argues, the αἰτίαι should be called “generative factors,” meaning that they account for something being the type of thing it is: “for x to be an aitia of y is for x to be in a relation to y such that the grasp of that relation enables one to understand some important aspect of y” (624). The theory suggests that, although the specific account of each individual thing differs, it is possible to consistently identify certain types of relationships – Moravcsik’s phrase is “configurations in reality” – which explain what a thing is.
Pustejovsky, influenced by Moravcsik’s ideas, incorporated Aristotle’s αἰτίαι into a theory of lexical semantics. His Generative Lexicon involves representing words according to several categories which describe both combination rules and meaning components. One of them, Qualia Structure, which describes the properties of a lexical item, is taken from Aristotle and broken down into categories which correspond with the four αἰτίαι: constitutive, formal, telic, and agentive (Saeed 281). The approach is heavily computational, concerned primarily with identifying sets of elements which would allow us to construct the meaning of any sentence.
It seems to me, however, that the αἰτίαι, as an analytic system which differs significantly from modern logic, potentially have other applications in semantics. When we use words to describe a thing, we pick out certain aspects of a thing which we wish to emphasize; when asked who someone is, for example, we may reply “Polyclitus” or “my neighbor” or “the sculptor” depending on the situation. What the αἰτίαι offer is a way of examining which elements are being picked out and what type of information they are being used to convey.
Additionally, αἰτίαι seem to play a role in how we are able to use words in extended senses. Although Moravcsik suggests that the relationships described by αἰτίαι are ontological, not linguistic, there seems to be some awareness of these relationships in the ways we use language. In particular, the αἰτίαι seem to be relevant to the problem of polysemy, as Pustejovsky recognizes but perhaps does not take far enough, as he does not seem to have investigated how different uses of words relate to their αἰτίαι structure. Are certain αἰτίαι present when we talk about Athena the goddess that are different when we talk about a statue of her?
References:
Moravcsik, J. M. 1975: Aitia as Generative Factor in Aristotle's Philosophy. Dialogue 14, 622-36.
Pustejovsky, James. 1995: The Generative Lexicon. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Physica B 3. 194b 16 – 195a 3
Διωρισμένων δὲ τούτων ἐπισκεπτέον περὶ τῶν αἰτίων, ποῖάτε καὶ πόσα τὸν ἀριθμόν ἐστιν. ἐπεὶ γὰρ τοῦ εἰδέναι χάριν ἡ πραγματεία, εἰδέναι δὲ οὐ πρότερον οἰόμεθα ἕκαστον πρὶν ἂν λάβωμεν τὸ διὰ τί περὶ ἕκαστον (τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶ τὸ λαβεῖν τὴν πρώτην αἰτίαν), δῆλον ὅτι καὶ ἡμῖν τοῦτο ποιητέον καὶ περὶ γενέσεως καὶ φθορᾶς καὶ πάσης τῆς φυσικῆς μεταβολῆς, ὅπως εἰδότες αὐτῶν τὰς ἀρχὰς ἀνάγειν εἰς αὐτὰς πειρώμεθα τῶν ζητουμένων ἕκαστον. ἕνα μὲν οὖν τρόπον αἴτιον λέγεται τὸ ἐξ οὗ γίγνεταί τι ἐνυπάρχοντος, οἷον ὁ χαλκὸς τοῦ ἀνδριάντος καὶ ὁ ἄργυρος τῆς φιάλης καὶ τὰ τούτων γένη· ἄλλον δὲ τὸ εἶδος καὶ τὸ παράδειγμα, τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶν ὁ λόγος ὁ τοῦ τί ἦν εἶναι καὶ τὰ τούτου γένη (οἷον τοῦ διὰ πασῶν τὰ δύο πρὸς ἕν, καὶ ὅλως ὁ ἀριθμός) καὶ τὰ μέρη τὰ ἐν τῷ λόγῳ. ἔτι ὅθεν ἡ ἀρχὴ τῆς μεταβολῆς ἡ πρώτη ἢ τῆς ἠρεμήσεως, οἷον ὁ βουλεύσας αἴτιος, καὶ ὁ πατηρ τοῦ τέκνου, καὶ ὅλως τὸ ποιοῦν τοῠ ποιουμένου καὶ τὸ μεταβάλλον τοῦ μεταβαλλομένου. ἔτι ὡς τὸ τέλος· τοῦτο δ’ ἐστὶν τὸ οὗ ἕνεκα, οἷον τοῦ περιπατεῖν ἡ ὑγίεια· διὰ τί γὰρ περιπατεῖ; φαμέν «ἵνα ὑγιαίνῃ», καὶ εἰπόντες οὕτως οἰόμεθα ἀποδεδωκέναι τὸ αἴτιον. καὶ ὅσα δὴ κινήσαντος ἄλλου μεταξὺ γίγνεται τοῠ τέλους, οἷον τῆς ὑγιείας ἡ ἰσχνασία ἢ ἡ κάθαρσις ἢ τὰ φάρμακα ἢ τὰ ὄργανα· πάντα γὰρ ταῦτα τοῦ τέλους ἕνεκά ἐστιν, διαφέρει δὲ ἀλλήλων ὡς ὄντα τὰ μὲν ἔργα τὰ δ’ ὄργανα.
Having defined these things, one must give consideration to the αἰτίαι, of what sort and how many there are. For since our investigation is for the sake of knowing, and we do not think we know each thing before we grasp the ‘why’ [διὰ τί] concerning it, which means to grasp the primary αἰτία, it is clear that one must do this for creation and decay and all natural change, so that knowing the principles of these things we may try to refer each thing which we seek to them. [1] In one way the thing out of which something comes to be is said to be responsible [αἴτιον] for it; thus bronze for a statue, and silver for a bowl, and things of that type. [2] In another way the form and the pattern is responsible [αἴτιον]; that is, the account of [a thing] being what it is and things of this type (thus [the αἰτία] of an octave [is] two in relation to one, or number in general) and the parts in the account. [3] Additionally, [an αἰτία is that] from which the first principle of change or stillness [comes]; thus one who advises is responsible [αἴτιος], and the father [is responsible for] the son, and generally, the making for the thing being made and the changer for the thing changed. [4] Further, [an αἰτία is] like an end [τέλος], that is, the thing for the sake of which; thus, health [is an αἰτία] of walking around. For what does he walk? We say, so that he may be healthy, and saying this we think that we have explained its cause [αἴτιον]. And such are all things which, once something else has begun the motion, meanwhile become [something] for the end.
αἴτιον, αἰτία: originally “responsibility, blame, accusation”, related to αἰτέω “to ask, beg”. In the Hellenistic period it also has the meaning of a story explaining the origins of a custom, which is fairly close to how Aristotle uses it here. It governs the genitive.
‘Αἰτία’ has no good English equivalent. The usual translation is “cause”, and the four αἰτίαι Aristotle lists are conventionally known as [1] material cause, [2] formal cause, [3] efficient cause, and [4] final cause. However, this translation is unsatisfactory for a number of reasons which will become clear. While the Latin causa is similar in meaning to the Greek, ‘cause’ in English is much more restricted. It implies an event, or at least an agent which makes something else happen; the only one of Aristotle’s causes which makes sense in this meaning is efficient cause.
“Reason” or “explanation” (if understood as referring to things, not words) would not be inappropriate, but are often required to translate the Greek λόγος. “Things because of which” is closer to Aristotle’s meaning, but awkward. I have translated the adjective as “responsible” where sense permitted; elsewhere I have used the Greek word.
Moravcsik, who points out that Aristotle’s αἰτίαι are typically not events or propositions, but things, argues that this passage should be interpreted as a theory about understanding (what is necessary in order to ‘know’ something), and that the translation “cause” is therefore highly misleading. Instead, Moravcsik argues, the αἰτίαι should be called “generative factors,” meaning that they account for something being the type of thing it is: “for x to be an aitia of y is for x to be in a relation to y such that the grasp of that relation enables one to understand some important aspect of y” (624). The theory suggests that, although the specific account of each individual thing differs, it is possible to consistently identify certain types of relationships – Moravcsik’s phrase is “configurations in reality” – which explain what a thing is.
Pustejovsky, influenced by Moravcsik’s ideas, incorporated Aristotle’s αἰτίαι into a theory of lexical semantics. His Generative Lexicon involves representing words according to several categories which describe both combination rules and meaning components. One of them, Qualia Structure, which describes the properties of a lexical item, is taken from Aristotle and broken down into categories which correspond with the four αἰτίαι: constitutive, formal, telic, and agentive (Saeed 281). The approach is heavily computational, concerned primarily with identifying sets of elements which would allow us to construct the meaning of any sentence.
It seems to me, however, that the αἰτίαι, as an analytic system which differs significantly from modern logic, potentially have other applications in semantics. When we use words to describe a thing, we pick out certain aspects of a thing which we wish to emphasize; when asked who someone is, for example, we may reply “Polyclitus” or “my neighbor” or “the sculptor” depending on the situation. What the αἰτίαι offer is a way of examining which elements are being picked out and what type of information they are being used to convey.
Additionally, αἰτίαι seem to play a role in how we are able to use words in extended senses. Although Moravcsik suggests that the relationships described by αἰτίαι are ontological, not linguistic, there seems to be some awareness of these relationships in the ways we use language. In particular, the αἰτίαι seem to be relevant to the problem of polysemy, as Pustejovsky recognizes but perhaps does not take far enough, as he does not seem to have investigated how different uses of words relate to their αἰτίαι structure. Are certain αἰτίαι present when we talk about Athena the goddess that are different when we talk about a statue of her?
References:
Moravcsik, J. M. 1975: Aitia as Generative Factor in Aristotle's Philosophy. Dialogue 14, 622-36.
Pustejovsky, James. 1995: The Generative Lexicon. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Montag, 8. Juni 2009
Aristotle & semantics (II)
Categoriae 5. 2b 37 – 3a 6
ἔτι αἱ πρῶται οὐσίαι διὰ τὸ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἅπασιν ὑποκεῖσθαι κυριωτατα οὐσίαι λέγονται. ὡς δέ γε αἱ πρῶται οὐσίαι πρὸς τὰ ἄλλα πάντα ἔχουσιν, οὕτω τὰ εἴδη καὶ τὰ γένη τῶν πρώτων οὐσιῶν πρὸς τὰ λοιπὰ πάντα ἔχει· κατὰ τούτων γὰρ πάντα τὰ λοιπὰ κατηγορεῖται. τὸν γάρ τινα ἄνθρωπον ἐρεῖς γραμματικόν· οὐκοῦν καὶ ἄνθρωπον καὶ ζῷον γραμματικὸν ἐρεῖς, ὡσαύτως δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλων.
Further, primary essences are said to be essence most properly through their underlying all other things. And as primary essences are towards the others, thus the kind [eidos] and the type [genos] are towards the remaining things. For against these all the remaining are alleged. Say you call a certain man grammatical: accordingly, you are calling both a man and an animal grammatical.
οὐσία: literally ‘being’. A technical term in Aristotle, often translated (for reasons I have never understood) as ‘substance’. I have used ‘essence’ here to avoid the implications of something material, since it refers to properties as much as to things.
What is interesting about Aristotle's choice of examples is that while the statement 'a [particular] animal is grammatical' is true in terms of both biology and logic, semantically it is odd. ‘Grammatical’ is not usually a word which is relevant in relation to ‘animal.’
Lexical relations do not work quite the same way as logic. There are a couple of ways this can be understood. One is that words can be classed into hierarchical (subordinate/hyponymic or superordinate/hypernymic) relations with each other. Aristotle's observation here, that the more specific term includes the meaning of the more general one (known as ‘transitivity’), is essentially correct. However, hyponymy works from the top downwards. That is, characteristics which apply to a higher part of the tree also apply to lower ones, but not necessarily in the reverse order, since lower members of the tree acquire further defining characteristics. As a result, there are certain restrictions about what words can be predicated to a particular concept.
Another way we can understand the oddness of this collocation (at least for the modern reader) is to look at binary features. One major semantic distinction we make is between human/nonhuman. 'Animal' is marked [-HUMAN], while one of the implications of the adjective 'grammatical' is 'able to use language', and this is ordinarily limited to humans. Because we tend to conceptualize the world in such a way that humans are separate from the rest of the animal kingdom, there is a clash in meaning; the components of the two words contradict each other. The question to ask at this point is: Would this also have been true for the ancient Greek, or did their understanding of ζῷον include humans as well?
ἔτι αἱ πρῶται οὐσίαι διὰ τὸ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἅπασιν ὑποκεῖσθαι κυριωτατα οὐσίαι λέγονται. ὡς δέ γε αἱ πρῶται οὐσίαι πρὸς τὰ ἄλλα πάντα ἔχουσιν, οὕτω τὰ εἴδη καὶ τὰ γένη τῶν πρώτων οὐσιῶν πρὸς τὰ λοιπὰ πάντα ἔχει· κατὰ τούτων γὰρ πάντα τὰ λοιπὰ κατηγορεῖται. τὸν γάρ τινα ἄνθρωπον ἐρεῖς γραμματικόν· οὐκοῦν καὶ ἄνθρωπον καὶ ζῷον γραμματικὸν ἐρεῖς, ὡσαύτως δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλων.
Further, primary essences are said to be essence most properly through their underlying all other things. And as primary essences are towards the others, thus the kind [eidos] and the type [genos] are towards the remaining things. For against these all the remaining are alleged. Say you call a certain man grammatical: accordingly, you are calling both a man and an animal grammatical.
οὐσία: literally ‘being’. A technical term in Aristotle, often translated (for reasons I have never understood) as ‘substance’. I have used ‘essence’ here to avoid the implications of something material, since it refers to properties as much as to things.
What is interesting about Aristotle's choice of examples is that while the statement 'a [particular] animal is grammatical' is true in terms of both biology and logic, semantically it is odd. ‘Grammatical’ is not usually a word which is relevant in relation to ‘animal.’
Lexical relations do not work quite the same way as logic. There are a couple of ways this can be understood. One is that words can be classed into hierarchical (subordinate/hyponymic or superordinate/hypernymic) relations with each other. Aristotle's observation here, that the more specific term includes the meaning of the more general one (known as ‘transitivity’), is essentially correct. However, hyponymy works from the top downwards. That is, characteristics which apply to a higher part of the tree also apply to lower ones, but not necessarily in the reverse order, since lower members of the tree acquire further defining characteristics. As a result, there are certain restrictions about what words can be predicated to a particular concept.
Another way we can understand the oddness of this collocation (at least for the modern reader) is to look at binary features. One major semantic distinction we make is between human/nonhuman. 'Animal' is marked [-HUMAN], while one of the implications of the adjective 'grammatical' is 'able to use language', and this is ordinarily limited to humans. Because we tend to conceptualize the world in such a way that humans are separate from the rest of the animal kingdom, there is a clash in meaning; the components of the two words contradict each other. The question to ask at this point is: Would this also have been true for the ancient Greek, or did their understanding of ζῷον include humans as well?
Samstag, 6. Juni 2009
Aristotle & semantics (I)
I did a project a several semesters ago on Aristotle in the form of a translation + commentary on some of his writings on language (looking at, among other things, his discussion of aitia, which was later used by Pustejovsky in his theory of lexical semantics). It's not argued entirely in an academic mode (since I am an expert neither on Aristotle nor on semantics), and some of the sections are frankly quite speculative, but I had fun with it and it helped me understand Aristotle, so here goes (hoping that there are not too many scribal errors from typing out the Greek).
Physica A 1. 184a 25 – 184b 14
ὁ γάρ ὅλον κατὰ τὴν αἴσθησιν γνωριμώτερον, τὸ δὲ καθόλου ὅλον τί εστί· πολλὰ γὰρ περιλαμβάνει ὡς μέρη τὸ καθόλου. πέπονθε δὲ ταὐτὸ τοῦτο τρόπον τινὰ καὶ τὰ ὀνόματα πρὸς τὸν λόγον· ὅλον γάρ τι καὶ ἀδιορίστως σημαίνει, οἷον ὁ κύκλος, ὁ δὲ ὁρισμὸς αὐτοῦ διαιρεῖ εἰς τὰ καθ’ ἕκαστα. καὶ τὰ παιδία τὸ μὲν πρῶτον προσαγορεύει πάντας τοὺς ἄνδρας πατέρας καὶ μητέρας τὰς γυναῖκας, ὕστερον δὲ διορίζει τούτων ἑκάτερον.For the whole according to perception is better known, and the thing which is generally is a kind of whole: for it encompasses many things as parts. Names, also, are in the same sort of state in reference to their explanations, for [a word] such as ‘circle’ signifies a whole, although unclearly [ἀδιορίστως], but the definition [ὁρισμὸς] of the same distinguishes it according to each [of its parts]. And so children at first address all men as ‘father’ and all women as ‘mother’, and only later do they make distinctions [διορίζει] between different people.ὁρισμὸς: literally a “marking off with boundaries” (from ὅρος, ‘boundary’), roughly equivalent to our Latinate word “definition” (de- + finis).Over- or underextension of concepts is a typical phase in children’s linguistic development. That Aristotle chooses this as an example here is somewhat startling, not so much because of the accuracy of the observation (although that is part of it: it vividly brings to life the ancient world), but because he mentions a profoundly important linguistic fact in an almost offhand way, apparently without realizing its significance. For Aristotle it is a useful analogy for the hermeneutical process he lays out in this section; for a linguist or psychologist, however, it is a demonstration of how the mind processes language which raises serious questions: what are words? Are they concepts? And if words are concepts, why are we able to use them even if we have little idea of what the word means? That is, a child and a biologist can both use the word ‘elephant’ and feel that they’re talking about the same thing, even though the biologist’s knowledge about what makes something an elephant is significantly more detailed than the child’s. Aristotle largely passes over this problem in his writing, although he touches on it in the Posterior Analytics.
While much of what Aristotle writes is interesting in terms of linguistics, it is important to recognize that he is primarily a natural scientist; he is concerned first of all with things, and only secondarily with words. He is interested not so much in how words mean or in the way we actually use them, but in using them to develop a logical language to talk about the world. Therefore, his perspective, even when he is making observations on language, is different than that of a linguist and it is important not to confuse this. However, because he is interested in classification, that is, with defining relationships, many of his ideas about the natural world are also potentially applicable to examining how languages work.
Physica A 1. 184a 25 – 184b 14
ὁ γάρ ὅλον κατὰ τὴν αἴσθησιν γνωριμώτερον, τὸ δὲ καθόλου ὅλον τί εστί· πολλὰ γὰρ περιλαμβάνει ὡς μέρη τὸ καθόλου. πέπονθε δὲ ταὐτὸ τοῦτο τρόπον τινὰ καὶ τὰ ὀνόματα πρὸς τὸν λόγον· ὅλον γάρ τι καὶ ἀδιορίστως σημαίνει, οἷον ὁ κύκλος, ὁ δὲ ὁρισμὸς αὐτοῦ διαιρεῖ εἰς τὰ καθ’ ἕκαστα. καὶ τὰ παιδία τὸ μὲν πρῶτον προσαγορεύει πάντας τοὺς ἄνδρας πατέρας καὶ μητέρας τὰς γυναῖκας, ὕστερον δὲ διορίζει τούτων ἑκάτερον.For the whole according to perception is better known, and the thing which is generally is a kind of whole: for it encompasses many things as parts. Names, also, are in the same sort of state in reference to their explanations, for [a word] such as ‘circle’ signifies a whole, although unclearly [ἀδιορίστως], but the definition [ὁρισμὸς] of the same distinguishes it according to each [of its parts]. And so children at first address all men as ‘father’ and all women as ‘mother’, and only later do they make distinctions [διορίζει] between different people.ὁρισμὸς: literally a “marking off with boundaries” (from ὅρος, ‘boundary’), roughly equivalent to our Latinate word “definition” (de- + finis).Over- or underextension of concepts is a typical phase in children’s linguistic development. That Aristotle chooses this as an example here is somewhat startling, not so much because of the accuracy of the observation (although that is part of it: it vividly brings to life the ancient world), but because he mentions a profoundly important linguistic fact in an almost offhand way, apparently without realizing its significance. For Aristotle it is a useful analogy for the hermeneutical process he lays out in this section; for a linguist or psychologist, however, it is a demonstration of how the mind processes language which raises serious questions: what are words? Are they concepts? And if words are concepts, why are we able to use them even if we have little idea of what the word means? That is, a child and a biologist can both use the word ‘elephant’ and feel that they’re talking about the same thing, even though the biologist’s knowledge about what makes something an elephant is significantly more detailed than the child’s. Aristotle largely passes over this problem in his writing, although he touches on it in the Posterior Analytics.
While much of what Aristotle writes is interesting in terms of linguistics, it is important to recognize that he is primarily a natural scientist; he is concerned first of all with things, and only secondarily with words. He is interested not so much in how words mean or in the way we actually use them, but in using them to develop a logical language to talk about the world. Therefore, his perspective, even when he is making observations on language, is different than that of a linguist and it is important not to confuse this. However, because he is interested in classification, that is, with defining relationships, many of his ideas about the natural world are also potentially applicable to examining how languages work.
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