“Thanks” to experimental philosophy, we have a bit more evidence confirming, that what many people think about the special epistemological status of metaphor is bunk. We should also note that Gibbs’ and Glucksberg’s teams have been doing a lot of similar research with the same results since the late 1980s.
In short, it looks like it really is pretty impossible to explain what a metaphor means. But that is not because of anything special about metaphors. It is merely a reflection of the fact that we can’t explain what any sentence means. Experimental Philosophy: What Metaphors Mean
Phelan went and asked people to paraphrase metaphorical and non-metaphorical statements only to find that the resulting paraphrases were judged equally inadequate for metaphors and literal statements. In fact, paraphrases of metaphorical statements like “Music is the universal language” or “Never give your heart away” were judged as more acceptable than paraphrases of their “literal” counterparts “French is the language Quebec” and “Always count your change”. The result shows something that any good translator will know intuitively – paraphrases are always hard.
So the conclusion (one to which I’m repeatedly drawn) is that there’s nothing special about metaphors when it comes to meaning, understanding and associated activities like paraphrasing. The availability of paraphrase (and understanding in general) is broadly dependent to two factors knowledge and usage. We have to know a lot about the world and how language is used to navigate it. So while we might consider “there’s a chair in the office”, “a chair is in the office” or “how about that chair in the office” as adequate descriptions of a particular configuration of objects in space, the same does not apply to usage. And things get even trickier when we substitute “a cobra” or “an elephant” for “a chair” and then start playing around with definiteness. We know that chairs in offices are normal and desirable, cobras unlikely and undesirable and elephants impossible and most likely metaphorical. Thinking that we can understand both “there’s an elephant in the office” and “there’s a chair in the office” as simply a combination of the words and the construction “there’s X in Y” is a bad idea. And the same goes for metaphors. We need to know a lot about the world and language to understand them.
One of the pairs of sentences Phelan compared was “God is my co-pilot” and “Bill Thomson is my co-pilot”. Intuitively, we’d say that the “literal” one would be easier to paraphrase and we’d be right but not as radically: 47% of respondents chose “God is helping me get where I want to go” as a good paraphrase and mere 58% went with “I have a copilot named Bill Thomson”. And that goes slightly against intuition. But not if we think about it a bit more carefully. All the same questions we can ask about the meaning of these two sentences demonstrate a significant dependence on knowledge and usage. “In what way is God your co-pilot” makes sense where “In what way is Bill Thomson your co-pilot” doesn’t. But we can certainly ask “What exactly does Bill do when he’s your copilots”, “What do co-pilots do anyway”. And armed with that knowledge and knowledge of the situation we can challenge either statement “no God isn’t really your co-pilot” or “no Bill isn’t really your co-pilot”. Metaphoricity really had no impact – it was knowledge. Most people know relatively little about what co-pilots do so we might even suspect that their understanding of “God is my co-pilot” is greater than of “Bill is my co-pilot”.
This is because the two utterances are not even that different conceptually. They both depend on our ability to create mental mappings between two domains of understanding: the present situation and what we know about co-pilots. We might argue that in the “literal” case, there are fewer more determinate mappings but that is only the case if we have precise and extensive knowledge. If we hear the captain say “Bill is my co-pilot” and we know that “co-pilots sit next to pilots and twiddle with instruments”, we can then conclude “the guy sitting next to the captain and switching toggles is Bill”. If the person sitting next to us said “God is my co-pilot”, we can draw conclusions from our knowledge of usage e.g. “people who say this are also likely to talk to me about God”. It seems a very simple mapping. This would get a lot more complex if the captain said “God is my co-pilot” and the person sitting next to us on the plane would say “Bill is my co-pilot” but it would still be a case of reconciling our knowledge of the world and language usage with the present situation through mappings. So the seeming simplicity of the literal is really just an illusion when it comes to statements of any consequence.
Dan Cohen has decided to “crowdsource” (a fascinating blend, by the way) the title of his next book with the following instructions.
The title should be a couplet like “The X and the Y” where X can be “Highbrow Humanities” “Elite Academia” “The Ivory Tower” “Deep/High Thought” [insert your idea] and Y can be “Lowbrow Web” “Common Web” “Vernacular Technology/Web” “Public Web” [insert your idea]. so possible titles are “The Highbrow Humanities and the Lowbrow Web” or “The Ivory Tower and the Wild Web” etc.
Before I offer my suggestion, let me pause and wonder how do we know what the book is to be about? Well, we know exactly what it is to be about because what he has in fact done was describe its contents in the form of two cross domain mappings that are then mapped onto each other (a sort of a double-barrel metaphor). And the title, it goes without saying (in a culture that agrees on what titles should be) should as eloquently and entertainingly point to the complex mapping through yet more mappings (if this was a post on blending theory, I’d elaborate on this some more).
We (I mean us the digitized or unanalog) can also roughly guess what Dan Cohen’s stance will be and if he were to be writing it just for us, we’d much rather just get it as a series of blog posts, or perhaps not at all. The paragraph quoted above is enough for us. We know what’s going on.
So aware of the ease with which meaning was co-constructed, I would recommend a more circumspect and ambiguous title. The Tortoise and the Harewith a subtitle: Who’s Chasing Whom in Digital Scholarship or possibly The Winners and Losers of Digital Academia. Why this title? Well, I believe in challenging preconceptions, starting with our own. The tale of the Tortoise and the Hare (as the excellent Wikipedia entry documents) offers no easy answer. Or rather it offers too many easy answers for comfort. The first comes from the title and a vague awareness of the fact that this is a story about a speed contest between two animals who are stereotypes for the polar opposites of speed. So the first impression is “of course, the hare is the winner” and this is a book about the benefits of digital scholarship, so the digital scholars must be the hare. Also, and also digital equals fast so that means the book is about how the hare of digital scholarship is leaving the tortoise of ivory-tower academia in the dust. And we could come up with a dozen stories illustrating how this is the case.
Then we pause and remember, ah, but didn’t the tortoise win the race because of the hasty overconfidence and carelessness of the hare? So that means that perhaps the traditional academics, moving slowly but deliberately, are the favored ones, after all? Can’t we all also think of too many errors made on blogs, crowdsourced encyclopedic entries and easily make the case that the deliberate approach is superior to moving at breakneck speed? Aren’t hares known for their short and precarious life spans as well as speed while the tortoise is almost proverbial in its longevity?
But the moral of the story is even more complex and less determinate. If we continue further in our deliberations, we might be able to get a few more hints of this. In particular, we must ask, what does this story tell us about speed and wisdom? And the answer must be: absolutely nothing. We knew coming into it that hares were faster than tortoises over any distance that can be traveled by both animals. We’re not exactly clear why the tortoise challenged the hare. Unless it had secret knowledge of its narcolepsy, it couldn’t have possibly known that the hare would take a nap or get distracted (depending on the version of the story) in the middle of the race? So equating the tortoise with wisdom would seem foolish. At best we can see the tortoise as an inveterate gambler whose one-in-a-million bet paid off. We would certainly be foolish (as was noticed by Lord Dunsanycited in the Wikipedia entry) to assume that the hare’s loss makes the tortoise more suitable for a job delivering a swift message over the same journey the following day. So the only possible learning could be that taking nap in the middle of a race and not waking up in time can lead to loosing the race. Conceivably, there could be something about the dangers of overconfidence. But again didn’t we know this already through many much less ambiguous stories?
What does that mean for the digital and traditional scholarship? Very tentatively, I would suggest it is that we cannot predict the results of a single race (i.e. any single academic enterprise) based purely on the known (or inferred) qualities of one approach. There are too many variables. But neither can we discount what we know about the capabilities of one approach in favor of another simply because it proved to be a failure where we would have expected success. In a way, just like with the fable, we already know everything about the situation. For some things hares are better than tortoises and vice versa. Most of the time, our expectations are borne out and sometimes they are not. Sometimes the differences are insignificant, sometimes they matter a lot. In short, life is pretty damn complicated, and hoping a simple contrast of two prejudice-laden images will help us understand it better is perhaps the silliest thing of all. But often it is also the thing without which understanding would be impossible. So perhaps the moral of this story, this blog, and of Dan Cohen’s book really should be: beware of easy understandings.
Somebody commented on the Language Log saying “of course [...] Chomsky was a massively gifted linguist” http://j.mp/9Q98Bx and for some reason, to use a Czech idiom, the handle of the jar repeatedly used to fetch water just fell off. Meaning, I’ve had enough.
I think we should stop thinking of Chomsky as a gifted linguist. He was certainly a gifted mathematician and logician still is a gifted orator and analyst of political discourse (sometimes putting professionals in this area to shame). But I honestly cannot think of a single insight he’s had about how language works as language. His main contribution to the study of language (his only one really) was a description of how certain combinatorial properties of English syntax can be modeled using a particular formal system. This was a valuable insight but as has been repeatedly documented (e.g. Newmeyer 1986) its runaway success was due to a particular historical context and was later fed by the political prominence of its originator. Unfortunately, everything that followed was predicated on the model being isomorphic with the thing modeled. Meaning all subsequent insights of Chomsky and his followers were confined to refining the model in response to what other people knew about language and not once that I can think of using it to elucidate an actual linguistic phenomenon. (Well, I tell lie here, James MacCawley who worked with GB – and there must have been others – was probably an exception.) Chomsky’s followers who actually continued to have real insights about language – Ross, Langacker, Lakoff, Fillmore – simply ceased to work within that field – their frustration given voice here by Robin Tolmach Lakoff:
[Generative approaches to the 'science' of language meant] “accepting the impossibility of saying almost everything that might be interesting, anything normal people might want or need to know about language.“ (Robin Tolmach Lakoff, 2000, Language War)
So who deserves the label “gifted linguist” defined as somebody who repeatedly elucidates legitimate language phenomena in a way that is relevant across areas of inquiry? (And I don’t mean the fake relevance followers of the Universal Grammar hypothesis seem to be finding in more and more places.)
Well, I’d start with MAK Halliday who has contributed genuine insights into concepts like function, cohesion, written/spoken language, etc. Students on “linguistics for teachers” courses are always surprised when I tell them that pretty much all of the English as first or second language curriculum used in schools today was influenced by Halliday and none by Chomsky – despite valiant efforts to pretend otherwise.
But there are many others whose fingerprints are all over our thinking about language today. The two giants of 20th century linguistics who influenced probably everyone were Roman Jakobson and Charles Fillmore – neither of whom established a single-idea school (although Jakobson was part of two) but both were literal and metaphorical teachers to pretty much everybody. Then there’s William Labov who continues to help shift the “language decline” hypothesis on which much of 19th century philology was predicated. And, of course, there are countless practicing linguists who have interesting things to say about language every day – one needs to look no further than the contributors to the excellent Language Log. I don’t want to list any others of the top of my head lest I forget someone important, but here some of my favorites:
My personal favorite linguist has long been Michael Hoey whose “lexical priming” hypothesis deserves more discussion and a lot more following than it has received. I got a real chill of excitement reading William Croft’s “Radical Construction Grammar”. It is probably the most interesting and innovative view of language that has come about since de Saussure.
Most of my thinking about language has been influenced by George Lakoff (so much I translated his thickest book into Czech – http://cogling.info) and Ronald Langacker who could both be said to be ‘single-theory’ thinkers but are actually using this theory to say interesting things about language rather than using language to say interesting things about their theory.
I have said to people at one point or another, you should read one of these linguists to understand this point about language better. I have never said that about Chomsky. Not once. I have said, however, you should read this thing by Chomsky to understand Chomsky better. (Not that it always helps, I’ve come across a book called Structure of Language whose authors’ sparse reference list includes all of Chomsky’s books but who refer to his work twice and get it wrong both times.) There is no denying Chomsky’s multi-disciplinary brilliance but a particularly gifted linguist he is not. He is just the only one most people can think of.
BTW: Here’s why I think Chomsky’s wrong. But that wasn’t really the point. Whether he’s right or wrong, he’s largely irrelevant to most people interested in language, and the sooner they realize they’re wasting their time, the better.