Showing posts with label linguistics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label linguistics. Show all posts
Saturday, 16 July 2016
Sunday, 26 June 2016
The Misconstruction of Construction
Posted by Christian SötemannMore than one philosophical theory has been suggested as a way to construe the world primarily as a construction accomplished by human mental faculties – rather than as mere passive depiction of the objective state of the world.Such approaches (most overtly in what is called ‘constructivism’) suggest that what we seem to perceive as characteristics of the external world are essentially the results of a hidden process of internal construction. It seems to me that there are at least two possible misunderstandings of this particular mindset: firstly, that the mental construction process occurred out of thin air, and secondly, that in a constructed world, there are no criteria to distinguish fact from fiction.
To maintain that there can be only mental construction and nothing else would seem to imply human beings construct the experienced world from scratch. However, this quickly turns out to be a far from unassailable view. For a start, it appears to be impossible to construct a world of experience out of nothing at all. A putative building block devoid of any characteristics, of any potential or impact whatsoever is an empty conception and cannot lead to the emergence of something that exhibits certain qualities.
Elements of construction that are nothing are no elements of construction. If you combine nothing with nothing you will still end up with nothing.
There has to be something that can be processed and modified, some material that is used for the construction process; though this is not sufficient evidence for the existence of matter itself, which cannot automatically be extrapolated from the necessity of the existence of some sort of material for the process of mental construction.
What is more is that the process of construction is something in itself. An event has to occur in some way so that construction can take place. The something that provides the material for construction and the something that induces the construction process cannot emerge out of that very process they are supposed to enable in the first place. Therefore it is – by way of a placeholder – ‘a something’ that must be considered beyond construction.
Similarly, it always seems to be necessary to add ‘a somebody’ - some sort of person or centre of mental activity - to accomplish the construction, since without such a carrier, there could not be any cohesive mental process. If single acts of mental construction occurred incoherently here and there, it would merely mean occasional mental flickering and not have the connectedness that an experienced world evidently has, with its continuity in space and time. This does, on the other hand, not necessarily suggest the notion of a corporeal human being as carrier of mental construction: even our perceived body might dogmatically be regarded as a construct of experience and cognition itself.
Moving over to the second possible misunderstanding, just because the experienced world can be conceived as largely a result of construction processes of the mind, it does not mean that there were no difference between mere opinion and well-researched facts and were I to claim that I was able to construct the world in any way I want it to be would be to run the risk of self-delusion.
So what do constructivist authors (such as the American professor Ernst von Glasersfeld) suggest as means of differentiation instead? Put bluntly: some things work, others do not. I experience obstacles that point out to me that certain attempts to construct and construe a reality do not work. Consider these simple examples from the world of concrete objects, like that evergreen case of the table, beloved for philosophers from Plato to Bertrand Russell:
Imagine a person from a culture that does not utilise tables at all. Exposed to a table standing in a garden, this person might conclude that this unknown object is a device to provide shelter from the rain. Is this viable? It surely is: I can sit down under the table in case of rain and hence be kept from getting wet. This may not be the original intention of our table-utilising culture, but it can be done that way. What cannot be done, for instance, is that I regard the table standing in the garden as some projected image that I can simply walk through if so inclined. I experience that this does not work. I will find that the table standing there hinders me from just walking through it.
Similarly, a plate could be used as a paperweight, a shield, or a percussive instrument, but not a beverage or a pen: I cannot make it a liquid for me to drink or have it emit ink. So, from a mindset that emphasises the aspect of mental construction, several alternatives are found to be viable – even if possibly inconvenient and not the best of alternatives – but others are not viable at all. There is a limit to the alternative usages and interpretations available. I may not be able to know the outside world beyond my experience, but in that very experience I can find out what this outside world allows me not to do. This acknowledgement of obstacles necessarily means that I have to relinquish the idea of living in a world I can equip in any way I want to.
There are plenty of utterly legitimate criticisms concerning philosophical stances emphasising construction (and not only constructivism itself), but the more useful step is to undertake a clarification of some of the typical misunderstandings. This can transform disagreement resting on disbelief and gut feelings into informed criticism.
Christian H. Sötemann has degrees in psychology and philosophy, and works in psychological counselling and as a lecturer in Berlin, Germany. He can be contacted via: chsoetemann@googlemail.com
Saturday, 9 January 2016
The Bridging Inference
A Pi Special Investigation into the workings of language
Posted by Thomas Scarborough
Posted by Thomas Scarborough
The way that one typically defines a word is with the most economical statement of its descriptive meaning. Therefore the Oxford English Dictionary defines a 'dog' as 'a domesticated, carnivorous mammal'. |
However, not every linguist would agree that this is how one should go about definition. Wilhelm Kamlah and Paul Lorenzen took a suspicious view of this notion—considering that such definition is necessary but inadequate 1. It is, they suggested, 'a mere abbreviation'. A true definition of a word would require so much more.
But so it is: In terms of classical linguistics, in order to define a word, one enumerates its 'necessary and sufficient features' 2. Such definition may also be referred to as the denotative meaning of a word, or its 'hard core of meaning'—as opposed to its 'meanings around the edges', or its connotative meaning 3.
How is a definition defined?
In probing the answer to the question here, the linguistic feature the anaphora provides a useful starting point. The anaphora, in turn, is related to a lesser-known linguistic feature, the bridging inference. This promises to be more useful still.
But first, the anaphora.
The Anaphora
The anaphora, according to linguists Simon Botley and Tony McEnery, is particularly useful in telling us 'some things about how language is understood and processed' 4. That is, it opens windows into the inner workings of our language, which would normally seem closed to us.
The anaphora is called a referring expression—for the reason that it refers to another linguistic element in a text. Typically, it refers back. An example: 'Aristotle owned a house. He lived in it.' Here, 'He' refers back to Aristotle, while 'it' refers back to his house. Both 'He' and 'it', therefore, are anaphoras.
A fact less emphasised is that the meaning of the anaphora must match the meaning of the linguistic element which it refers to—otherwise an anaphora is 'unresolved'. For example: 'Aristotle owned a house. It popped,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It chased rabbits.' In these two examples, the meaning of the anaphora and the meaning of the referent do not coincide—as they ought to.
This deserves special emphasis: the anaphora refers to a linguistic element which is well defined, on the surface of it reflecting its denotative meaning.
So a house is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as 'a building used for human habitation,' or (Collins) 'a building used as a home,' or (Macmillan) 'a building for living in'. Thus the anaphora 'it', above, takes on the definition of a house—or so it would seem.
Thus far with the anaphora.
The Bridging Inference
Closely related to the anaphora is the lesser known referring expression the bridging inference. Like the anaphora, this typically refers back.
Here follows an example of a bridging inference: 'Aristotle owned a house. The plumbing was blocked.' At first glance, this might seem identical to the anaphora—yet it is quite different.
While no one should have a problem understanding these two sentences, the house is now no longer in explicit focus 5. Or to put it another way: one typically recognises a bridging inference by the fact that one cannot replace it with a pronoun. One cannot say, for instance: 'Aristotle owned a house. It was blocked.'
In the above example, the inference is that a house contains plumbing. However, there is something apparently inexplicable that meets us here. No definition of a house includes plumbing. The bridging inference assumes that when one speaks about a house, one knows something that one should not know, or does not need to know.
In fact, we intuitively relate many things to a house: 'Aristotle owned a house. The karma was bad,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The ceilings were sagging,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The valuation was too low.' In all of these examples and more, a house is intuitively understood to have karma, ceilings, value, and so on. To put it simply, all of these sentences work—in spite of having nothing to do with the definition of a house, as one finds it in the dictionary.
This is important. If something has nothing to do with the definition of a house, yet is intuitively understood to be a part of what it is, then we have a problem with the common notion of a definition.
The ease with which one uses inferences is all the more appreciated when incompatible inferences are made: 'Aristotle owned a house. The crank shaft was broken,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The preservative was vinegar.' One sees here, all the more clearly, how inferences are dependent on the meaning of the referent.
We return now to the anaphora.
The Anaphora Again
On the surface of it, the anaphora would seem to refer to the stock standard definition of a word—namely, its 'necessary and sufficient features'—while the bridging inference would seem to stray into 'meanings around the edges'. That is to say, on the surface of it the anaphora has more to do with the denotative meaning of a word, while the bridging inference has more to do with its connotative meaning.
Yet does this hold true?
If it does not, then there may be many more inferences in our language than we have supposed. Or to put it another way: the features of our definitions of words may not be as 'necessary' or 'sufficient' as they seem.
By way of experiment, consider what happens when one converts some of the bridging inferences above to anaphoras: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had bad karma,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had sagging ceilings.'
At first glance, there may seem to be no inferences here: the anaphora 'It' would seem, in each case, to refer back to the house. However, it becomes clear that one is dealing with inferences as soon as one tries some false ones. For example: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had a broken crank shaft,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It was preserved with vinegar.'
What we see here is that the anaphora has to be compatible with various inferences which relate to a house. It is a precondition for the anaphora to work.
In fact we might go so far as to say that the English language depends on innumerable inferences. Both the bridging inference and the anaphora reveal that we make inferences which exceed the definition of a word—and with that, 'play old Harry' with the notion of the denotative meaning of the word.
'Every utterance, no matter how laboured,' said philosopher and linguist Max Black, 'trails clouds of implication' 6.
For what reason, then, might the bridging inference and the anaphora instantly be understood—where they have nothing to do with the definition of a thing?
Here follow some broad suggestions:
The Definition of a Definition
An answer to the puzzle may lie in what we have already seen, although it might seem alien to our analytical thinking today:
If there is any apparent relation between two things—between a house, say, and the plumbing—or between a house and its karma—then these will inevitably have something to do with each other's definition. If there is no apparent relation—between a house and a crank shaft, say, or a house and its preservative—then these will have nothing to do with each other's definition.
This has an important corollary.
It has to mean that the definitions of words are relational, not analytic: definitions are not first about features, they are about relations—and there may be a great many relations.
In fact it was Aristotle who first suggested that definitions are not features 'piled in a heap', but that they are 'disposed in a certain way' 7. That is, their features stand in a certain relationship with one another—as many as these may be.
Now if linguistics is a descriptive endeavour, not prescriptive—if it is about 'how people actually speak or write' 8—then what shall we do with the customary definition of a definition?
If definitions are relational, not analytic—then it may be suggested, on the basis of the way that we use words today, that the (post)modern era has gone vastly astray. Is it not our dissection of reality—rather than our being able to see its relatedness—that has led to environmental degradation, social disintegration, and a host of other ills?
The analytical view of the world should be compensated by a relational one. This may begin with the way that we see language. Or to put it another way: the way that we see language today may shape the entire society in which we live.
Matters arising - and some notes
The Question
Let us pause, to pose the question(s):
- What is a definition—in light of the bridging inference in particular?
- What is it that denotation denotes?
- And if a word is to be seen in relational terms, then how does one define it?
Citation
This post was written by Thomas Scarborough for PI Alpha, February 2014.
- 1 Wilhelm Kamlah and Paul Lorenzen. Logical Propaedeutic, p. 65, 1984.
- 2 John Taylor. Linguistic Categorization, p. 23, 1995.
- 3 James Hurford and Brendan Heasley. Semantics, p. 90, 1990.
- 4 Simon Botley and Tony McEnery. Corpus-Based and Computational Approaches to Discourse Anaphora, p. 3, 2000.
- 5 Alan Garnham. Psycholingusitics, p. 156, 1985.
- 6 Max Black. The Labyrinth of Language, p. 137, 1968.
- 7 Aristotle. The Metaphysics, Book VII, 11.
- 8 David Crystal. Linguistics, p. 595, 1999.
The Bridging Inference
A Pi Special Investigation into the workings of language
The way that one typically defines a word is with the most economical statement of its descriptive meaning. Therefore the Oxford English Dictionary defines a 'dog' as 'a domesticated, carnivorous mammal'.
However, not every linguist would agree that this is how one should go about definition. Wilhelm Kamlah and Paul Lorenzen took a suspicious view of this notion—considering that such definition is necessary but inadequate 1. It is, they suggested, 'a mere abbreviation'. A true definition of a word would require so much more.
But so it is: In terms of classical linguistics, in order to define a word, one enumerates its 'necessary and sufficient features' 2. Such definition may also be referred to as the denotative meaning of a word, or its 'hard core of meaning'—as opposed to its 'meanings around the edges', or its connotative meaning 3.
How is a definition defined?
In probing the answer to the question here, the linguistic feature the anaphora provides a useful starting point. The anaphora, in turn, is related to a lesser-known linguistic feature, the bridging inference. This promises to be more useful still.
But first, the anaphora.
The Anaphora
The anaphora, according to linguists Simon Botley and Tony McEnery, is particularly useful in telling us 'some things about how language is understood and processed' 4. That is, it opens windows into the inner workings of our language, which would normally seem closed to us.
The anaphora is called a referring expression—for the reason that it refers to another linguistic element in a text. Typically, it refers back. An example: 'Aristotle owned a house. He lived in it.' Here, 'He' refers back to Aristotle, while 'it' refers back to his house. Both 'He' and 'it', therefore, are anaphoras.
A fact less emphasised is that the meaning of the anaphora must match the meaning of the linguistic element which it refers to—otherwise an anaphora is 'unresolved'. For example: 'Aristotle owned a house. It popped,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It chased rabbits.' In these two examples, the meaning of the anaphora and the meaning of the referent do not coincide—as they ought to.
This deserves special emphasis: the anaphora refers to a linguistic element which is well defined, on the surface of it reflecting its denotative meaning.
So a house is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as 'a building used for human habitation,' or (Collins) 'a building used as a home,' or (Macmillan) 'a building for living in'. Thus the anaphora 'it', above, takes on the definition of a house—or so it would seem.
Thus far with the anaphora.
The Bridging Inference
Closely related to the anaphora is the lesser known referring expression the bridging inference. Like the anaphora, this typically refers back.
Here follows an example of a bridging inference: 'Aristotle owned a house. The plumbing was blocked.' At first glance, this might seem identical to the anaphora—yet it is quite different.
While no one should have a problem understanding these two sentences, the house is now no longer in explicit focus 5. Or to put it another way: one typically recognises a bridging inference by the fact that one cannot replace it with a pronoun. One cannot say, for instance: 'Aristotle owned a house. It was blocked.'
In the above example, the inference is that a house contains plumbing. However, there is something apparently inexplicable that meets us here. No definition of a house includes plumbing. The bridging inference assumes that when one speaks about a house, one knows something that one should not know, or does not need to know.
In fact, we intuitively relate many things to a house: 'Aristotle owned a house. The karma was bad,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The ceilings were sagging,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The valuation was too low.' In all of these examples and more, a house is intuitively understood to have karma, ceilings, value, and so on. To put it simply, all of these sentences work—in spite of having nothing to do with the definition of a house, as one finds it in the dictionary.
This is important. If something has nothing to do with the definition of a house, yet is intuitively understood to be a part of what it is, then we have a problem with the common notion of a definition.
The ease with which one uses inferences is all the more appreciated when incompatible inferences are made: 'Aristotle owned a house. The crank shaft was broken,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The preservative was vinegar.' One sees here, all the more clearly, how inferences are dependent on the meaning of the referent.
We return now to the anaphora.
The Anaphora Again
On the surface of it, the anaphora would seem to refer to the stock standard definition of a word—namely, its 'necessary and sufficient features'—while the bridging inference would seem to stray into 'meanings around the edges'. That is to say, on the surface of it the anaphora has more to do with the denotative meaning of a word, while the bridging inference has more to do with its connotative meaning.
Yet does this hold true?
If it does not, then there may be many more inferences in our language than we have supposed. Or to put it another way: the features of our definitions of words may not be as 'necessary' or 'sufficient' as they seem.
By way of experiment, consider what happens when one converts some of the bridging inferences above to anaphoras: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had bad karma,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had sagging ceilings.'
At first glance, there may seem to be no inferences here: the anaphora 'It' would seem, in each case, to refer back to the house. However, it becomes clear that one is dealing with inferences as soon as one tries some false ones. For example: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had a broken crank shaft,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It was preserved with vinegar.'
What we see here is that the anaphora has to be compatible with various inferences which relate to a house. It is a precondition for the anaphora to work.
In fact we might go so far as to say that the English language depends on innumerable inferences. Both the bridging inference and the anaphora reveal that we make inferences which exceed the definition of a word—and with that, 'play old Harry' with the notion of the denotative meaning of the word.
'Every utterance, no matter how laboured,' said philosopher and linguist Max Black, 'trails clouds of implication' 6.
For what reason, then, might the bridging inference and the anaphora instantly be understood—where they have nothing to do with the definition of a thing?
Here follow some broad suggestions:
The Definition of a Definition
An answer to the puzzle may lie in what we have already seen, although it might seem alien to our analytical thinking today:
If there is any apparent relation between two things—between a house, say, and the plumbing—or between a house and its karma—then these will inevitably have something to do with each other's definition. If there is no apparent relation—between a house and a crank shaft, say, or a house and its preservative—then these will have nothing to do with each other's definition.
This has an important corollary.
It has to mean that the definitions of words are relational, not analytic: definitions are not first about features, they are about relations—and there may be a great many relations.
In fact it was Aristotle who first suggested that definitions are not features 'piled in a heap', but that they are 'disposed in a certain way' 7. That is, their features stand in a certain relationship with one another—as many as these may be.
Now if linguistics is a descriptive endeavour, not prescriptive—if it is about 'how people actually speak or write' 8—then what shall we do with the customary definition of a definition?
If definitions are relational, not analytic—then it may be suggested, on the basis of the way that we use words today, that the (post)modern era has gone vastly astray. Is it not our dissection of reality—rather than our being able to see its relatedness—that has led to environmental degradation, social disintegration, and a host of other ills?
The analytical view of the world should be compensated by a relational one. This may begin with the way that we see language. Or to put it another way: the way that we see language today may shape the entire society in which we live.
Matters arising - and some notes
The Question
Let us pause, to pose the question(s):
Citation
This post was written by Thomas Scarborough for PI Alpha, February 2014.
How is a definition defined? Much may depend on the answer to this simple question—including, arguably, the shape of our entire (post)modern society today. But more of this in a moment. |  |
However, not every linguist would agree that this is how one should go about definition. Wilhelm Kamlah and Paul Lorenzen took a suspicious view of this notion—considering that such definition is necessary but inadequate 1. It is, they suggested, 'a mere abbreviation'. A true definition of a word would require so much more.
But so it is: In terms of classical linguistics, in order to define a word, one enumerates its 'necessary and sufficient features' 2. Such definition may also be referred to as the denotative meaning of a word, or its 'hard core of meaning'—as opposed to its 'meanings around the edges', or its connotative meaning 3.
How is a definition defined?
In probing the answer to the question here, the linguistic feature the anaphora provides a useful starting point. The anaphora, in turn, is related to a lesser-known linguistic feature, the bridging inference. This promises to be more useful still.
But first, the anaphora.
The Anaphora
The anaphora, according to linguists Simon Botley and Tony McEnery, is particularly useful in telling us 'some things about how language is understood and processed' 4. That is, it opens windows into the inner workings of our language, which would normally seem closed to us.
The anaphora is called a referring expression—for the reason that it refers to another linguistic element in a text. Typically, it refers back. An example: 'Aristotle owned a house. He lived in it.' Here, 'He' refers back to Aristotle, while 'it' refers back to his house. Both 'He' and 'it', therefore, are anaphoras.
A fact less emphasised is that the meaning of the anaphora must match the meaning of the linguistic element which it refers to—otherwise an anaphora is 'unresolved'. For example: 'Aristotle owned a house. It popped,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It chased rabbits.' In these two examples, the meaning of the anaphora and the meaning of the referent do not coincide—as they ought to.
This deserves special emphasis: the anaphora refers to a linguistic element which is well defined, on the surface of it reflecting its denotative meaning.
So a house is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as 'a building used for human habitation,' or (Collins) 'a building used as a home,' or (Macmillan) 'a building for living in'. Thus the anaphora 'it', above, takes on the definition of a house—or so it would seem.
Thus far with the anaphora.
The Bridging Inference
Closely related to the anaphora is the lesser known referring expression the bridging inference. Like the anaphora, this typically refers back.
Here follows an example of a bridging inference: 'Aristotle owned a house. The plumbing was blocked.' At first glance, this might seem identical to the anaphora—yet it is quite different.
While no one should have a problem understanding these two sentences, the house is now no longer in explicit focus 5. Or to put it another way: one typically recognises a bridging inference by the fact that one cannot replace it with a pronoun. One cannot say, for instance: 'Aristotle owned a house. It was blocked.'
In the above example, the inference is that a house contains plumbing. However, there is something apparently inexplicable that meets us here. No definition of a house includes plumbing. The bridging inference assumes that when one speaks about a house, one knows something that one should not know, or does not need to know.
In fact, we intuitively relate many things to a house: 'Aristotle owned a house. The karma was bad,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The ceilings were sagging,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The valuation was too low.' In all of these examples and more, a house is intuitively understood to have karma, ceilings, value, and so on. To put it simply, all of these sentences work—in spite of having nothing to do with the definition of a house, as one finds it in the dictionary.
This is important. If something has nothing to do with the definition of a house, yet is intuitively understood to be a part of what it is, then we have a problem with the common notion of a definition.
The ease with which one uses inferences is all the more appreciated when incompatible inferences are made: 'Aristotle owned a house. The crank shaft was broken,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. The preservative was vinegar.' One sees here, all the more clearly, how inferences are dependent on the meaning of the referent.
We return now to the anaphora.
The Anaphora Again
On the surface of it, the anaphora would seem to refer to the stock standard definition of a word—namely, its 'necessary and sufficient features'—while the bridging inference would seem to stray into 'meanings around the edges'. That is to say, on the surface of it the anaphora has more to do with the denotative meaning of a word, while the bridging inference has more to do with its connotative meaning.
Yet does this hold true?
If it does not, then there may be many more inferences in our language than we have supposed. Or to put it another way: the features of our definitions of words may not be as 'necessary' or 'sufficient' as they seem.
By way of experiment, consider what happens when one converts some of the bridging inferences above to anaphoras: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had bad karma,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had sagging ceilings.'
At first glance, there may seem to be no inferences here: the anaphora 'It' would seem, in each case, to refer back to the house. However, it becomes clear that one is dealing with inferences as soon as one tries some false ones. For example: 'Aristotle owned a house. It had a broken crank shaft,' or: 'Aristotle owned a house. It was preserved with vinegar.'
What we see here is that the anaphora has to be compatible with various inferences which relate to a house. It is a precondition for the anaphora to work.
In fact we might go so far as to say that the English language depends on innumerable inferences. Both the bridging inference and the anaphora reveal that we make inferences which exceed the definition of a word—and with that, 'play old Harry' with the notion of the denotative meaning of the word.
'Every utterance, no matter how laboured,' said philosopher and linguist Max Black, 'trails clouds of implication' 6.
For what reason, then, might the bridging inference and the anaphora instantly be understood—where they have nothing to do with the definition of a thing?
Here follow some broad suggestions:
The Definition of a Definition
An answer to the puzzle may lie in what we have already seen, although it might seem alien to our analytical thinking today:
If there is any apparent relation between two things—between a house, say, and the plumbing—or between a house and its karma—then these will inevitably have something to do with each other's definition. If there is no apparent relation—between a house and a crank shaft, say, or a house and its preservative—then these will have nothing to do with each other's definition.
This has an important corollary.
It has to mean that the definitions of words are relational, not analytic: definitions are not first about features, they are about relations—and there may be a great many relations.
In fact it was Aristotle who first suggested that definitions are not features 'piled in a heap', but that they are 'disposed in a certain way' 7. That is, their features stand in a certain relationship with one another—as many as these may be.
Now if linguistics is a descriptive endeavour, not prescriptive—if it is about 'how people actually speak or write' 8—then what shall we do with the customary definition of a definition?
If definitions are relational, not analytic—then it may be suggested, on the basis of the way that we use words today, that the (post)modern era has gone vastly astray. Is it not our dissection of reality—rather than our being able to see its relatedness—that has led to environmental degradation, social disintegration, and a host of other ills?
The analytical view of the world should be compensated by a relational one. This may begin with the way that we see language. Or to put it another way: the way that we see language today may shape the entire society in which we live.
Matters arising - and some notes
The Question
Let us pause, to pose the question(s):
- What is a definition—in light of the bridging inference in particular?
- What is it that denotation denotes?
- And if a word is to be seen in relational terms, then how does one define it?
Citation
This post was written by Thomas Scarborough for PI Alpha, February 2014.
- 1 Wilhelm Kamlah and Paul Lorenzen. Logical Propaedeutic, p. 65, 1984.
- 2 John Taylor. Linguistic Categorization, p. 23, 1995.
- 3 James Hurford and Brendan Heasley. Semantics, p. 90, 1990.
- 4 Simon Botley and Tony McEnery. Corpus-Based and Computational Approaches to Discourse Anaphora, p. 3, 2000.
- 5 Alan Garnham. Psycholingusitics, p. 156, 1985.
- 6 Max Black. The Labyrinth of Language, p. 137, 1968.
- 7 Aristotle. The Metaphysics, Book VII, 11.
- 8 David Crystal. Linguistics, p. 595, 1999.
Saturday, 7 November 2015
Picture Post No. 8: Apples COMMENT ADDED
This is definitely not a Picture Post, Thomas. I think you have to reformati it. It is a bit more of your theory of how language works, so I guess should be 'potentailly' a post. But even as that it does seem rather trivial. You would need I think to redynamise this one - more examples maybe?
Martin
NOTE: I have put a preferred version of this post at the top, yet have left the previous versions intact (below), to give priority to the editorial eye. Thomas.
Posted by Thomas Scarborough
One sees, above, the results of two Google Image searches. First, I searched for 'apples'. Then, I searched for 'pommes'. Then I jumbled them up. Pommes, of course, are apples in French. Do not scroll down.
The 'apples' (English) have an ideal form. Several shift even into abstraction or stylization. They only occur singly, and most of them sport only one leaf. They are red, and only red, and are polished to a perfect shine. One apple has been cut: not to eat, but to engrave a picture perfect symbol on it. The 'pommes' (French) belong to a family of pommes, of various colours: red, green, even yellow. One may take a bite out of them to taste, or cut them through or slice them: to smell their fragrance, or to drop them into a pot. Pommes, too, are always real, unless one should draw one for a child.
Now separate out the apples from the pommes. Scroll down. You probably distinguished most apples from pommes. In so doing, you acknowledged – if just for a moment – that in some important way, apples are not pommes.
Posted by Thomas Scarborough
One sees, above, the results of two Google Image searches. First, I searched for 'apples'. Then, I searched for 'pommes'. Then I jumbled them up. Pommes, of course, are apples in French. Do not scroll down.
'Apples' have an ideal form. So much so, in fact, that they tend to shift into abstraction or stylization. Mostly (though not in every case), they sport only one leaf. Apples only occur singly. They are red, and only red, and they are polished to a perfect shine. One apple has been cut, though not to eat it – rather to engrave a picture perfect symbol on it. 'Pommes', on the other hand, belong to a family of pommes, of various colours: red, green, yellow, even plum. And leaves: they may have one, or two, or none. One may take a bite out of them to taste. One may cut them through, or slice them: to smell their fragrance, or perhaps to drop them in a pot. And pommes are always real, unless one should draw one for a child.
Now separate out the apples from the pommes. Scroll down. You probably accomplished this with 80% accuracy. In so doing, you acknowledged – if just for a moment – that in some important way, apples are not pommes.
Posted by Thomas Scarborough
Two Google Image searches. First, 'apples'. Then, 'pommes'. (A pomme, of course, is an apple in French).
The 'apples' (English) have an ideal form. Several shift even into abstraction or stylization. They sport one leaf (with two exceptions). They only occur singly. They are red, and only red, and are polished to a perfect shine. One apple has been cut: not to eat, but to engrave a picture perfect symbol on it. The 'pommes' (French) belong to a family of pommes, of various colours: red, green, yellow, even plum. One may take a bite out of them to taste, or cut them through or slice them: to smell their fragrance, or to drop them into a pot. Pommes, too, are always real, unless one should draw a picture for a child.
Signifier points to signified, we are told, whether 'apple' or 'pomme'. But in English and in French, are the signifieds the same?
Martin
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'Because things don’t appear to be the known thing; they aren’t that what they seemed to be neither will they become what they might appear to become.'
Posted by Thomas Scarborough
One sees, above, the results of two Google Image searches. First, I searched for 'apples'. Then, I searched for 'pommes'. Then I jumbled them up. Pommes, of course, are apples in French. Do not scroll down.
The 'apples' (English) have an ideal form. Several shift even into abstraction or stylization. They only occur singly, and most of them sport only one leaf. They are red, and only red, and are polished to a perfect shine. One apple has been cut: not to eat, but to engrave a picture perfect symbol on it. The 'pommes' (French) belong to a family of pommes, of various colours: red, green, even yellow. One may take a bite out of them to taste, or cut them through or slice them: to smell their fragrance, or to drop them into a pot. Pommes, too, are always real, unless one should draw one for a child.
Now separate out the apples from the pommes. Scroll down. You probably distinguished most apples from pommes. In so doing, you acknowledged – if just for a moment – that in some important way, apples are not pommes.
(While this example is flawed, try the same with more
distant languages, and more complex words).
distant languages, and more complex words).
One sees, above, the results of two Google Image searches. First, I searched for 'apples'. Then, I searched for 'pommes'. Then I jumbled them up. Pommes, of course, are apples in French. Do not scroll down.
'Apples' have an ideal form. So much so, in fact, that they tend to shift into abstraction or stylization. Mostly (though not in every case), they sport only one leaf. Apples only occur singly. They are red, and only red, and they are polished to a perfect shine. One apple has been cut, though not to eat it – rather to engrave a picture perfect symbol on it. 'Pommes', on the other hand, belong to a family of pommes, of various colours: red, green, yellow, even plum. And leaves: they may have one, or two, or none. One may take a bite out of them to taste. One may cut them through, or slice them: to smell their fragrance, or perhaps to drop them in a pot. And pommes are always real, unless one should draw one for a child.
Now separate out the apples from the pommes. Scroll down. You probably accomplished this with 80% accuracy. In so doing, you acknowledged – if just for a moment – that in some important way, apples are not pommes.
(Now try the same with more distant languages, and more complex words).
|
'Because things don’t appear to be the known thing; they aren’t that what they seemed to be neither will they become what they might appear to become.'
The 'apples' (English) have an ideal form. Several shift even into abstraction or stylization. They sport one leaf (with two exceptions). They only occur singly. They are red, and only red, and are polished to a perfect shine. One apple has been cut: not to eat, but to engrave a picture perfect symbol on it. The 'pommes' (French) belong to a family of pommes, of various colours: red, green, yellow, even plum. One may take a bite out of them to taste, or cut them through or slice them: to smell their fragrance, or to drop them into a pot. Pommes, too, are always real, unless one should draw a picture for a child.
Signifier points to signified, we are told, whether 'apple' or 'pomme'. But in English and in French, are the signifieds the same?
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