Cognitive and Communicative Approaches to Linguistic Analysis

Cognitive and Communicative Approaches to Linguistic Analysis Studies in Functional and Structural Linguistics (SFSL)...

Author: Ellen Contini-Morava

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Cognitive and Communicative Approaches to Linguistic Analysis

Studies in Functional and Structural Linguistics (SFSL) Taking the broadest and most general deﬁnitions of the terms functional and structural, this series aims to present linguistic and interdisciplinary research that relates language structure — at any level of analysis from phonology to discourse — to broader functional considerations, whether cognitive, communicative, pragmatic or sociocultural. Preference will be given to studies that focus on data from actual discourse, whether speech, writing or other nonvocal medium. The series was formerly known as Linguistic & Literary Studies in Eastern Europe (LLSEE).

Founding Editor John Odmark Honorary Editors Eva Hajicˇová

Petr Sgall

Charles University

Charles University

General Editors Yishai Tobin

Ellen Contini-Morava

Ben-Gurion University of the Negev

University of Virginia

Editorial Board Alexandra Y. Aikhenvald

Jim Miller

La Trobe University

University of Auckland

Joan Bybee

Marianne Mithun

University of New Mexico

University of California, at Santa Barbara

Nicholas Evans

Lawrence J. Raphael

University of Melbourne

Emeritus CUNY

Victor A. Friedman

Olga Mišeska Tomic´

University of Chicago

Leiden University

Anatoly Liberman

Olga T. Yokoyama

University of Minnesota

UCLA

James A. Matisoﬀ University of California, Berkeley

Volume 51 Cognitive and Communicative Approaches to Linguistic Analysis Edited by Ellen Contini-Morava, Robert S. Kirsner and Betsy Rodríguez-Bachiller

Cognitive and Communicative Approaches to Linguistic Analysis Edited by

Ellen Contini-Morava University of Virginia

Robert S. Kirsner University of California, Los Angeles

Betsy Rodríguez-Bachiller Kean University

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam/Philadelphia

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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data International Columbia School Conference on Linguistics (6th : 1999 : Rutgers University) Cognitive and communicative approaches to linguistic analysis / edited by Ellen Contini-Morava, Robert S. Kirsner and Betsy Rodríguez-Bachiller. p. cm. (Studies in functional and structural linguistics, issn 0165–7712 ; v. 51) Chieﬂy revisions of papers presented at the 6th International Columbia School Conference on Linguistics held at Rutgers University in Oct. 1999. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Linguistic analysis (Linguistics)--Congresses. 2. Cognitive grammar--Congresses. 3. Semantics--Congresses. 4. Semiotics-Congresses. I. Contini-Morava, Ellen, 1948- II. Kirsner, Robert S., 1941III. Rodríguez-Bachiller, Betsy. IV. Title. V. Series. P126.I58 2004 410--dc22 isbn 90 272 1560 X (Eur.) / 1 58811 566 6 (US) (Hb; alk. paper)

2004057066

© 2004 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microﬁlm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O. Box 36224 · 1020 me Amsterdam · The Netherlands John Benjamins North America · P.O. Box 27519 · Philadelphia pa 19118-0519 · usa

Contents List of contributors Introduction Robert S. Kirsner

vii 

Part I: Cognitive Grammar 1. Form, meaning, and behavior Ronald W. Langacker

2

2. Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators Michael B. Smith

6

Part II: Theoretical issues in classical sign-based linguistics 3. Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy Wallis Reid 4. On the relationship between form and grammatical meaning in the linguistic sign Mark J. Elson 5. Revisiting the gap between meaning and message Joseph Davis

93

3 55

Part III: Analyses on the level of the classic linguistic sign 6. The givenness of background Zhuo Jing

77

7. The relevance of relevance in linguistic analysis Bob de Jonge

205

8. A sign-based analysis of English pronouns in conjoined expressions Nancy Stern

29

9. Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin

235

10. Grammaticization of ‘to’ and ‘away’ Kumiko Ichihashi-Nakayama

26

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Contents

Part IV: Below and above the level of the sign 11. Interaction of physiology and communication in the make-up and distribution of stops in Lucknow Urdu Shabana Hameed

277

12. Between phonology and lexicon Yishai Tobin

289

13. Length of the extra-information phrase as a predictor of word order Ricardo Otheguy, Betsy Rodríguez-Bachiller, and Eulalia Canals

325

14. Word-order variation in spoken Spanish in constructions with a verb, a direct object, and an adverb Francisco Ocampo

34

15. Estrategias discursivas como parámetros para el análisis lingüístico Angelita Martínez

36

Index of names Index of subjects

38 384

List of contributors Eulalia Canals 1517 8th Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11215 USA [email protected]

Zhuo Jing Heinrich Heine Strasse 64 D-45657 Recklinghausen Germany [email protected]

Ellen Contini-Morava Department of Anthropology University of Virginia Charlottesville, VA 22906 USA [email protected]

Bob de Jonge Dept. of Romance Studies Arts Faculty, Groningen University P.O. Box 716 9700 AS Groningen The Netherlands [email protected]

Joseph Davis School of Education, R6207-A City College New York, NY 10031 USA [email protected] Mark J. Elson Slavic Languages and Literatures PO Box 400783, 109 Cabell Hall University of Virginia Charlottesville, VA 22904-4783 USA [email protected] Shabana Hameed “Baitul Hameed” 4/1407 Medical College Road Aligarh – 202002 U.P. India shabhameed@rediﬀmail.com Kumiko Ichihashi-Nakayama 1-29-78 Tama-cho Fuchu-shi, Tokyo 183-0002 Japan [email protected]

Robert S. Kirsner Department of Germanic Languages 212 Royce Hall – UCLA Los Angeles, CA 90095-1539 USA [email protected] Ronald Langacker Linguistics, 0108 University of California, San Diego La Jolla, CA 92093-0108 USA [email protected] Angelita Martínez Juncal 655, Primer piso – A 1062 Buenos Aires Argentina angema@ﬁlo.uba.ar Francisco Ocampo University of Minnesota Department of Spanish and Portuguese 37 Folwell Hall, 9 Pleasant St. S.E. Minneapolis, MN 55455 USA [email protected]

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List of contributors

Noah Oron Department of Foreign Literatures & Department of Behavioral Sciences Ben-Gurion University of the Negev P.O. Box 653 84105 Be’er Sheva Israel [email protected] Ricardo Otheguy Graduate Center, CUNY 365 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10016 USA [email protected] Wallis Reid Graduate School of Education Rutgers University New Brunswick, NJ 08903 USA [email protected] Betsy Rodríguez-Bachiller Department of English Kean University Union, NJ 07083 USA [email protected]

Michael B. Smith Department of Linguistics 320 O’Dowd Hall Oakland University Rochester, MI 48309 USA [email protected] Nancy Stern School of Education, R6/207B City College New York, NY 10031 USA [email protected] Yishai Tobin Department of Foreign Literatures and Department of Behavioral Sciences Ben-Gurion University of the Negev P.O. Box 653 84105 Be’er Sheva Israel [email protected]

Introduction On paradigms, analyses, and dialogue Robert S. Kirsner University of California, Los Angeles

He who knows only his own side of the case knows little of that. His reasons may be good, and no one may have been able to refute them. But if he is equally unable to refute the reasons on the opposite side, if he does not so much as know what they are, he has no ground for preferring either opinion. John Stuart Mill, On Liberty

The majority of the ﬁfteen chapters included in this volume are revised and expanded versions of talks originally presented at the Sixth International Columbia School Conference held at Rutgers University in October 1999. This conference was notable for attempting to bring about not only an exchange of ideas between various sign-based linguists — Columbia School, Guillaumean, and others — but also, and perhaps more importantly, a dialogue between sign-based linguists and representatives of Cognitive linguistics.¹ Signiﬁcantly, one of the plenary speakers was Ronald W. Langacker who, together with George Lakoﬀ, founded the movement in linguistics which has come to be known as Cognitive Grammar. The title of this volume — opposing Cognitive and Communicative — refers to the fact that while Cognitive linguistics views language as an example of cognition and invokes such notions as concepts, thoughts, and imagery in all their richness (Langacker 1991: Chapter 1), sign-based linguistics, in particular the Columbia School, draws a rather strict line between the linguistic system itself as a purely communicative instrument (one which may oﬀer only the sparsest and roughest hints towards the message the speaker wishes to convey) and that message itself and how it is conceptualized by and dealt with by language users. As Contini-Morava puts it (1995: 8): Thus the main distinguishing characteristic of sign based grammatical theory is the principle of one form — one meaning. This principle, like the linguistic sign itself, follows from the function of language as a communicative instrument. The most eﬃcient communicative instrument is one in which there is a one-to-one correspondence between the signaling units and the things signaled. It therefore makes sense, if one is beginning with a functional orientation, to use this as an initial methodological assumption when beginning a linguistic analysis. Of course, the extent to which the one-form — one-meaning principle holds in a given case is an empirical question since . . . neither forms nor meanings are given in advance of an analysis.

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Consider in this vein also the characterization of the Columbia School as a “minimalist” linguistics versus Cognitive Grammar as a “maximalist” linguistics in Kirsner (1993: 81–82) and the suggestion that the two approaches are at least in part complementary. The chapters contained in this volume testify that dialogue between sign-based linguistics and Cognitive Grammar is indeed possible. To be sure, the individual members of the various approaches represented are not necessarily ready to abandon their own frameworks. Nevertheless, they demonstrated a willingness to consider the perspectives on language and linguistic data which other frameworks can provide. This book constitutes an invitation to the reader to undertake the same sort of critical comparison. What is learned from one approach which is not learned from the other, and vice-versa? What are the strengths and weaknesses of each approach? While it seems simply silly to compare and contrast entities as dissimilar as apples, paperclips, and kangaroos, it is possible to compare apples, grapes, and oranges. Similarly, while a comparison of Columbia School Linguistics with Generative Grammar might be of little use, because of the tremendous diﬀerences in the two schools’ orienting premises,² comparison and contrast between Cognitive Grammar and the Columbia School is potentially fruitful; cf. Langacker’s assertion (1987: 4) that there is a “natural aﬃnity” between Cognitive Grammar and the Columbia School. In spite of the fact that some Columbia School linguists have felt otherwise (e.g. Contini-Morava 1989: 35–44; Huﬀman 1997: 21–23, 329–333), one can suggest that each school ignores the criticism of the other only at its own peril: cf. Kirsner (1993: 103–107; 2003). There are perhaps two ways of introducing these chapters. The ﬁrst might be in terms of style of argument and presentation. The chapters by Langacker and Reid may both be called examples of “interparadigmatic dialogue” in that, in addition to presenting an illustrative analysis, each discusses and evaluates the other’s theoretical framework. (Because of the importance of this dialogue, I shall discuss these two chapters in more detail than the others.) Davis’s chapter, in contrast, may be considered “intraparadigmatic dialogue” in that it suggests a reﬁnement within Columbia School theory, taking issue with earlier Columbia School analyses, but without comparing that theory with others. The remaining chapters are all “paradigmatic monologues.” Each presents an analysis within a single theoretical paradigm, arguing against previous traditional or generative analyses of the relevant phenomena, but without directly taking issue with either the Columbia School or Cognitive Grammar. Each analysis itself is to be taken as a demonstration of how its theoretical framework can be applied and as a recommendation to the reader to consider seriously the speciﬁc theoretical principles which underlie the analysis. The only chapter which might not to seem to ﬁt here is Ocampo’s, but his might perhaps be viewed as a useful example of “the agnostic paradigm of paradigmlessness”; i.e., as illustrating a largely a-theoretical search for patterns in data. The second and perhaps more direct and transparent way of introducing the chapters is to survey them simply as listed in the Table of Contents, where — purely

Paradigms, analyses, and dialogue

for the sake of convenience — they are sorted into four categories, depending on whether they (a) focus on Cognitive linguistics, (b) present theoretical and methodological discussions within sign-based linguistics, (c) present analyses of units the “size” of or at the level of the classical linguistic sign, or (d) discuss units or combinations of units at other levels above or below the analytical level of the classical linguistic sign (in traditional terms: phonology, morphology, “syntax”, and discourse). A second principle for ordering the chapters, used within (b) and (c), was to proceed from the central or most paradigmatic examples of Columbia School work to approaches taking issue with it or mixing it with other approaches. To begin at the beginning, then: Part I, containing two chapters, focuses on Cognitive linguistics. Ronald W. Langacker’s “Form, meaning, and behavior: The Cognitive Grammar analysis of double subject constructions” ﬁrst succinctly reviews the basic conceptual apparatus of Cognitive Grammar, from which it is immediately apparent that this approach embraces many notions such as construction and constituency, subject and topic which have no clear counterpart in the Columbia School. Langacker’s subsequent discussion of double subject constructions in a number of languages raises a crucial issue for all sign-based linguists and certainly for Columbia School linguists. How legitimate is it to apply the very same term — double subject — to widely diﬀerent languages with diﬀerent morphologies? From a Columbia School perspective, very diﬀerent signal-meaning units are utilized in the diﬀerent languages, with substantively very diﬀerent meanings, and diﬀerent oppositional structures among those meanings, and diﬀerent inferential routines made possible by the diﬀerent meanings. Langacker argues that the striking similarity in semantic-pragmatic mechanisms underlying the use of such constructions across many languages forces the linguist to recognize double subjects as a genuine linguistic phenomenon requiring a uniﬁed analysis. In other words, the functional similarities are judged as outweighing, are more important than, the structural diﬀerences between the languages. In the ﬁnal section of his chapter, Langacker presents a critique of the Columbia School. With considerable wit, he discusses various Columbia School concepts (e.g., strategies for the communicative exploitation of a meaning as something separate from that meaning) and forms of Columbia School argumentation, such as the “slippery-slope” rhetoric invoked to refute the notion of polysemous signs.³ Confronted with reasoning like “If X is allowed, there will be a natural progression to Y”, where Y is a totally arbitrary stopping point, to be rejected because of its very arbitrariness,⁴ Langacker oﬀers the observation that “by refusing to descend a slippery slope one does not succeed in making the landscape ﬂat.” He asserts that the “where does one stop?” question does in fact have an answer if one makes use of the Cognitive Grammar concepts of entrenchment, conventionalization and the notion of structured polysemy (cf. Nikiforidou 1991). An additional point which Langacker raises repeatedly is the relatively limited scope of phenomena for which the Columbia School takes analytical responsibility: “The more narrowly linguists deﬁne their own work, the less they will contribute to the global enterprise of ﬁguring out how

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language works.” All in all, Langacker has done Columbia School linguists a great service by familiarizing himself with their approach and crafting a reasoned and provocative rebuttal to some of its concepts and argumentation. Nevertheless, areas of disagreement will remain. One point in Langacker’s chapter that Columbia School linguists would vigorously dispute is his claim that Columbia School theory involves “a tacit assumption that the meaning of a whole is merely the sum of the abstract meanings of its parts (i.e. the component lexical items), and that anything beyond this is attributable to contextual interpretation based on communicative strategies and other ‘human factors’”. In particular, Langacker asserts that a Columbia School analysis would have no way to explain the diﬀerence in interpretation between The big dog frightened a tiny cat and A big cat frightened the tiny dog because they consist of the same lexical items. This is not the case. A Columbia School account of these English sentences would invoke not only the meanings of the lexical items, but also two explicit word-order signals: the order AdjectiveNoun, a signal within the grammatical system of DIFFERENTIATION, and the order Participant1-Event-Participant2, a signal within the grammatical system DEGREE OF CONTROL.⁵ Of course, the Columbia School does not treat all orderings of words as explicit grammatical signals. The question of which orderings of which elements are to be taken as explicit signals in a given language as well as the question of how to explain the eﬀects of word order when it cannot be considered a signal are analytical problems which must be handled on a case by case basis; see Otheguy et al, and Ocampo, this volume, for discussion. However, it must also be acknowledged that word order phenomena have not been a major focus of Columbia School research. Whether this is a weakness returns us to the question, explicit or implicit in all the chapters in this volume, of how the linguist deﬁnes the object of study. The second chapter exemplifying the Cognitive Grammar approach, Michael B. Smith’s “Cataphoric pronouns as mental-space designators,” utilizes Giles Fauconnier’s theory of mental spaces and concepts of iconicity developed by John Haiman to analyze sentences in English, German, and Russian such as We abhor it that the mayor absconded with the money versus We know that the mayor absconded with the money versus * We know it that the mayor absconded with the money. Smith argues that English it, German es, and Russian tot refer to the mental space (or “knowledge structure”) created by certain “structure-building” verbs: in these examples, the referent of the subordinate clause. On the one hand, such “preﬁguring” of the subordinate clause with an it, es, or tot can increase the conceptual distance between the verb and the clause. Its presence or absence seems to correlate with whether the event or state of aﬀairs referred to by the clause is viewed as unfavorable or not (so that the speaker would want to “distance” himself from it); cf. abhor versus know above. In other instances, the cataphoric pronoun, providing an additional reference to the content of the subordinate clause, communicates a foregrounding of, or emphasis on, that content. For example, with verbs which can communicate either cerebral knowledge or sensory experience, presence of a cataphoric pronoun favors the “sensory experience” reading. Compare Henry loves to read timetables. He even

Paradigms, analyses, and dialogue

knows when the Pennsylvania train arrives versus If you live near the Santa Monica Airport, you (really) know it when the planes land. Why the whole house vibrates! Theoretical issues which arise in “classical” sign-based analysis are the focus of Part II of the volume. Presenting an analysis of the English prepositions in, on, and at, Wallis Reid’s “Monosemy, homonymy, and polysemy” provides an articulate and vigorous defense of what John Taylor, in a number of publications, has called the “two-level” model or the “semiotic model” (2003), one which — as the Columbia School does — rigorously distinguishes between “a linguistic-semantic level of meaning, and an essentially non-linguistic, conceptual level of interpretation” (Taylor 1995b: 3–13). This two-level model, in contrast to Langacker’s network model of meaning (1988), rejects the concept of polysemy as a pre-theoretical folk notion. The ﬁrst argument Reid oﬀers for this rejection is that the concept of polysemy does not ﬁt with the Columbia School’s view of linguistic meaning as instrumental rather than necessarily representational: cf. Huﬀman (1997). Whether language is in fact representational is an empirical issue, to be decided by actual analyses, and one should not adopt a richer theory before ﬁrst seeing if a sparser theory works. If the message communicated with an utterance is in fact not built up in a water-tight manner from meanings acting like little semantic building blocks or Lego pieces, but is instead inferred from meanings envisaged as rough hints (which taken together comprise the barest “semantic skeleton” consonant with the message), then various contrasts in extra-linguistic reality need not be viewed as being built into the language itself. In other words, an analysis of in as a purely linguistic signal — a hint rather than a picture of a scene — need not diﬀerentiate between the diﬀerent sorts of physical locations of the referents of bird, bullet, coﬀee, and crack in There’s a bird in the tree ( ’ in the tree’s branches), There’s a bullet in the tree ( ’ in the tree’s trunk), There is coﬀee in the cup ( ’ in the hollow cavity formed by the glass or plastic or bronze making up the cup), and There’s a crack in the cup ( ’ in the material out of which the cup is formed, creating the above mentioned cavity, but probably not the material making up the handle).⁶ More crucial for the consideration of English as a communicative instrument (rather than a representational device) are the contrasts, the oppositions, between the prepositions in Hank met Nancy at/on/in the street or The lumberjack is at the tree (’ standing at the base of the vertical tree, waiting to begin work), The lumberjack is in the tree (’ standing among and enveloped by the branches, sawing oﬀ the smaller branches before the larger ones and before attacking the trunk), and The lumberjack is on the tree (’ standing on top of the upper surface of the now sawed-down tree, which is lying horizontally on the ground). A second reason Reid oﬀers for rejecting polysemy, ﬁrst articulated by Ruhl (1989), is that many signs appear to be polysemous only because they are analyzed by linguists relying on their own intuitions and contemplating artiﬁcial data separated from any context. That way, one simply cannot see the contribution of the context to the message communicated with the word. Once one examines large numbers of attested uses of the word in full context, as in Ruhl (2002), what at ﬁrst appeared to be clearly distinct isolated senses, with “spaces in between,” merge into a continuum

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which cannot be chopped up on a principled basis into distinct, discrete units.⁷ Ockham’s razor then requires one to at least consider a monosemic analysis. Without recapitulating Reid’s analysis here, we draw attention to the fact that he uses several concepts analogous to those invoked by Cognitive Grammar but accords them a diﬀerent theoretical status. Reid discusses conceptualization at length, but views diﬀerent conceptualizations as diﬀerent extralinguistic strategies for the use of a (monosemic) meaning rather than diﬀerent (polysemous) meanings in themselves. For example, Reid proposes that there is a conventionalized trajectory strategy for the use of on, based on the use of on for linear location (The bird is on the telephone wire) and linear movement (The plain is on course), which accounts for the diﬀerence between get in the car and get on the bus. Buses, as part of a public transportation system, follow a known sequence — a ﬁxed trajectory — of scheduled stops; private cars do not. (Of course one can say Pete got in the bus, but the message probably involves a private bus, perhaps a Volkswagen Minibus. And if you do say He got on the minibus, you are suggesting that the minibus in question is now following a known trajectory; perhaps it is a shuttle bus, picking up people at their homes but taking them all to a ﬁxed destination, such as the airport.)⁸ A crucial point is that for Reid, conventionalized strategies for exploiting meanings, based on speciﬁc conceptualizations of reality, are no more a part of the communicative instrument called a language than Bach fugues are a part of the musical instrument called a harpsichord. Just as it takes years of practice for a harpsichordist to learn to meld individual notes into a product understood as music by an audience, so does it take years of practice for the language user to learn to manipulate the individual meanings signaled by the individual signals of the language to produce utterances which are understood as communicating something by his or her interlocutor. What Reid is suggesting is that an analysis of a language as a communicative instrument (illustrated here with in, on and at) should concern itself primarily if not exclusively with what is in the instrument itself, what its structure is, and nothing else, just as the analysis of a harpsichord should lay out the strings and the bridge and the nut and the registers and the keyboard, etc., but not discuss the musical styles of Johann Sebastian Bach or Theolonius Monk or the set of skills which a competent harpsichordist needs to have acquired. The problem which now presents itself is really nothing less than that of the very purpose of linguistics. How immediately “useful” should a linguistic theory be and in what ways? How much of the usage of a language is it the linguist’s obligation to explain and describe and how much is the responsibility of other disciplines? Should the linguistic analysis of a language be instantly and directly convertible into a textbook for learning that language, as the Cognitivist’s reluctance to separate linguistic from cultural and encyclopedic knowledge might suggest? We may perhaps advance the discussion by extending the musical instrument analogy introduced above just a bit more. If one is a harpsichord expert, then one can accomplish something with a barebones technical description of a given harpsichord — perhaps compare diﬀerent

Paradigms, analyses, and dialogue

harpsichords made by diﬀerent craftsmen. Furthermore, armed with an analysis, a blueprint, of a harpsichord, the expert can proceed to take the harpsichord apart, separate the individual pieces on the ﬂoor of a warehouse, and verify independently and intersubjectively, by inviting in other experts, that the description of each part is precisely what the blueprint says it is. And he or she can then reassemble the harpsichord in the way shown by the blueprint and verify that, by hitting this particular key, a diﬀerent noise is produced than by hitting that particular key. And then the expert can pick up a musical score, note that the musical score is really not in the harpsichord itself, and learn how to play the harpsichord to mimic the score. None of this is possible with language. A Columbia School analysis without a detailed discussion of the data on which the analysis is based (e.g. Reid’s analysis of in, on, at presented without his consideration of strategies) is roughly like the harpsichord expert’s technical description of a harpsichord, which would be useless to someone who, never having even seen a harpsichord before, having perhaps only heard a Bach fugue once, now wants to learn how to play one. Furthermore, there is no way to lay out the parts of a language on the ﬂoor of a warehouse the way one can lay out the keyboard, strings, etc. of a harpsichord and hence no way to be sure that one can really separate the harpsichord of language (the semiotic instrument) from the music it produces or the talents of the harpsichordist. Cognitivists will undoubtedly suspect that, in the case of language, there is in fact no separate or intersubjectively separable “harpsichord,” no purely semiotic level. Given that such a situation is not inconceivable, it might be nothing more than a relatively fruitless cerebral and ultimately purely esthetic exercise to attempt to partition the phenomena of language into an individual “harpsichord”, with individual strings and bridges etc., producing individual notes, all of this entirely separate from, on a different level from the subject and answer and countersubject composing a fugue played on it. What Reid is really attempting to do is to take the music produced by the initially unanalyzed complex of “harpsichord + harpsichordist + musical score” and use performed fugues (perceived messages of texts and conversations) to deduce what the blueprint of the harpsichord is, how the strings and keys and other constituents are arranged. As I have suggested earlier (Kirsner 2002), this kind of approach might not appeal to folks who want to learn how fugues are played.⁹ But, Columbia School linguists will counter that any analysis which does not attempt to separate some sort of relatively parsimonious “harpsichord of language” from the complex of “harpsichord + harpsichordist + musical score” is doomed to remain eternally programmatic, making perhaps attractive majestic and ambitious claims about the mind, but never actually delivering on its promises. At this point it is up to the reader to judge how productive these two approaches to linguistics — the cognitive and the communicative — ultimately are. In any case, the merit of Langacker’s chapter and of Reid’s chapter is that they have demonstrated how each of their approaches is utilized in a linguistic analysis and have discussed where they agree and where they disagree. We may perhaps even perceive modest signs of convergence: First of all, there is Reid’s approval of analyses of the

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kind outlined in George Lakoﬀ and Mark Johnson’s book Metaphors We Live By. Second, Reid’s own verbal discussion of how one strategy (linear location) can lead to another (the trajectory strategy) could possibly be viewed as a notational variant of nodes in a conceptual network if not an orthodox semantic network. At the same time, we may observe a recent desire among cognitivists to once again take up Ockham’s razor, recognize the open-endedness of all contexts and the ongoing creativity of language users, and thereby reduce the degree of crystallized, ﬁxed, conventionalized polysemy postulated in their analyses; cf. Janssen (2003) for stimulating discussion. And, as was already indicated above in endnote 7, Tyler and Evans’s Cognitive analysis of over (2003), clearly concerned with reining in the “rampant polysemy” (Taylor 1993b: 13) found in earlier Cognitive linguistic works, makes use of some notions with clear counterparts in Columbia School linguistics. Mark Elson’s tightly-wrought chapter “On the relationship between form and grammatical meaning in the linguistic sign” challenges the widely held assumption that the inﬂectional ending of a word (i.e. the desinence) explicitly signals all of the grammatical meaning(s) associated with the word. Utilizing data from the history and dialects of Slavic and Romance languages, Elson proposes that oppositional relationships within paradigms — speciﬁcally between hierarchically organized subparadigms — permit endings to communicate far more than they may be shown to actually signal. The theoretical merit of this chapter is its demonstration that the kind of distinction the Columbia School makes between meaning and message (cf. Contini-Morava 1995: 5–7) applies not only to phenomena traditionally subsumed under the term “syntax” but also within the word, to morphology as well. Elson’s command of his data, together with his relentlessly semiotic argumentation, should induce many contemporary morphologists to rethink their positions. Joseph Davis’s “Revisiting the gap between meaning and message” argues against the theoretical construct of a strategy for the communicative exploitation of a meaning, a construct ﬁrst introduced into Columbia School thought in García (1975), made use of in e.g. Kirsner (1979), Sussman Goldberg (1995), discussed at length in Reid (1995), and appealed to by Reid in the present volume. Davis suggests that the very notion of “strategy” is an illegitimate reiﬁcation of an aspect of the inferential process whereby a message is “leapt to” from a meaning. In strict Columbia School thought (and in direct opposition to what is envisaged in Cognitive Grammar), this process — in reality involving multiple factors and cues — is held to be outside the data for which the analyst can reasonably claim analytical responsibility. Accordingly, Davis urges linguists to dispense with the concept of “strategy.” Text counts and other quantitative data (a basic pillar of Columbia School validation techniques going back to Diver 1969) should be viewed not as tests of a hypothesized “strategy” but as a test of the hypothesized meaning of the signal being studied. One predicts statistical skewings in the use of the signal on the basis of (i) the hypothesized meaning and (ii) the general expectation that, for communication to be possible at all, meanings will tend to be used coherently, synergistically, with most cues to the message “pointing in the same direction.”

Paradigms, analyses, and dialogue

Readers concerned with the status of linguistics as a science (and hence with the precise role of Popperian falsiﬁability in linguistic analyses; cf. Kirsner (1989) and the discussion of Karl Popper in Chalmers (1999) ) will ﬁnd much to think about in Davis’s assertion that “A CS [Columbia School ] signal-meaning hypothesis can be neither proved nor disproved; it can be only accepted or rejected.”¹⁰ Another crucial issue is the possibility that, by jettisoning the concept of strategy, Davis may be further restricting the scope of phenomena for which a Columbia School linguistic analysis would claim responsibility, thereby making the Columbia School approach more vulnerable to Langacker’s criticism that it attempts to explain too little about Language to be interesting. The idea that there might be a ﬁnite number of conventionalized strategies made possible by — motivated by — the meaning of a signal, yet underdetermined by that meaning, allows one to explain crucial “negative data” — why a signal is not used in all the imaginable ways which might be compatible with its hypothesized meaning. As Langacker notes, strategies have been one way in which the Columbia School has dealt with data which Cognitive Grammar would treat by invoking polysemy. It would seem to be such data which at least have the potential of inducing Columbia School linguists to abandon their initial, plausible hypothesis that language is a sparse communicative tool and accept the view that it is (at least in part) a richer, representational system.¹¹ Note that Reid’s chapter explicitly raises this possibility. To the extent that Davis’s rejection of the concept of strategy narrows the empirical scope of Columbia School analyses (namely by focusing analyses on only data which actually occur and not on conceptually possible data which do not occur), it could be viewed as elevating the idea of sparse purely hint-like meanings from a hypothesis to a dogma. This issue is the subject of vigorous current debate among Columbia School linguists. In any case, if Davis’s proposal were to be accepted, many earlier Columbia School analyses making use of the concept of strategy, including those by the movement’s founder William Diver, would have to be rethought and redone. Part III presents ﬁve analyses: three of Indo-European languages, one of a Semitic language, and one of a Yuman language. The analyses by Jing, de Jonge, and Stern are primarily inﬂuenced by Columbia School theory. Oron and Tobin meld Columbia School theory with a Jakobsonian style of semantic analysis, especially as further extended by van Schooneveld (cf. Tobin 1990: 74–77). Finally, IchihashiNakayama invokes Grammaticalization Theory (cf. Hopper and Traugott 1993) and, implicitly, the possibility of a network analysis linking the diﬀerent senses of the forms which developed at diﬀerent times.¹² Zhuo Jing’s chapter “The givenness of background: A semantic-pragmatic study of two Modern German subordinating conjunctions” demonstrates that the standard reference and pedagogical grammars’ characterization of both wenn ‘if, when’ and als ‘if ’ as massively polysemous is fundamentally ﬂawed. First, such a characterization suggests erroneously that the two forms can be synonymous, which is never the case. Neither does it explain why als is never used with reference to future time. Drawing on the Columbia School view that the meaning signaled by a

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form can be an instruction to the hearer rather than a description, Jing proposes that als signals BACKGROUND GIVEN while wenn signals BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN. She demonstrates in detail how these apparently sparse meanings can be used in rich discourse contexts to guide the hearer’s interpretation, buttressing her analysis with textual examples and frequency counts from both ﬁction and non-ﬁction (philosophic) texts. Another good example of the Columbia School approach to linguistic analysis is Bob de Jonge’s “The relevance of relevance in linguistic analysis: Spanish subjunctive mood”. This chapter presents a semantic analysis of the Spanish subjunctive endeavoring to explain both (a) its obligatory use in subordinate clauses with certain verbs and certain conjunctions and (b) its variable use in other environments, where it competes with the indicative. His fundamental claim is that the subjunctive, in all its uses, indicates CONTEXTUAL RELEVANCE OF AN ALTERNATIVE FOR THE OCCURRENCE EXPRESSED BY THE VERB and he oﬀers both qualitative data (examination of examples in context) and text counts using diﬀerent contextual variables in defense of this hypothesis.¹³ Nancy Stern’s “Sign-based analysis of English pronouns in conjoined expressions” investigates the use of simple pronouns and their corresponding self- forms in collocations such as the huge gap between herself and Stefan versus the intimate connection between her and Stefan. One of her empirical ﬁndings is that -self is used where there is conceptual distance between the conjuncts while the simple form is used where there is conceptual closeness. These and other observations support her analysis of -self as signaling INSISTENCE ON AN ENTITY. By urging the hearer to focus speciﬁcally on one member of the two entities referred to in the between phrase, by insisting that the hearer focus on that entity as opposed to others, the speaker hints to the hearer that the two entities are somehow unequal, that there is a distinction to be made between them and, hence, that they do not form a uniﬁed pair. The converse is shown by what Stern calls the “conspiratorial” tone of between you and me in such utterances as Between you and me, she’s an awful singer, in which the speaker invites the hearer to share his opinion that the singer stinks; cf. the unidiomatic ?Between you and myself, she’s an awful singer. An additional merit of Stern’s chapter is its underscoring of the fact that the use of the self-forms is multiply-determined. In other contexts, factors other than conceptual distance between conjuncts may inﬂuence the speaker’s choice of a bare pronoun or its corresponding self-form. Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin’s “Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system: A sign-oriented approach” takes as its starting point the analysis of the Hebrew verb laid out in Tobin (1995) and presents a detailed discussion of two derivational inﬁx patterns or binyanim: the (traditional simple) PAAL pattern exempliﬁed by katav ‘(he) wrote,’ based on the triconsonantal root k-t-v ‘writing,’ and the corresponding (traditional reﬂexive) HITPAEL pattern exempliﬁed by hitkatev ‘(he) corresponded.’ They argue convincingly that preceding traditional and modern sentence-based analyses of the Hebrew verb, which do not postulate single invariant

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meanings for each of the patterns, all ultimately degenerate into relatively unhelpful lists of heterogeneous uses. They present evidence that the binyan system is not frozen, as is sometimes thought, but is exploited for neologisms. The heart of the chapter is a demonstration that the diﬀerences between such varied PAAL forms as ‘ran,’ ‘breathed,’ ‘cried,’ and ‘was furious’ and the corresponding HITPAEL forms ‘ran back and forth,’ ‘panted,’ ‘whined,’ and ‘became furious’ can best be understood as examples of the opposition between the meaning SINGLE PERCEPTION OF ACTIONS, STATES OR EVENTS and the meaning MULTIPLE PERCEPTION OF ACTIONS, STATES OR EVENTS. Of particular merit, I believe, is the authors’ statement that the meaning of a HITPAEL form cannot be mechanically predicted from the meaning of the corresponding PAAL form but is rather motivated by it. One can still detect the semantic ingredients contributed by the HITPAEL pattern (to the meaning of the root as seen in the PAAL pattern) even if the verb-form in question has gone on to develop new, specialized idiosyncratic or idiomatic usages.¹⁴ Kumiko Ichihashi-Nakayama’s contribution, “Grammaticalization of ‘to’ and ‘away’: A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai,” grapples with a classic problem in American Indian linguistics. She argues that the morphemes -k and -m in the Hualapai language, each of which is associated with a number of diﬀerent “functions,” each has a single basic meaning. The morpheme -k signals INSIDE/TOWARDS FOCAL POINT and -m signals OUTSIDE/AWAY FROM FOCAL POINT. In diﬀerent linguistic contexts, such as with nouns referring to places, with motion verbs, and in sentence-ﬁnal position, the morphemes are associated with diﬀerent speciﬁc messages: allative versus ablative, towards speaker versus away from speaker, speaker does or does not vouch for the statement, same subject across two clauses versus diﬀerent subject, discontinuous events in diﬀerent times and places versus iteration of one activity at a single time and place.¹⁵ Particularly stimulating is the issue Ichihashi-Nakayama raises concerning the best explanation for the wide range of uses of the forms, synchronic or diachronic. From the vantage point of Grammaticalization Theory, the various functions can be seen as representing distinct diachronic stages. Turning now to the ﬁnal section of the volume, Part IV, we may note that Shabana Hameed’s chapter, “Interaction of physiology and communication in the makeup and distribution of stops in Lucknow Urdu,” is the only one in the volume dealing with phonology and the only one illustrating William Diver’s uniquely quantitative approach to phonology: Phonology as Human Behavior.¹⁶ Rather than classifying consonants in the customary textbook way, in terms of points of articulation, Hameed analyzes them according to the articulators producing them and devotes considerable discussion to the ranking of articulators on a scale of adroitness. Physiological factors interact with communicative ones in such a way that, while there is a tendency toward full combination of the ﬁve separate Urdu articulators with both aspiration and voice, there are various asymmetries in the distribution of stops in word-initial and word-ﬁnal position. Previously, most studies in Phonology as Human Behavior have dealt with Romance, West Germanic, Scandinavian, Slavic

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and Semitic languages: cf. Tobin (2002). The present chapter shows what can be learned about phonology from an Indic language with much more complex phonological units. The data were obtained during several years of ﬁeld work. The second chapter in this ﬁnal section concerns an intriguing problem in (sub) morphemic analysis. Yishai Tobin’s “Between phonology and lexicon: The Hebrew triconsonantal (CCC) root system revolving around /r/ (C-r-C)” constitutes the initial stage of an attempt to ﬁnd semantic subsystems within tri-consonantal Hebrew roots. Here Tobin outlines the hypothesis that C-r-C roots, containing the trilled /r/ phoneme, communicate the general notion of ‘a change in structure,’ which may be speciﬁed further in individual cases. This chapter might remind readers both of Bolinger’s discussion (1950 a, b) of phonesthemes and also of Tobin’s earlier work on word systems in Modern Hebrew (Aphek and Tobin 1988). Clearly, such an intriguing hypothesis will have to be tested by comparison with C-C-C roots containing other medial consonants. Furthermore, the notion ‘change of structure’ will have to be operationalized so that diﬀerent analysts can agree as to what does and what does not fall under this rubric. The observable word orders of a language may proﬁtably be viewed as the “vector sum” of a number of diﬀerent inﬂuences. Where word order is not used as a ﬁxed sign, i.e. an invariant signal of an invariant meaning, it may be open to more general communicative inﬂuences, such as the strategy of placing given information before new. The chapters by Otheguy, Rodríguez-Bachiller, and Canals on the one hand and by Ocampo on the other illustrate, respectively, the Columbia School approach and an eclectic approach to word-order variation. Otheguy, Rodríguez-Bachiller and Canals’s chapter, “Length of the extra information phrase as a predictor of word order: A cross-language comparison” is best characterized as an experiment. The presence or absence of dedicated word-order signals in a language is treated as the independent variable and the observable word order of certain other constituents in that language is treated as the dependent variable. The chapter asks if there should be a diﬀerence in the placing of prepositional phrases and adverbs modifying verbs (thereby providing “extra information” about the event) in one language where the relative order of subject, object, and verb is a dedicated sign of participancy (Degree of Control) in the event (English) and two where it is not (Spanish, Catalan). In other words, how does the presence or absence of a word-order signal in a language interact with other factors or principles inﬂuencing word order? The authors propose a cognitive-iconic principle — Group together signals whose meanings form cognitive units: keep together what goes together — according to which conceptually related constituents (such as verbs and adverbs) should tend to be grouped together.¹⁷ In English this principle clearly conﬂicts with the placement of the lower controller (“direct object”) immediately following the verb. Meticulous use of translations (from English to Spanish and from Spanish and Catalan to English) provide an analytical control. Various quantitative predictions are made about the placement and relative “bulk” of the extra information. These are largely conﬁrmed with frequency counts from texts.

Paradigms, analyses, and dialogue

Ocampo’s “Word order variation in spoken Spanish in constructions with a verb, a direct object, and an adverb” attempts to delineate the syntactic, cognitive (including iconic), pragmatic, and prosodic features which correlate with diﬀerent aspects of word order in cases where the relative order of verb, direct object, and adverb cannot be (or at least has never been) considered a sign, i.e. an invariant signal of an invariant meaning. The merit of this chapter is that it teases apart the inﬂuence of a number of diﬀerent factors on word order (including “higher order” ones, such as the general communicative technique of putting given information before new), and also attempts to come to grips with the simultaneous inﬂuence of more than one factor. Furthermore, as Columbia School papers have almost always dealt with written languages, it is therapeutic to confront the diﬀerent kind of complexity which spoken language data provide.¹⁸ The last chapter in the volume, Angelita Martinez’s “Variación sintáctica y estrategias discursivas,” discusses the variable use of the Spanish clitic pronouns lo, la and le in regions in Argentina with a Quechua substrate. The main thesis of her chapter is that, under the inﬂuence of discourse strategies in Quechua (made possible by the particular signals and meanings of that language), speakers manipulate the Spanish dative versus accusative contrast (signaling greater versus lesser “potency” of participants in events; cf. García (1975)) in ways not seen in other dialect areas to create expectations and suspense in narratives. It is now time for the cartographer to put away his tools and for the headwaiter to take his menu (and even his tray of hors d’oeuvres) back to the kitchen. As it is never possible for the map to be the territory or the menu to be the meal, the reader is now invited to turn from these brief and hopefully enticing remarks to the chapters themselves.

Notes * I want to thank my fellow editors Ellen Contini-Morava and Betsy Rodríguez Bachiller for critical feedback on an earlier version of this Introduction. I also wish to acknowledge the support of Grant 2964 from the Faculty Grants Program of the Committee on Research, Academic Senate, University of California, Los Angeles. 1. For earlier volumes which developed out of such conferences, see Contini-Morava and Sussman Goldberg eds. (1995) and Reid, Otheguy, and Stern eds. (2002). 2. For earlier critiques of Generative Grammar from a sign-based perspective, see Garcia (1975), Kirsner (1979), and Huﬀman (1997). 3. See, for example, Huﬀman’s discussion of Smyth’s (1920) treatment of the Greek dative (1997: 16–17). 4. I have adopted this characterization from Williams (1995). Note that Shermer (1997: 58) explicitly classiﬁes the slippery slope argument as a fallacy. 5. For more on the System of DIFFERENTIATION in English, see Diver (1984: 23–28). For a Columbia School discussion of adjective-noun order in Spanish, see Klein-Andreu (1983).

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Robert S. Kirsner For a brief presentation of the System of DEGREE OF CONTROL in English (where CONTROL is not to be confused with the use of the word control in Generative Grammar), see Reid (1991: 174–178). Huﬀman (1997: 294–298) compares CONTROL systems in English and French. In the present volume, Otheguy, Rodríguez-Bachiller, and Canals contrast English , which has an explicit System of of DEGREE OF CONTROL, with Spanish, which does not. 6. I have taken the liberty of choosing diﬀerent (and perhaps more “extreme”) lexical items than Reid’s to underscore his point that he is viewing language as a purely communicative rather than a fully representational system. All in says here is that the associated lexical item is to be taken as a location and that three dimensions are relevant rather than none (at) or a number of dimensions greater than zero and less than three (on). Conceptualizing the actual physical relationship involved in locating the item in question requires real-world knowledge of the properties and uses of the nouns’ referents. (Birds are capable of sitting on the branches of a tree, while kites can become entangled in those branches without sitting in them, and a bullet can do neither.) 7. See now also the last chapter of Sampson (2001), entitled “Meaning and the limits of science,” where it is argued that word meanings are essentially indeterminate. Here, of course, Cognitivists would argue, ﬁrst, that the kind of general meanings proposed by Ruhl are so ethereal, so ineﬀable, as to be communicatively — and analytically — useless (cf. Taylor 1995a: 267). Second, they would suggest that there are indeed principled bases for segmenting the apparent message continuum without ending up with unconstrained, inﬁnite polysemy. In their analysis of the English preposition over, Tyler and Evans (2003) suggest that previous treatments (by Brugman and by Dewell) have been “too ﬁne-grained,” (postulate too many distinct nodes and paths) and that it is possible to distinguish intersubjectively between senses, (which are linguistic and stored in memory) and “constructed meanings” (which involve conceptual and online processes.) What is exciting for the Columbia School linguist here is that Tyler and Evans’s argument invokes (2003: 145–6) — without saying so explicitly — both the notion of semantic opposition and the idea that the speaker selects that particular preposition (from a closed system of prepositions) which “ﬁts best” with the scene being described. Compare the Columbia School notion of “the least inappropriate meaning relative to a given message” in Kirsner (1979: 32–33). 8. Note the importance of lexical domains here and knowledge of the properties and social use of referents in the world. When physical enclosure by the transporting device is not possible, in is less likely to be used and on is used in the linear location sense without suggesting a ﬁxed trajectory. One gets on a horse, on a bicycle but not usually on the 5:30 horse or the 7AM bicycle to the station even though one gets on a train. The possibility of salient enclosure seems to be the relevant variable in such cases as She was sitting on a stool/on a chair/ in an easy chair/ in a wheelchair. She was sitting on a wheelchair seems to suggest that the wheelchair is not functional as a wheelchair, perhaps because it has tipped over on its side. 9. For further discussion of how diﬀerent the aims of a Columbia School analysis are from those of other theoretical frameworks and why they are diﬀerent, see Chapter 10 of Reid (1991) as well as Reid (2002). There is a danger, of course, that if the theoretical constructs of the Columbia School cannot eventually be “triangulated” (cf. Wolpert 1992: 124–5) by other disciplines such as psychology and cannot prove themselves to be useful, outside of linguistics, to people attempting to understand language from other vantage points, it will suﬀer the fate of typewriters when the personal computer (with word-processing programs) was developed. As Verhagen (1992: 302–3) points out in his argument for the superiority of

Paradigms, analyses, and dialogue Cognitive Grammar over Generative Grammar, computers did not “scientiﬁcally disprove” typewriters. They just allowed people to do much more than they ever could with a typewriter while also performing the functions of one, so that eventually most people, except for a Luddite or two, “simply” stopped using typewriters. 10. For a thorough discussion of what has been called falsiﬁcationism, see Chapters 5 through 6 in Chalmers (1999). For further material on the scientiﬁc status of linguistics, see Chapter 9 of Reid (1991) and also Cognitive Linguist Laura Janda’s discussion of prediction in linguistics (2000: 5). She makes the interesting argument that the notion that linguistics is (or should be) an exact science is actually a folk theory of science, not unlike the conduit metaphor of language mentioned by Reid in his chapter in the present volume. 11. Columbia School linguists do, of course, accept the concept of iconicity — for example the idea that, in the absence of any additional information such as that provided by the explicit signals before and after, the very order of mention of events (and hence the processing of that order in interpretation) usually reﬂects (represents?) their extralinguistic order in time: He entered the room, put on his jacket, and straightened his tie refers to a diﬀerent sequence of activities than He straightened his tie, put on his jacket, and entered the room. 12. For detailed discussion of the possibility of recognizing semiotic networks within a fundamentally Columbia School analysis (while preserving the theoretical diﬀerences between the Columbia School and Cognitive Grammar), see Contini-Morava (2002). 13. A historical note: De Jonge’s analysis is similar to an unpublished analysis of the Latin subjunctive once presented by William Diver in his “Structure of Latin” courses at Columbia University in the mid-1960s. At one point Diver argued that the Latin subjunctive indicated OCCURRENCE QUESTIONED while the indicative signaled only OCCURRENCE. To question an occurrence (but without asking someone whether it actually happened or not) is to raise the possibility of alternatives — of the event not happening or happening diﬀerently, which seems close to De Jonge’s postulated meaning. 14. Tobin and Oron’s contrasting “motivation” to “prediction” is quite compatible with Langacker’s use of these same terms; cf. Langacker (1991: 517) and elsewhere. 15. Readers familiar with Contini-Morava (1991) might wonder if the meaning signaled by -m, associated with event discontinuity, could not be analyzed as having a deictic component. 16. For a full explanation of the theory as well as its clinical application to the treatment of children with speech disorders, see Tobin (1997). 17. This principle appears to have been ﬁrst enunciated by Otto Behagel in the 1920s: “Das oberste Gesetz ist dieses, daß das geistig eng Zusammengehörige auch eng zusammengestellt wird.” or “What belongs together mentally is placed together syntactically.” (This citation and its translation are from Slobin 1985: 228). 18. An exception is Klein-Andreu (1989).

References Aphek, Edna and Tobin, Yishai. 1988. Word Systems in Modern Hebrew: Implications and Applications. Leiden and New York: E. J. Brill. Bolinger, Dwight. 1950a. “Rhyme, assonance, and morpheme analysis.” Word 6: 117–136.

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Robert S. Kirsner Bolinger, Dwight. 1950b. “Shivaree and the phonestheme.” American Speech 25: 134–5. Brugman, Claudia. 1981. The story of over. Berkeley: M. A. Thesis, Linguistics Department, University of California. Published [1988] as The Story of Over: Polysemy, Semantics, and the Structure of the Lexicon. New York: Garland Press. Chalmers, A. F. 1999. What is This Thing Called Science? Third edition. Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company. Contini-Morava, Ellen. 1989. Discourse Pragmatics and Semantic Categorization: The Case of Negation and Tense-Aspect with Special Reference to Swahili. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Contini-Morava, Ellen. 1991. “Deictic explicitness and event continuity in Swahili discourse.” Lingua 83: 277–318. Contini-Morava, Ellen. 1995. “Introduction: On linguistic sign theory.” In Contini-Morava and Sussman Goldberg (eds.), 1–39. Contini-Morava, Ellen. 2002. “(What) do noun class markers mean?” In Reid, Otheguy, and Stern (eds.), 3–64. Contini-Morava, Ellen and Sussman Goldberg, Barbara (eds.) 1995. Meaning as Explanation: Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Dewell, Robert, 1994. “Over again: image-schema transformations in semantic analysis. Cognitive Linguistics 5 (4): 351–380. Diver, William. 1969. “The system of Relevance of the Homeric verb.” Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 12 (1):45–68. Diver, William. 1984. The Grammar of Modern English. Unpublished textbook for Linguistics G6801, Columbia University. Fauconnier, Gilles. 1985. Mental Spaces. Aspects of Meaning Construction in Natural Language. Cambridge: MIT Press. García, Erica. 1975. The Role of Theory in Linguistic Analysis: The Spanish Pronoun System. Amsterdam: North-Holland. Goldberg, Barbara Sussman. 1995.“The -ra and -se opposition in Spanish.” In Contini-Morava and Sussman Goldberg (eds.), 381–404. Hopper, Paul J. and Traugott, Elizabeth Closs. 1993. Grammaticalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huﬀman, Alan. 1997. The Categories of Grammar: French lui and le. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Janda, Laura. 2002. “Cognitive linguistics.” SLING2K February 2000. Manuscript. Revised version forthcoming in Fowler, George (ed.) Slavic Linguistics 2000. Bloomington: Slavica. Janssen, Theo. A. J. M. 2003. “Monosemy versus polysemy.” In Cognitive Approaches to Lexical Semantics [Cognitive Linguistics Research 23], Cuykens, Hubert; Dirven, René; and Taylor, John R. (eds.), 93–122. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Kirsner, Robert S. 1979. The Problem of Presentative Sentences in Modern Dutch. Amsterdam: North-Holland. Kirsner, Robert S. 1989. “Does sign-oriented linguistics have a future?: On sign, text, and the falsiﬁability of theoretical constructs.” In Tobin (ed.), 161–178. Kirsner, Robert S. 1993. “From meaning to message in two theories: Cognitive and Saussurean views of the Modern Dutch demonstratives.” In Conceptualizations and Mental Processing in Language [Cognitive Linguistics Research 3], Geiger, Richard A. and Rudzka-Ostyn, Brygida (eds.), 81–114. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.

Paradigms, analyses, and dialogue Kirsner, Robert S. 2002.“The future of a minimalist linguistics in a maximalist world.” In Reid, Otheguy, and Stern (eds.), 339–371. Klein-Andreu, Flora. 1983. “Grammar in style: Spanish adjective placement.” In Discourse Perspectives on Syntax, Flora Klein-Andreu (ed.), 143–179. New York: Academic Press. Klein-Andreu, Flora. 1989. “Why speech seems ungrammatical.” In Tobin (ed.), 25–44. Lakoﬀ, George and Johnson, Mark. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Langacker, Ronald W. 1987. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar. Volume I. Theoretical Prerequisites. Stanford: Stanford. University Press. Langacker, Ronald W. 1988.“A usage-based model.” In Topics in Cognitive Linguistics [Current Issues in Linguistics 50], Rudzka-Ostyn, Brygida (ed.), 127–161. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Langacker, Ronald W. 1991. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar. Volume II. Descriptive Application. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press. Nerlich, Brigitte; Tood, Zazie; Herman, Vimala; and Clarke, David D. (eds.) 2003. Polysemy: Flexible Patterns of Meaning in Mind and Language. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Nikiforidou, Kiki. 1991 “The meanings of the genitive: A case study in semantic structure and semantic change.” Cognitive Linguistics 2 (2):149–205. Reid, Wallis. 1991. Verb & Noun Number in English: A Functional Explanation. London and New York: Longman. Reid, Wallis. 1995. “Quantitative analysis in Columbia School theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds.), 115–152. Reid, Wallis. 2002. “Introduction: Sign-Based Linguistics.” In Reid, Otheguy, and Stern (eds.), ix-xxi. Reid, Wallis; Otheguy, Ricardo; and Stern, Nancy. (eds). 2002. Signal, Meaning, and Message: Perspectives on Sign-Based Linguistics. [Studies in Functional and Structural Linguistics 48]. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Ruhl, Charles. 1989. On Monosemy: A Study in Linguistic Semantics. Albany: State University of New York Press. Ruhl, Charles. 2002. “Data, comprehensiveness, monosemy.” In Reid, Otheguy, and Stern (eds.), 171–189. Sampson, Geoﬀrey. 2001. Empirical Linguistics. London and New York: Continuum. Shermer, Michael. 1997. Why People Believe Weird Things. Pseudoscience, Superstition, and Other Confusions of Our Time. New York: W. H. Freeman and Company. Slobin, Dan. I. 1985. “The child as linguistic icon-maker.” In Iconicity in Syntax. [Typological Studies in Language 6], Haiman, John (ed.), 221–248. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Smyth, Herbert Weir. 1920. Greek Grammar. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Taylor, John R. 1995a. Linguistic Categorization: Prototypes in Linguistic Theory. Second edition. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Taylor, John R. 1995b. “Models of word meaning in comparison: The two-level model (Manfred Bierwisch) and the network model (Ronald Langacker).” In Current Approaches to the Lexicon. [Duisburger Arbeiten zur Sprach- und Kulturwissenschaft 24)], Dirven, René and Vanparys, Johan (eds.), 3–26. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Taylor, John R. 1999. “Cognitive semantics and structural semantics.” In Historical Semantics and Cognition [Cognitive Linguistics Research 13], Blank, Andreas and Koch, Peter (eds.), 17–48. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter.

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Robert S. Kirsner Taylor, John R. 2003. “Cognitive models of polysemy.” In Nerlich, Tood, Herman, and Clarke (eds.), 31–48. Tobin, Yishai. (ed.) 1989. From Sign To Text: A Semiotic View Of Communication. Amsterdam/ Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Tobin, Yishai. 1990. Semiotics and Linguistics. London and New York: Longman. Tobin, Yishai. 1995. Invariance, Markedness and Distinctive Feature Analysis: A Contrastive Study of Sign Systems in English and Hebrew. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins and Be’er Sheva: Ben Gurion University Press. Tobin, Yishai. 1997. Phonology as Human Behavior: Theoretical Implications and Clinical Applications. Durham: Duke University Press. Tobin, Yishai. 2002. “Phonology as human behavior. Initital consonant clusters across languages.” In Reid, Otheguy, and Stern (eds.), 191–255. Tyler, Andrea and Evans, Vyvyan. 2003. “Reconsidering prepositional polysemy networks: the case of over.” In Nerlich, Tood, Herman, and Clarke (eds.), 95–159. Verhagen, Arie. 2002.“Praxis of linguistics: Passives in Dutch.” Cognitive Linguistics 3(3): 301– 342. Williams, Bernard. 1995. “Which slopes are slippery?” In Making Sense of Humanity and Other Philosophical Papers 1982–1993. Williams, Bernard, 213–223. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wolpert, Lewis. 1992. The Unnatural Nature of Science. London: Faber and Faber Ltd.

PART I

Cognitive Grammar

CHAPTER 1

Form, meaning, and behavior The Cognitive Grammar analysis of double subject constructions Ronald W. Langacker University of California, San Diego

Having long been aware of Columbia School work and its insights into language, I am pleased to have this occasion to assess its relationship to Cognitive linguistics. I will ﬁrst outline some basic notions of Cognitive Grammar and then show its application to a particular grammatical phenomenon, namely double subject constructions. This will function as a substantive background for discussing similarities and diﬀerences between the Columbia School (CS) and Cognitive Grammar (CG) frameworks.

1 Cognitive Grammar The basic framework of CG has existed for well over two decades and endured without essential change. It has however been progressively reﬁned, articulated, and empirically tested by application to a wide range of representative phenomena in diverse languages.¹ Here I can oﬀer only a brief introductory sketch.

1.1. Basic principles My title reﬂects the theme of this volume: form, meaning, and behavior. Form and meaning ﬁgure in the central claim of CG, namely that lexicon, morphology, and syntax make up a continuum consisting solely of assemblies of symbolic structures. A symbolic structure is deﬁned as the pairing between a form (i.e. a phonological structure) and a meaning (a conceptualization, in the broadest sense). It follows that all elements validly posited in grammatical description have some kind of meaning (often quite schematic). Note that the form referred to here is speciﬁcally phonological. What is commonly called “grammatical form” is analyzed in this framework as consisting in schematic symbolic assemblies, i.e. abstracted patterns of symbolization that are immanent in particular complex expressions. Grammatical markers, grammatical classes, and grammatical constructions are all inherently meaningful. Hence the architecture of the framework directly reﬂects the semiological func-

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tion of language, that of allowing conceptual structures to be symbolized by sound structures. Grammar is the schematic systematicity inherent in this symbolizing activity, patterns for combining symbols into complex expressions, characterized as symbolic assemblies. I take this view as being both natural and desirable from the methodological standpoint. To fulﬁll its semiological function, a language must at least comprise semantic structures, phonological structures, and symbolic links between the two. CG claims that only these elements are necessary. It thus achieves a substantial conceptual uniﬁcation — the uniﬁcation of grammar with lexicon — as well as their reduction to something more fundamental. This reduction does not however imply that grammar does not exist.² Conventional grammatical patterns have to be speciﬁcally learned by speakers and explicitly described by linguists. The framework is constrained and theoretically austere owing to the content requirement. This requirement speciﬁes that the only elements ascribable to a linguistic system are: (i) semantic, phonological, and symbolic structures that are (part of) overtly occurring expressions (hence directly apprehended); (ii) abstractions (schematizations) of permitted structures; and (iii) categorizing relationships between permitted structures (e.g. the relationship between a schema and a speciﬁc structure that instantiates it). In phonology, for example, particular sounds like [f], [θ], and [s] can be posited by virtue of occurring in actual expressions; the schematic characterization [voiceless fricative] is permitted as an abstraction of these elements; and also permitted is the categorization of each sound as an instantiation of this schema. Options allowed in the postulation of semantic and grammatical elements are similarly constrained. Thereby precluded are such devices as “ﬁlters” (reﬂecting what cannot occur), derivations from underlying structures, and purely formal devices with no semantic or phonological content (e.g. syntactic tree structures as viewed in the generative tradition). Consequently, nothing is posited unless it is directly manifested in actual expressions, or else is capable of emerging from this data by the basic cognitive phenomena of abstraction (schematization) and/or categorization. This is one respect in which CG merits the label “cognitive”. Cognitive linguistics and CG are also “cognitive” in the sense that, insofar as possible, linguistic structure is analyzed in terms of more basic systems and abilities (e.g. perception, attention, categorization) from which it cannot be dissociated. This point can be illustrated by the strategy I have used in adopting and motivating some basic descriptive constructs. The strategy consists of seeking converging evidence from three sources: (i) a particular construct is shown necessary for the adequate semantic description of multiple phenomena in various languages; (ii) this construct is related to an independently observable cognitive ability; and (iii) this same construct proves critical for the explicit characterization of varied grammatical phenomena. With respect to the volume’s theme, this strategy assumes that some of the same cognitive abilities manifested in non-linguistic behavior are also crucial factors in linguistic meaning (and hence in grammar). Let me give three examples, which will serve to introduce some basic constructs I will need in the subsequent analysis.

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

1.2. Proﬁling The ﬁrst construct is what I call proﬁling. An expression evokes a certain array of conceptual content, called its conceptual base, as the basis for its meaning. Within this base, the expression proﬁles (i.e. refers to) a particular substructure. For instance, as sketched in Figure 1, the term hypotenuse evokes as its base the conception of a right triangle, within which it proﬁles the side opposite the right angle. Likewise, aunt proﬁles a human female characterized by position in a kinship network relative to a reference individual (ego). Note that proﬁling is indicated diagrammatically by heavy lines. a. hypotenuse

b. aunt

ego Figure 1.

Just from the standpoint of semantic description, there is ample motivation for adopting this construct — I see no way to properly characterize and distinguish linguistic meanings without it (or something with comparable eﬀect). This is especially clear in cases where alternate proﬁles are imposed on the same base, so that the diﬀerence in meaning cannot be ascribed to a diﬀerence in conceptual content. Some examples are presented in Figure 2. Husband and wife have the same conceptual base, comprising a male (M) and a female (F) united in a particular way (represented by a horizontal line). Since the terms share this conceptual content, the semantic contrast between them must reside in their choice of proﬁle within it.³ In Figure 2(b), the dashed arrow represents a mental relationship in which a sentient creature bears a particular positive attitude toward another entity.⁴ The

M b

husband

Base

a.

F

M

wife F

admire

Base tr

Figure 2.

M

F admirer

lm

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Ronald W. Langacker

verb admire proﬁles the relationship itself (and since the conception of a relationship presupposes and incorporates the conception of its participants, these are included in the proﬁle). By contrast, the noun admirer proﬁles only the participant who maintains the attitude in question. The two expressions have the same overall conceptual content: admire makes intrinsic conceptual reference to the individual holding the attitude, and admirer necessarily evokes the relationship coded by the verb. They are non-synonymous by virtue of the alternate proﬁles they impose on the same conceptual base. Considerations like these provide semantic evidence for adopting proﬁling as a descriptive construct. What about psychological evidence? It seems apparent that proﬁling is a focusing of attention within a conceived situation. In non-linguistic cognition, it has both perceptual and more abstract mental analogs: looking at one particular person in a group; focusing on a particular lineman making a block (amidst the welter of activity constituting a play in football); or — in the case of linguists — thinking of one particular node in a syntactic tree structure. The focusing of attention is such a basic psychological phenomenon that it is hard to imagine it not having a basic linguistic manifestation. While there may be many kinds and levels of attention, it is clear at the very least that proﬁling is reasonably considered one of them. So just for purposes of semantic description — independently of grammar — one could justify the construct of proﬁling and see it as the linguistic application of a broader, more fundamental cognitive phenomenon. Grammar provides a further check, a third source of evidence. It turns out that, once expressions are properly described in purely semantic terms, proﬁling is just what is needed for the characterization of various grammatical notions. Let us brieﬂy consider four applications. Each deserves extended discussion, but here I can only oﬀer succinct illustration. First, an expression’s grammatical class is determined by the nature of its proﬁle (not by its overall conceptual content). Expressions can proﬁle either things or relationships, these terms being deﬁned quite abstractly.⁵ A noun proﬁles a thing. A verb proﬁles a process, deﬁned as a relationship whose evolution through time is rendered salient. Classes like adjectives and prepositions involve the proﬁling of non-processual relations. With respect to Figure 2(b), for example, admire is a verb because it proﬁles a relationship portrayed as extending or unfolding through time, whereas admirer is a noun because it proﬁles a thing; admirer evokes the process of admiring as its conceptual base but proﬁles only the sentient participant. By the same token, a relationship is crucial to the semantic content of aunt, which is nonetheless a noun because its proﬁle (or conceptual referent) is a thing (Figure 1(b)). Second, the imposition of a particular proﬁle constitutes the essential meaning of certain grammatical markers. For instance, the eﬀect of the derivational suﬃx -er (in its prototypical sense) is to proﬁle a thing characterized by its active role in the process designated by the verb stem it combines with. Admirer thus designates the active participant in the process admire. The meaning of -er resides precisely in the imposition of this proﬁle (and the concomitant change of grammatical class).

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

Third, a head (at a given level of structural organization) can be characterized as the element whose proﬁle is inherited by the structure as a whole (at that level). By this deﬁnition, -er is the head within the V+er construction, since its proﬁle (rather than that of the verb) is inherited as that of the expression as a whole, making admirer a noun rather than a verb. Likewise, a preposition is the head in a prepositional phrase construction, since the phrase as a whole proﬁles the non-processual relation designated by the preposition, rather than the thing proﬁled by its nominal object. The conceptual referent of near Chicago, for example, is a relationship of spatial proximity, not the city of Chicago. Fourth, a subordinate clause is one whose proﬁle is overridden at a higher level of grammatical organization. Here I will merely observe that (1)a — taken as a whole — proﬁles the process of admiring, not that of pole-vaulting, while (1)b proﬁles an act of deciding (not buying) at the highest level of organization. (1) a. I admire anyone [who can pole-vault 16 feet]. b. She decided [to buy a new car]. The examples in (2) further illustrate how the constructs proﬁle and base prove useful for both semantic and grammatical description. They make it possible to specify, in an explicit and principled manner, the precise nature of the similarities and diﬀerences among certain closely related but non-equivalent expressions. The diagrams in Figure 3 correspond respectively to the boldface elements in (2), i.e. the verb melt, the participle melted, and the adjective liquid. (2) a. b. c. d. e.

I melted it. It melted easily. It melted in the heat. It is ﬁnally melted. It is now liquid.

The verb melt in (2)a proﬁles a force-dynamic interaction (Talmy 1988) resulting in a change of state. One participant (represented by a small circle) functions as a source of energy or inﬂuence (double arrow) directed at a second participant (large circle), which thereby undergoes a transition (single arrow) into the state (given as a box) of a. tr c.

L tr

L

b.

L

lm d.

tr L tr Figure 3.

e.

L tr

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Ronald W. Langacker

being liquid (L). The transitive melt proﬁles this entire chain of events. By contrast, the intransitive melt in (2)b–c proﬁles only the second participant’s change and resulting state. The force responsible for this change, as well as its source, are evoked with varying degrees of salience as unproﬁled facets of the expression’s conceptual base. In (2)b, the adverb easily evokes the agent’s role by specifying the degree of diﬃculty the agent encounters. In (2)c there is no agent, although the heat is readily construed as a causing inﬂuence in addition to its portrayal as an abstract location. At the extreme, the conception of external inﬂuence may be entirely absent. As a stative-adjectival participle, melted in (2)d does not proﬁle any change, but merely the relationship of its single participant exhibiting the property of being liquid. However, it does evoke the change-of-state process as part of its base: something can only be described as melted by virtue of its having undergone the process of melting. Grammatically, this type of participle qualiﬁes as an adjective because it conforms to the schematic conceptual characterization of this class (namely, it proﬁles a non-processual relation whose single proﬁled participant is a thing). The same is true of the adjectival sense of liquid, in (2)e. The contrast between melted and liquid is that the latter does not necessarily evoke a change-of-state process. Something can perfectly well be described as liquid even if it has never melted (e.g. it might result from the liquefaction of a gas).

1.3. Trajector and landmark To further illustrate the strategy of converging evidence, we can best start with a contrasting pair of relational expressions, e.g. above and below, sketched in Figure 4. Above proﬁles a non-processual relationship involving two participants in the domain of space organized in terms of horizontal and vertical dimensions. Given as a double-headed arrow, the proﬁled relationship speciﬁes that one participant occupies a higher position along the vertical axis than does the other. Note, however, that exactly the same is true for below, which evokes the same conceptual elements and proﬁles the same relationship (referentially, an above relationship is also a below relationship). The semantic contrast does not reside in either the conceptual content evoked (the base) or the proﬁling imposed on it. We therefore need some other a. above

b. below tr

lm

lm

tr Figure 4.

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

descriptive construct, just to achieve a minimally adequate semantic characterization — one that successfully distinguishes the meanings of above and below (and likewise for many other such pairs). It seems evident that the contrast has to do with the relational participants. When a relationship is proﬁled, its participants are accorded varying degrees of prominence. There is usually a primary focal participant, termed the trajector (tr), and often a secondary focal participant, called a landmark (lm). The trajector is the entity the expression seeks to locate, track, assess, or characterize, and a landmark (when present) is another salient entity evoked for this purpose. In the case of above, the trajector is located in the vertical dimension with respect to a landmark found at a lower point along this axis, whereas below reverses these speciﬁcations and situates its trajector with respect to a landmark found at a higher point. Trajector/landmark alignment was also shown in previous diagrams. In Figure 2(b), the sentient individual functions as a trajector characterized as having a mental attitude toward some other entity, the landmark. In Figure 3(a), the agent or energy source functions as trajector, since the transitive melt tracks its activity, in particular the eﬀect it has on the patient, which is therefore put in focus as a landmark. Observe that if there is only one participant, it must have primary focal prominence, making it a trajector; the secondary focal prominence of a landmark is only possible relative to another element with primary focus. Consequently, since there is only one proﬁled participant in Diagrams (3)b–e, it is necessarily the trajector even when construed as a patient. What about non-linguistic manifestations of this ability to variably impose focal prominence in conceptualizing a relationship? I suggest that the relative prominence accorded to relational participants is very much akin to the ﬁgure/ground organization observed in Gestalt psychology, with alternate choices of trajector being analogous to ﬁgure/ground reversal. But can we speak of two degrees of ﬁgure status, a “primary ﬁgure” and a “secondary ﬁgure”, corresponding to the constructs trajector and landmark? I believe so. We certainly do have the ability — independently of language — to focus selectively on one participant in an interaction. If I watch a boxing match, for example, I can focus on one particular boxer, observing his techniques, which hand he favors, his footwork, even the number of blows he absorbs (this is analogous to a passive construal). Moreover, as I do so the other boxer naturally becomes a kind of secondary focus: I am following boxer1 mostly in relation to his interaction with boxer2, and am only in a peripheral way concerned with his corner, the referee, or the audience. We thus have good reason to think that the kind of cognitive ability being appealed to does in fact exist. I therefore posit trajector/landmark alignment for purposes of viable semantic description, and would argue for its psychological validity. Does it also have grammatical import? I claim that a subject, at a given level of grammatical organization, is properly characterized as a nominal element which speciﬁes the trajector of the relationship proﬁled at that level. Likewise, an object is a nominal element which speciﬁes the landmark at a given level. I have argued extensively that this concep-

27

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Ronald W. Langacker

tual characterization is both viable and well supported (see Langacker 1991: 7.3, 1999c, 2001). As a ﬁrst step in making it more precise, we need to consider the nature of grammatical constructions. A construction is a symbolic assembly comprising a set of component symbolic structures and a composite symbolic structure, linked by correspondences. An initial (simpliﬁed) example is given in Figure 5, representing constructions at two levels of organization. At the lower level of organization, the component structures admires and Bill are integrated to form the composite structure admires Bill. Observe that the nominal expression Bill proﬁles a thing (B stands for its various semantic speciﬁcations, e.g. that it refers to a male human), which corresponds to the schematic thing functioning as the landmark of admires (correspondences are indicated by dotted lines). By merging the speciﬁcations of the corresponding elements, we obtain the composite structure admires Bill. At this level admires is the head, or proﬁle determinant (marked by a heavy-line box), because its proﬁle — not that of Bill — is inherited as the proﬁle of the composite expression. In the second construction, at a higher level of organization, the component structures are Alice and admires Bill, the proﬁle of the former corresponding to the schematic trajector of the latter. The proﬁle determinant at this level is admires Bill, since the entire clause designates the process of admiring rather than Alice. Observe that a kind of constituency emerges when the composite structure at one level of organization happens to be invoked as a component structure at a higher level. Constituency is not, however, either fundamental or essential in this framework (Langacker 1997). In particular, it is not used for the characterization of grammatical dependencies, such as the subject and object relations. Instead, a nominal Alice admires Bill A

Alice

tr

B

lm

tr

A

tr

B

lm admires Figure 5.

lm

admires Bill

B Bill

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

expression qualiﬁes as a subject if its proﬁle (a thing) corresponds to the trajector of a proﬁled relationship, and as an object if its proﬁle corresponds to a landmark. With respect to Figure 5, therefore, Alice is the subject of admires, admires Bill, and Alice admires Bill, as seen by tracing both “horizontal” and “vertical” correspondences. Bill is likewise the object at all three levels. Part of the conceptual uniﬁcation achieved in CG is that grammatical patterns (or “rules”) have the same basic nature as the expressions which instantiate them. Like expressions, they consist in assemblies of symbolic structures, except that some or all of their elements are schematic rather than speciﬁc. Grammatical patterns can thus be described as constructional schemas, which serve as templates governing the formation of novel expressions. An expression like Alice admires Bill, as seen in Figure 5, instantiates a number of constructional schemas pertaining to different levels and facets of linguistic structure.

1.4. Reference points We come now to the ﬁnal example of using converging evidence to justify a descriptive construct. It involves our basic cognitive ability to invoke the conception of one entity as a conceptual reference point (R) to establish “mental contact” with another entity (i.e. to single it out for individual conscious awareness). An entity accessed via a reference point is called a target (T). A reference point’s dominion (D) is the set of potential targets to which it gives access. The diagrammatic representation in Figure 6 will prove convenient. This general cognitive ability has both perceptual and more abstract manifestations. It provides the coherence of sequences like the following: (3) a.

Do you see that large boulder about half-way up the mountain? There’s a climber just above it. b. Do you remember the lawyer who got disbarred? His daughter is in my ethics class.

In each case the ﬁrst sentence evokes a reference point (the boulder or the lawyer), which the second sentence uses as a basis for directing attention to the intended target (the climber or the daughter).

R D C Figure 6.

T

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Ronald W. Langacker

Semantically, a reference point relationship is my candidate for a viable description of possessive constructions (Langacker 1993, 1995a; Taylor 1996). It is suﬃciently abstract to account for the wide range of speciﬁc possessive uses, such as those in (4)a. At the same time, owing to its inherent directionality (the target being accessed via the reference point), it accounts for the usual irreversibility of possessive expressions, as seen in (4)b. (4) a.

the doctor’s wallet; the dog’s tail; Bill’s uncle; the cat’s ﬂeas; her anxiety; the teacher’s situation; our bus; your candidate; Lincoln’s assassination b. *the wallet’s doctor; *the tail’s dog; *the situation’s teacher; *the assassination’s Lincoln

Grammatically, I take a reference point relationship as providing the abstract conceptual content of the possessive element ’s. Figure 7 illustrates its use in a basic possessive construction. Following Taylor, I assume that ’s proﬁles the target (although this is not essential). At the ﬁrst level of organization, Bill elaborates the schematic reference point of ’s, producing Bill’s. The schematic target is then elaborated by knife, which functions as head (proﬁle determinant), to form the noun phrase Bill’s knife. Bill’s knife R

T K

B D

Bill’s

B

T

R

K D

R

T

B D Bill

’s Figure 7.

knife

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

T R

C Figure 8.

I believe our reference point ability has numerous linguistic manifestations pertaining to diﬀerent levels and dimensions of organization. Within a noun phrase, a possessive relation holds between two things. At the discourse level, I consider a topic to be a reference point whose target is a proposition, as sketched in Figure 8.⁶ There are topics at various levels of discourse organization. In (50)a–c, we observe a topic in force over the span of a “paragraph”, a complex sentence, and a single clause. As the stretch of discourse over which a topic holds sway becomes smaller, its degree of structural integration with the proposition becomes tighter. In (5)a, the topic is introduced in a separate sentence, and is not explicitly mentioned in every proposition brought into its dominion. The topic in (5)b is internal to the sentence but set oﬀ as a separate intonational unit. In (5)c, where the sentence in question has just one clause, the topic is still clause-external both structurally and intonationally, yet normally the clause contains a pronoun referring back to it. Finally, in (5)d that wedding is clause-internal, functioning simultaneously as discourse topic and clausal object. (5) a.

Let’s talk about the wedding. June would be a good month. I don’t want to invite too many guests. Do you think we should have it outdoors? We really ought to have it recorded on video tape b. That wedding, I’m really looking forward to it, but I don’t want to buy a tuxedo, since I would never use it again. c. That wedding, I’m really looking forward to it. d. That wedding I’m really looking forward to.

More controversially, I suggest that subject and object are also reference point notions. This is a further elucidation of their characterization as nominal expressions that respectively correspond to the trajector and the landmark of a proﬁled relationship, i.e. the primary and secondary focal participants. To see this, observe that a relationship is conceptually dependent, in the sense that its own conception presupposes and incorporates the conception of its central participants. To the extent that this is so, the participants provide mental access to a relational conception, and as such are reference points with respect to it. A certain amount of evidence suggests that the primary and secondary focal prominence of trajector and land-

3

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Ronald W. Langacker

a.

b. T

T R

R

C

C Figure 9.

mark reside in their being the ﬁrst and second reference points accessed in building up to the full conception of a relationship (see Langacker 1999c, 2001). Figure 9(a) depicts the reference point relation between a participant and a relationship mentally accessed through it. The latter is given by a solid arrow, the box indicating (as in Figure 8) that the relationship as a whole — including its focal participant — functions as target. It is by virtue of “anchoring” the conception of the proﬁled relationship that this participant constitutes its trajector. The dominion (D) comprises the innumerable relationships that this reference point could potentially anchor, the target being the one that happens to be evoked and proﬁled. Let me oﬀer just one bit of evidence for this characterization, out of many. We need to explain the cross-linguistic prevalence of possessive constructions being used to specify the central participants of nominalized verbs, e.g. Lincoln’s assassination [by Booth] or Booth’s assassination [of Lincoln]. This common periphrastic device is actually predicted given the conceptual characterizations independently proposed for possessives, for trajector/landmark alignment, and for nominalization. This latter involves conceptual reiﬁcation, such that a relationship is reconceptualized as an abstract thing. The eﬀect of nominalization is shown in Figure 9, where the box in 9(a) becomes an ellipse (representing a thing) in 9(b). If — as claimed — an event’s participants function as reference points with respect to it, and nominalization creates an abstract thing, then the relation a participant bears to the reiﬁed event constitutes a reference point relation between two things. That is precisely the deﬁnition proposed for possessives (Figure 6). How does a subject relate to a topic? Both are characterized as reference point relationships between a thing and a proposition (i.e. a proﬁled process). The diﬀerence is seen by comparing Figures 8 and 9(a). In the case of a topic, the reference point relationship is extrinsic to the clausal conception, a matter of discourse contingency. It is possible to conceptualize the proﬁled relationship in the absence of a reference point relation at the discourse level. In the case of a subject, on the other hand, the reference point relationship is intrinsic, i.e. inherent in the very conception of the clausal proposition. This follows from the conceptual dependence of a relationship on its focal participants. Although I will not pursue the matter, I believe these characterizations give us a good handle on how topic constructions might

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

evolve historically into subject constructions, and why it is sometimes hard to distinguish them.

2 Double subject constructions The intimate association of topic and subject is especially evident in double subject constructions (Langacker 1999a). I will ﬁrst present some typical data, to be followed by a description and then some discussion.

2.1. Data Double subject constructions are not at all uncommon cross-linguistically. Some cases I am aware of are exempliﬁed in (6)–(15).⁷ (6) Taroo-ga hana-ga hikui. Taro-SUBJ nose-SUBJ low ‘Taro has a ﬂat nose.’

[Japanese]

(7) Nihonzin-ga kome-ga syusyoku-da. Japanese-SUBJ rice-SUBJ staple.food-be ‘The Japanese have rice as their staple food.’ (8) Na pay aphu-ta. I stomach ache-ASSR ‘My stomach aches.’

[Korean]

(9) Na ku salam coh-ta. I the man likable-ASSR ‘I like the man.’ (10) Tā dùzi è. he stomach hungry ‘He is hungry.’

[Mandarin]

(11) Tā tóu téng. he head painful ‘He has a headache.’ (12) Wa khicaa-yaake bhugin chama du. the dog-COM fly one exist ‘There’s a ﬂy on the dog.’ (13) Ji-ta wa baanlaa. I-DAT she beautiful ‘I think she’s beautiful.’

[Newari]

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Ronald W. Langacker

(14) Noo=n no-puush konoknish. I=1s:PRES my-eye green ‘I have green eyes.’

[Luiseño]

(15) Noo=up no-te’ tiiwu-q. I=3s:PRES my-stomach hurt-PRES ‘I have a stomach ache.’ The basic phenomenon is the existence of sentences having roughly the form in (16). They are headed by two NP’s, each of which has some claim to being a subject. NP2 and the predicate appear to form a clause by themselves, yet the entire sequence also functions as a single clause.⁸ NP1 appears to be a topic with respect to the inner clause. It is often a possessor with respect to NP2 or some other element of the inner clause. Body-part relationships between NP1 and NP2 are the most frequent, evidently the prototype for this kind of construction, which can however be extended to many other sorts of situations. It is common for NP1 to be an experiencer with respect to the inner clause. Finally, there is a strong tendency for these sentences to be stative. Often they translate naturally with have even though they contain no such verb. (16) [ NP1 [NP2 PREDICATE]] ________________ inner clause _____________________ full clause

2.2. Analysis Though problematic from certain theoretical perspectives, this type of construction is quite straightforwardly described in CG. Its description requires nothing whatever that is not independently established, and most points have already been presented. Just three additional observations are needed, all independent of double subject constructions: (i) Reference point relationships are often signalled by simple juxtaposition (not by any separate morphological element). (ii) A verb or a clause can proﬁle a reference point relationship. (iii) An expression’s composite structure can proﬁle an entity not proﬁled by either component structure. In regard to point (i), we can observe that certain kinds of relationships are so basic and conceptually non-elaborate that they are commonly signalled linguistically by indirect means, rather than by speciﬁc morphological material. Two such cases are identity and reference point relations. These are exempliﬁed by her and president in (17)a, and by them and a package in (17)b, respectively. (17) a. They elected her president. b. We sent them a package.

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

Marking by mere juxtaposition (which can be considered iconic) is especially common for nominal possessive constructions, as in (18): (18) jakare ruguai crocodile tail ‘the crocodile’s tail’

[Guaraní]

If English worked this way, so that we said Bill knife instead of Bill’s knife, it would have the structure shown in Figure 10 (cf. Figure 7). The reference point relation need not be strongly invoked by either of the juxtaposed component elements, considered separately (though it may be in particular cases). It is rather a function of the overall construction, evoked as conceptual base at the composite structure level. Bill corresponds to the reference point (making it the possessor), and knife to the target, which is proﬁled by the overall expression. Note that despite their diﬀerent modes of assembly, the composite structures of Figures 7 and 10 are the same. Bill’s knife R

T K

B D

B

K

Bill

knife Figure 10.

Point (ii), that a reference point relation can be proﬁled, is illustrated by a possessive verb like have. While such a verb has many uses and may have more speciﬁc senses, the schematic value — that of proﬁling a reference point relationship — is what it arguably shares in all its uses. Examples like (19)b-e show that any notion like ownership or control is too speciﬁc to apply to all uses. At the extreme, the subject comes very close to merely serving as a point of reference for specifying the object’s location. (19) a. b. c. d. e.

She has three dogs. I have the spaghetti. [customer to waiter holding the spaghetti] The US has a high ratio of prisoners to total population. He has freckles. We have a lot of skunks around here.

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have tr

lm K

B D Figure 11.

In its most schematic value, a verb like have is diagrammed in Figure 11, where the dashed arrows represent the conceptualizer’s path of mental access. On occasion, even a clausal reference point relationship can be coded by mere juxtaposition, as exempliﬁed in (20): (20) Inepo kari-ne. I house-FUT ‘I will have a house.’

[Yaqui]

In this Yaqui example, there is no overt verb, yet a clausal process is evoked and marked for future tense. Although the tense suﬃx appears on the possessed noun, it is the process of possessing it (a speciﬁc instantiation of a reference point relation) that occurs in the future. This expression also illustrates point (iii), namely that a composite structure sometimes proﬁles an entity not proﬁled by either component structure (i.e. some constructions are exocentric). In the case at hand, diagrammed in Figure 12, the component structures proﬁle things, while the expression as a whole designates the possessive relationship.

inepo kari tr I R

D

lm K T

I

K

inepo

kari Figure 12.

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

Further illustrating the marking of a reference point relation by simple juxtaposition is a regular topic construction, e.g. (21): (21) The lottery, I never have any luck. To keep things simple, I have taken an example where the comment clause makes no overt reference to the topic. The basic organization of such an expression is sketched in Figure 13. The two component structures respectively proﬁle a thing (X) and a proposition (Y V). The topic relationship emerges only at the composite structure level, being signalled by the adjacency and temporal ordering of these two elements. My assumption is that the overall expression inherits its proﬁle from the comment clause. X, Y V R X

T

tr

Y

D

X

Y

X

YV

tr

Figure 13.

Given the points just established, a double subject construction can be seen as resulting from a speciﬁc way of applying them. In particular, a double subject construction results when (i) a reference point relationship is signalled by mere juxtaposition; (ii) the target is a clause (rather than a noun phrase); and (iii) the reference point relationship — not proﬁled by either component structure — is nonetheless proﬁled at the composite structure level. The basic structure is diagrammed in Figure 14. At the lower level of organization, NP2 combines with a predicate to form the inner clause. At the higher level, NP1 and the inner clause are juxtaposed, producing a composite structure that proﬁles a reference point relation between them. Not proﬁled by either component structure, this reference point relation has a clausal proposition for its target. This is very much like a topic construction, as in Figure 13, except that the reference point relationship created at the composite structure level is proﬁled, resulting in a single-clause structure with a clausal complement. It also resembles the possessive construction in Figure 12, except that the target is a proposition rather than a thing. Like the possessive construction, it is exocentric, since the reference point

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Full clause tr

T

X R

NP1

lm Y

D

X

Y

tr

Inner clause

tr

X

Y

NP2

Predicate

Figure 14.

relationship it proﬁles is not inherited from either component structure. Given this proﬁling, it is automatic that the reference point itself (NP1) functions as trajector, hence subject. Recall that a trajector was characterized as the ﬁrst reference point accessed in building up to the conception of a proﬁled relationship. It follows that when the reference point relationship is itself put in proﬁle, the reference point should be its trajector.

2.3. Discussion Why does this type of construction exist? Indeed, why is it cross-linguistically prevalent? It is not an idiosyncrasy of one language, or even one linguistic area, so it must have some functional motivation. Its function, I suggest, resembles that of so-called “raising” constructions, which provide a means for naturally salient entities to occur in grammatically salient positions (notably clausal subject): (22) a. For the prime minister to resign is unlikely. b. The prime minister is unlikely to resign. I have argued (Langacker 1995b) that “raising” is a matter of metonymy in the choice of relational participants, metonymy being another reference point phenomenon. It enables us to evoke one entity by explicitly mentioning another that is cognitively salient or easier to encode. It is well known, of course, that certain kinds of entities make “better” subjects than others. Certainly humans outrank clauses in regard to “topicality” and “subjectworthiness”.

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

I believe double subject constructions serve a similar function, by means of a different grammatical device, albeit one that still relies on a reference point relation. Many grammatical phenomena conspire to ensure that elements with intrinsic cognitive salience appear in positions that are structurally prominent. People in particular are cognitively salient and naturally taken as reference points. Structurally, a subject is highly prominent, whereas a possessor — as a modiﬁer, inside a noun phrase — is not. The double subject examples reveal that NP1 is typically human, whereas NP2, which would otherwise be the subject, is less topical. Often it designates a body part, which in any case is most naturally accessed via the conception of the person it belongs to. The double subject construction straightens things out and lets us access NP2 via NP1, which as trajector of the proﬁled relationship is the point of access for the entire complex expression. It allows an intrinsically salient possessor (often the speaker) to appear in a maximally prominent position, as subject of a higher-level clause. Let me summarize by reviewing the various properties of a double subject construction. These properties are reﬂected in the structure proposed and directly related to its function. • Double subject sentences are normally stative. Active sentences are likely to have agentive, inherently topical subjects. The functional desideratum of superseding a non-topical subject is more likely to arise in stative expressions. • NP2 and the predicate can themselves constitute a clause. This is because the construction builds on a clause, adding another level of organization with topic-like function. • The entire structure also has clausal status. It is by building a higher-level clause, with a new trajector, that subject status is shifted to an inherently more topical participant. • NP1 and NP2 both have some claim to subjecthood. They are subjects (i.e. correspondents of proﬁled trajectors) at diﬀerent levels of organization. • NP1 is a topic with respect to the inner clause. This is because the higher-level relationship grafted onto the inner clause is precisely a reference point relationship between NP1 and that clause. • NP1 is typically a possessor with respect to NP2. This makes NP1 a reference point for NP2, which in turn — as trajector — is a reference point with respect to the predicate. Hence this circumstance is optimal for purposes of NP1 being adopted as reference point with respect to the inner clause. • Body-part relationships between NP1 and NP2 are prototypical. Such relationships are prototypical for possessives, and also involve the requisite asymmetry in cognitive salience (a person being inherently more topical than a body part). • NP1 is commonly an experiencer with respect to the inner clause. This goes along with body-part possessive relationships, as well as the construction’s stativity. • Double subject sentences often translate naturally with have, despite the absence of a possessive verb. That is because they are reference point constructions, and have itself proﬁles a reference point relation.

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3 Comparison of CG and CS I will now turn to some general observations and a few comparisons of Cognitive Grammar with the Columbia School approach. It should come as no great shock that I subscribe to the former rather than the latter. They do however have a lot in common, and the points of diﬀerence — though substantial — are not necessarily so drastic as they might appear.

3.1. In defense of CG By way of defending my preference, let me start by emphasizing the extent to which the architecture, the constructs, and the speciﬁc descriptions of CG are principled in nature. In the course of the discussion I have pointed out the following: (i) CG posits only semantic structures, phonological structures, and symbolic structures (pairings of the other two). It is thus congruent with the basic semiological function of language, that of allowing meanings to be symbolized by sounds. (ii) The theory achieves conceptual uniﬁcation and theoretical austerity. (iii) It relies solely on mental abilities and phenomena whose existence is independently demonstrable. (iv) Converging evidence is required for the adoption of basic descriptive constructs. (v) CG avoids the imposition of artiﬁcial boundaries that, despite being traditionally assumed, have always proved problematic in practice. Examples include lexicon vs. grammar, morphology vs. syntax, and semantics vs. pragmatics. In each case the distinction is seen as being a matter of degree. (vi) Independently justiﬁed constructs and phenomena come together to provide straightforward descriptions of constructions that are problematic from other perspectives. I have shown this in detail for the particular case of double subject constructions. (vii) Such descriptions are successful in explaining, in conceptual and functional terms, the existence and speciﬁc properties of grammatical constructions. In his excellent monograph on French lui and le, Huﬀman (1997) expends considerable eﬀort in contrasting CS and CG. Though his criticisms of the latter are thoughtful and substantial, I naturally believe them to be a bit oﬀ the mark. A brief response may be useful as a way of correcting some misconceptions that tend to exaggerate the actual diﬀerences between the two frameworks. I will examine four issues, in each case starting with a quote from Huﬀman’s book. • Uniﬁed analyses. Alternatively, lui might represent a network of interconnecting values, each one related at least indirectly to the others, and with one perhaps being ‘prototypical’, but with no central factor directly uniting them all; this kind of relationship is often posited by analyses in Cognitive Grammar. However, if an analysis can demonstrate that there is a unifying factor on the basis of which the appearance of lui in all cases can be accounted for, then this analysis clearly presents the stronger case. Analyses that overlook such a unifying factor miss the point of what actually motivates speakers to use the form. [p. 17]

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

This pertains to my network model of complex categories (Langacker 1987: ch. 10), as applied to the meanings of linguistic elements, where polysemy is taken as being quite common. Huﬀman implies that a polysemous account is incompatible with ﬁnding and stating a unifying factor. But there is no such incompatibility. A highly schematic meaning unifying all uses is always to be sought, and is posited in CG when one can be found. The network model of complex categories recognizes the axis of schematicity and instantiation, as well as that of prototypicality and central tendencies; it makes no a priori claims as to which axis will prove most important, in a particular case or in general. CS-type meanings are often adopted, and the speciﬁc meanings posited in the CS literature generally seem plausible to me and very much on the right track. At the most schematic level, I would probably accept Huﬀman’s characterization of lui in terms of mid-level control, which can easily be incorporated in a CG analysis. Two critical issues remain, however: (i) Is a unifying schematic meaning exhaustive of what one has to say to adequately describe a particular element? (ii) To what extent does such a meaning actually “account for” the range of uses? We will return to these matters. • Distribution. The problem on which Columbia school focuses attention — occurrences of morphemes — is not directly addressed by their work [p. 22] This is in reference to Wierzbicka and myself, inter alia. In regard to Wierzbicka (e.g. 1988, 1996), I wonder how it squares with Huﬀman’s comment on the very next page that her goal is “to specify the precise set of semantic formulae which can generate no more and no less than the entire range of dative sentences acceptable in a given language”. This is representative of Wierzbicka’s strategy in general, and she takes it very seriously.⁹ As for myself, the whole point of positing complex categories (modeled as networks) is to handle the problem of distribution. There is elaborate discussion in my work (e.g. 1988, 1999b: ch. 4) of the usage-based conception, why it is necessary, and precisely how distribution and judgments of well-/ill-formedness arise. It might be argued that a simpler account is possible than Wierzbicka’s or mine (i.e. that a single schematic meaning will do the job), but it is unfair to say that our work does not directly address occurrences of morphemes. • Advance knowledge about cognition. Cognitive Grammar sets out to apply to language a body of preestablished knowledge about cognition . . . A great deal must be known in advance about cognition for grammatical analysis to be possible; so much, in fact, that the writing of a complete cognitive grammar is presently unfeasible . . . A Columbia-school analysis starts with much less: morphemes and their observed occurrences . . . Columbia-school linguists thus allow the feasibility of writing complete grammars, and in fact attempt to do so. [pp. 329–331] This gives a very inaccurate impression. Most of what I think I know about cognition was inspired by linguistic analysis, and the same is true of Cognitive linguistics

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generally.¹⁰ Cognitive linguistic research involves an intricate dialectic, using linguistic facts to suggest the need for particular descriptive constructs, and using independent knowledge about cognition as a check on the plausibility of what is posited. The test is whether a consistent, revelatory overall picture eventually emerges, one which is adequate and supported from both the linguistic and the psychological standpoints. As for the writing of complete grammars, CS linguists have the advantage because, as a matter of theoretical principle, they eliminate from what they call “language” the vast majority of what Cognitive linguists feel obliged to study. It is thus a wholly erroneous comparison. • Relation to traditional grammar. In spite of the promise of something new and diﬀerent oﬀered by Cognitive Grammar, its most fundamental categories are identical with those of the traditional canon . . . In Columbia-school theory, no category of grammar is ‘beyond dispute’. On the contrary, every category must withstand rigorous testing and earn its way into the grammar. [pp. 331–332] Adopted in CG are certain traditional notions like subject, object, noun, verb, possessive, count vs. mass, and subordinate clause. I did not retain such notions by virtue of conservatism, but rather because — from decades of work with diverse languages — I see the need to employ them in comprehensive linguistic descriptions. Morever, they are not just taken over from tradition. Rather, I have redeﬁned them in what I believe are more viable terms (e.g. what I call a “noun” is far more inclusive than in traditional usage) and in each case oﬀered a highly schematic conceptual characterization that I believe is compatible with all their manifestations. Is this not in the CS spirit? Indeed, my characterization of trajector (in terms of which subjects are deﬁned) as “primary focal participant” is very much akin to the Diverian “central focus”, and not at all comparable to traditional deﬁnitions. If only because they could not understand it, most linguists recognized that CG was quite new and diﬀerent when ﬁrst proposed.¹¹ I do admit to believing that a few basic notions from the previous history of linguistics might prove potentially useful and thus worthy of retention (given proper clariﬁcation and characterization). So if it seems important I will gladly cede to CS (apparently not guilty of that sin) the privilege of being considered the most “radical”.

3.2. Some similarities and non-diﬀerences A number of similarities between CS and CG are evident enough that I will merely list them without discussion: (i) There is a common desire to describe language — and to describe each individual language — in its own terms, rather than imposing on it an elaborate set of preconceptions. (ii) They are both functionalist approaches concerned with the communicative role of language and how this function is achieved. (iii) Diﬀerences in form are not taken as arbitrary, but as having some communicative import that needs to be discovered and characterized. (iv)

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

In contrast to some functionalist approaches, they are both interested in cognitive issues and actually attempt to characterize meanings. (v) In both cases, in fact, meaning is seen as the key to understanding grammar.¹² (vi) Both recognize the need to posit meanings that are highly abstract (or schematic). At a basic level, therefore, CS has much in common with CG (and with Cognitive linguistics generally). Even certain apparent contrasts turn out to be only apparent. Rather than diﬀerences in principle, they are best described as matters of emphasis or historical accident (in regard to which problems investigators have gotten around to tackling). My overall impression is that the true diﬀerences are rather few, and perhaps less vital than they seem. One apparent contrast which proves to be just a matter of degree is the CS emphasis on empirical evidence of a quantitative sort, notably from text counts. Cognitive linguists can certainly proﬁt here from the methods developed by Reid (1991), Huﬀman (1997), and others. Quantitative methods, especially in the form of experiments and corpus searches, are however becoming increasingly common in Cognitive linguistics (as well as in the discipline at large). But regardless of their current prevalence, there is no disagreement about their importance. CS places considerable emphasis on systems of oppositions. This is admittedly a facet of linguistic organization that Cognitive linguistics and CG have not put much stress on. That it is a factor — that often an element’s value derives at least in part from its opposition to others — is something that is readily accepted.¹³ Systems of oppositions obviously have a far more central role in the CS perspective. Still, Cognitive linguistics should have little trouble accepting and accommodating them to whatever extent proves justiﬁed. A ﬁnal point of non-disagreement is the distinction between “meaning” and “message” (Kirsner and Thompson 1976), and the role of inferencing (“communicative strategies”) in bridging the gap. On this point I am often misinterpreted and wrongly portrayed. For instance, Levinson (1997: 18–19) lumps me with Jackendoﬀ, both of us being “stubborn ostriches” who “refuse to countenance the existence of pragmatics”. I would not presume to speak for Jackendoﬀ, but in my case the characterization is erroneous if not irresponsible. What I actually said is the following: “The distinction between semantics and pragmatics (or between linguistic and extra-linguistic knowledge) is largely artifactual, and the only viable conception of linguistic semantics is one that avoids such false dichotomies” (Langacker 1987: 154). While these words do, unfortunately, leave room for alternate interpretations, Levinson’s conﬁdent and unqualiﬁed extrapolation is nonetheless quite gratuitous. My claim is that semantics and pragmatics form a gradation, there being no particular point where one can draw a sharp and rigid line of demarcation. What is being denied, then, is the situation depicted in Figure 15(a), where semantics and pragmatics are discrete, non-overlapping “components” with a speciﬁc boundary between them. That denial is compatible with the alternatives shown in 15(b)–(d). For his own polemic purposes, Levinson portrays me as subscribing to either of two

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a. b. c.

Semantics Semantics

Pragmatics Pragmatics

Gradation Non-existence

Semantics

d.

Separate components

Semantics/Pragmatics

Non-diﬀerentiation

Figure 15.

untenable positions: that pragmatics does not exist at all (15(c)), or that the entire spectrum of semantic/pragmatic phenomena is undiﬀerentiated, with no distinction at all between the two sorts (15(d)). My actual position, however, is 15(b). Semantics and pragmatics grade into one another, so that any speciﬁc line of demarcation would be arbitrary. Phenomena drawn from opposite ends of the spectrum will of course be quite diﬀerent in nature, and those lying toward either pole can for all practical purposes be considered exclusively semantic or exclusively pragmatic. Let me state quite explicitly, then, that what we understand from an expression — on the basis of context, implicature, or interpretive strategies — is often (if not always) more extensive than anything we could reasonably identify with its linguistic meaning, even in a broad sense. That is a deﬁnite point of agreement with CS, and for that matter with just about everybody else. As I understand it, however, CS practitioners would opt for Figure 15(a) instead of 15(b), with the semantics box being quite small in relation to the pragmatics box.

3.3. Divergence The place where disagreement sets in is when we ask how much of our total understanding of expressions — how much of the overall message — constitutes linguistic meaning. Here CS opts for a minimalist view of meaning. It is limited to what is derivable from the meanings of component elements, where these in turn are seen as quite schematic, the abstract characterizations valid for all uses of these elements. Any postulation of multiple senses (polysemy) is strongly resisted, and speciﬁc values which instantiate the abstract meanings are denied any status in the “language,” even if they are frequently and consistently used within a speech community. All aspects of an expression’s interpretation that go beyond the schematic meanings of its component elements are ascribed to the eﬀorts of speakers employing particular “communicative strategies” as well as the full range of their interpretive abilities. By contrast, Cognitive linguists recognize polysemy as the usual state of aﬀairs. Lexical and grammatical elements tend to have a variety of familiar and conventionally established values, or “senses,” often centered on a prototype. New senses

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

arise as extensions from the prototype (or from other established senses) to the extent that speciﬁc interpretations — originally due to speakers’ interpretive eﬀorts in context — recur with suﬃcient frequency that they become “entrenched” in the minds of individuals and conventional within a speech community.¹⁴ In the network model adopted in CG, extension to encompass a wider range of values engenders the extraction of a schema that embodies their abstract commonality. Often (but not necessarily always), a highly abstract schema emerges which all other senses instantiate as special cases. If we look beyond the labels to see what is actually being posited (or at least contemplated) as part of a comprehensive view of language and its use, the two models are not fundamentally incompatible. The abstract, monosemous meanings of CS are comparable to the highest level schemas posited in CG. Both frameworks recognize that, in actual use, expressions are understood in speciﬁc ways determined by context, communicative strategies, and interpretive abilities. Particular motivations for extension that are recognized in Cognitive linguistics, such as metaphor and metonymy, are presumably allowed in CS as possible strategies of interpretation. If it is further accepted in CS that particular interpretations are sometimes learned by speakers and established in a speech community, the two models can be seen as basically congruent (in principle, if not in practice). In comparing the two frameworks, therefore, a pivotal question is whether CS does in fact accept the learning and conventionalization of certain communicative strategies and interpretations. There does not appear to be unanimity in this regard. As I read Huﬀman (1997), he tacitly denies this possibility, describing even totally invariant applications of lui and le as being decided by speakers de novo on every occasion of their use. By contrast, Reid (1995: 149) describes the problematic, intermediate status of communicative strategies: [I]n García’s work a communicative strategy became the crucial mediating link between a meaning and the distribution of its signal. However the precise theoretical status of a communicative strategy is still an open question. Is a strategy a theoretical construct on a par with a meaning? It does not seem appropriate to regard strategies as a part of langue because they are not completely arbitrary. On the other hand to say they are part of parole makes them sound too idiosyncratic.

Reid has also described speakers as having decades-long experience in solving particular communicative problems, commonly resulting in packaged solutions. On this crucial issue, Contini-Morava (1995: 19) is quite explicit and fully in agreement with CG: A ‘strategy’ is a routinized exploitation of a given meaning, so that it is regularly used to suggest/infer a particular type of message. A postulation of such conventionalized patterns of inference is justiﬁed by appeal to the human preference for habit or routine . . .

In my view, there is no doubt at all about the matter. I fully concur with Janssen (1995: 266), who states it quite succinctly:

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Ronald W. Langacker [T]he language user has highly detailed knowledge of when certain linguistic elements can be employed and when they cannot. And it is this very kind of knowledge that any language learner needs to have. The abstract description is obviously not enough to prevent him from making mistakes.

In other words, the set of maximally schematic meanings taken in CS as constituting the “linguistic system” come nowhere near being exhaustive of the conventionally established information required for a person to speak a language ﬂuently and correctly. The function of the networks posited in CG is precisely to specify the requisite information. They specify the full range of conventional uses of elements, which are nothing other than packaged solutions to communicative problems. But is this really necessary? Is it not the case, as consistently maintained in the CS rhetoric, that a single schematic meaning accounts for all the uses of an element? That depends on what is meant by “account for”. What a CS analysis typically does — revealingly and persuasively — is to show how the abstract meaning posited can be reconciled with each attested use via some interpretive process. I regard this as a non-trivial accomplishment and a valid contribution. What a CS analysis does not, however, do (in my own experience and judgment) is to show how the speciﬁc, actual range of uses follows inexorably from the abstract characterization, so that this alone would exhaust the information a speaker needs in order to use the element correctly (i.e. in accordance with the conventional expectations of the speech community). Our interpretive capacities are extraordinarily ﬂexible and multifaceted. Starting from any single meaning — especially one that is highly abstract — a speaker or a linguist can ﬁnd some plausible rationale for using an element in an extremely wide variety of conceivable ways, only some of which are conventionally exploited. A substantial part of knowing how to speak a language is knowing which of these uses (or interpretive solutions) are in fact conventional, and which ones not.¹⁵ To be sure, speakers are always stretching the limits of convention, but to appreciate how and why they are doing this we need some idea of what those limits are. If it is granted that at least some communicative strategies and interpretive solutions are learned and conventionalized, the CS and CG positions on these issues are much less diﬀerent than they ﬁrst appear. Both acknowledge the entities and developments sketched in Figure 16. In 16(a), the larger box represents the linguistic system as it stands at a given time. One element of the system is an expression (say a lexical item) with a single basic meaning, A.¹⁶ These are also enclosed in boxes, indicating that they have been learned by speakers as conventional linguistic units. Further depicted in 16(a) is a novel usage in which the expression is understood — via some interpretive process — as having a distinct or more elaborate value, labeled B. The boxes surrounding B and the overall interpretive process are given with rounded corners, to indicate their novelty. Suppose, however, that this same expression — interpreted as having the contextual value B — proves eﬃcacious for some purpose and is thus repeatedly used in this way. The interpretive process, as well as the extended value it produces, can then be learned by speakers and conventionally

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

a. Basic meaning A expression

Interpretation

Contextual value B

Novel usage

Linguistic system b. Basic meaning A expression

Interpretation

Extended meaning B

Learned, conventional usage

Linguistic system (narrow deﬁnition) Linguistic system (broad deﬁnition) Figure 16.

established in the speech community. The boxes enclosing them are shown in 16(b) with square (rather than rounded) corners to mark their resultant status as learned, conventional units. Accepting this scenario, the pertinent diﬀerence between CS and CG comes down to the terminological issue of how we choose to use terms such as “language,” “linguistic system,” and “meaning.” CS adopts narrow deﬁnitions, thereby excluding from what it calls “language” both the interpretive process and the extended semantic value it creates, which would not be called a “meaning” but just a “message.” CG adopts broader deﬁnitions. A semantic, phonological, or symbolic unit is deﬁned as part of the “language” or “linguistic system” to the extent that it is entrenched in the minds of speakers and conventional in a speech community. Once established, an extended semantic value is a “meaning,” no longer just a “message,” despite its pragmatic origin. The interpretation deriving this new meaning remains in the language as a representation of its motivation by the basic unit. It constitutes one link in the network describing the expression’s related senses. A diﬀerence in terminology — if it is merely terminological — has no substantive import. If all the phenomena depicted in Figure 16 are accepted as part of the

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total story of language and language use, no real importance attaches to what part of it we choose to call “language.”¹⁷ But perhaps additional considerations could be introduced that would motivate using the term in either a broad or a narrow sense. Let us examine a number of actual and potential arguments of this sort. A standard CS argument against the broad conception of a linguistic system, ascribing multiple (related) senses to a single element, is the diﬃculty in determining precisely which ones should be posited. For a certain range of uses, how many distinct senses are needed? Two? Three? Thirty-ﬁve? Are they really all discretely different? How can we be sure which particular sense is being employed on a particular occasion? We can best resolve these problems, the argument goes, by assuming that there is only one, highly abstract meaning which accounts for all the uses. This is not a valid argument. It is analogous to asserting that, since it is hard to count the stripes on a zebra, a zebra must have only one.¹⁸ There is to be sure a certain intellectual comfort in having a clear, deﬁnite answer to the question of how many senses to posit (the number one being especially attractive). We have no reason to believe, however, that language was designed with the comfort of the analyst in mind. Nor is it valid here to claim that positing one meaning is simpler than positing multiple senses. To the extent that speakers learn a conventionally sanctioned range of uses, the same complexity exists in the overall account of language and language use, regardless of how we label it. I would not deny that the network model faces real problems at both the descriptive and theoretical levels. Clear grounds for positing a speciﬁc number of distinct senses are not always evident. It seems quite likely, in fact, that the network metaphor is seriously misleading, precisely because it is too discrete. Instead, we might distort things less by comparing an element’s range of meanings to a mountain range, which occupies a continuous expanse but is very uneven owing to rises, depressions, peaks, and valleys. Counting the senses of a lexical item would then be analogous to counting the peaks in a mountain range: how many there are depends on how salient they have to be before we count them, and they appear discrete in the ﬁrst place only because we ignore how they grade into one another at lower altitudes. The uncertainty we sometimes experience in determining which particular sense an expression instantiates on a given occasion is then to be expected. The uses in question are like points in the valley between two peaks. It is essentially an arbitrary matter whether we assign such points to one peak, to the other, to both, or to neither. Another CS argument against deﬁning “language” broadly reduces to an oft-repeated slogan: “Where does one stop?” If we go beyond a single abstract meaning, allowing more speciﬁc senses into the “linguistic system,” how far down should we go? If we start accepting speciﬁc interpretations as linguistic meanings, do we not lose the vital distinction between meaning and message? Surely (the argument continues) we should not — as linguists — be expected to descend this slippery slope. How can we describe a language if we are forced to deal with the interpretive process in all its complexity, accommodating every conceivable interpretation in every conceivable context?

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

Of course, by refusing to descend a slippery slope one does not succeed in making the landscape ﬂat. The overall problem of language use and interpretation remains to be dealt with irrespective of how linguists write their job description. The more narrowly linguists deﬁne their own task (and CS scholars deﬁne it quite narrowly indeed), the less they contribute to the global enterprise of ﬁguring out how language works.¹⁹ Still, it is not the case that by venturing down the slope we stumble into a bottomless pit. Even with a broad deﬁnition, there is a natural way of deﬁning a “language” that does indeed oﬀer a principled basis for stopping at a certain place. In CG, what counts as the “linguistic system” is delimited by the dual factors of psychological entrenchment and conventionalization within a speech community. A linguistic structure is reasonably considered part of a “language” to the extent that speakers learn it and can use it as a prepackaged unit (an established cognitive routine), and can count on other speakers knowing it as well. Because both entrenchment and conventionalization are matters of degree, we should not expect to ﬁnd a sharp and rigid line of demarcation. There is rather a gradation, as in Figure 15(b), with indisputably linguistic structures and indisputably non-linguistic structures lying toward opposite ends of the spectrum, separated by a zone of intermediate cases. Under this deﬁnition, of course, the place one stops in describing a linguistic system is not a determinate point but an ever-ﬂuctuating region reﬂecting the vicissitudes of ongoing language use. Nonetheless, the descriptive task does not go on forever — the deﬁning factors impose both practical and theoretical limits. These factors are, moreover, subject to empirical veriﬁcation. In principle, degree of entrenchment can be measured experimentally (e.g. in terms of response latency), and degree of conventionalization by corpus-based methods. In practice it may not prove easy to measure them, but neither is there any overwhelming need to do so. The point is that a linguistic system (however vast) is bounded (however fuzzily), and for a very good functional reason. Beyond a certain level, there is a trade-oﬀ between speciﬁcity and diﬀerentiation, on the one hand, and utility on the other: as structures become more and more speciﬁc and ﬁnely articulated, they have less and less likelihood of being used with enough frequency to be entrenched or conventionalized. A further CS argument is that speciﬁc senses would be diﬀerent in nature from abstract meanings and thus inappropriate as part of the language per se. Recall, for instance, Reid’ s statement: “It does not seem appropriate to regard strategies as a part of langue because they are not completely arbitrary” (1995: 149). But a language comprises many kinds of elements whose nature is even more drastically distinct — sounds and meanings, for instance, or within phonology, a segment and a stress alternation. Who is authorized to say, on an a priori basis, that linguistic elements have to be homogeneous, or that a particular sort of diﬀerence is automatically disqualifying? With respect to Reid’s comment, can complete arbitrariness really be taken as criterial for inclusion in the linguistic system? If so there may be virtually nothing in the system. Even the form-meaning pairings of individual mor-

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phemes have some degree of non-arbitrariness. For example, the more schematic meanings of grammatical elements bear a natural aﬃnity to their phonologically more attenuated symbolization (vis-à-vis lexical items). To support the privileged status of a system of highly abstract meanings, an obvious strategy is to look for independent evidence that these in particular have a special role in behavior and cognition. One might, for example, study language acquisition to see whether abstract meanings develop ﬁrst, as a necessary basis for the later emergence of more speciﬁc senses. Or one might turn to psycholinguistic experimentation, to see what role schematic meanings play in language processing. At the very least there ought to be a coherent story of how processing, development, and structure ﬁt together in a comprehensive account of language. I quite understand the hesitation of linguists, qua linguists, to get involved with the complex issues in these vast and diﬃcult ﬁelds of inquiry. Even so, the apparent CS reluctance to engage them (if not the conscious decision to avoid them altogether) is rather striking. It precludes a possible source of external evidence that could support the framework and show its potential as a realistic model of linguistic knowledge.²⁰ Given their critical reliance on communicative strategies and “human factors” more generally, it is surprising that CS practitioners are not engaged in large scale eﬀorts to study them systematically. Even if they lie outside of “language” (narrowly deﬁned), these factors are being appealed to for bridging the very large gap between abstract “linguistic” meanings and the panoply of more speciﬁc senses that Cognitive linguists feel obliged to posit. I usually ﬁnd plausible both the abstract meanings proposed in CS and the account of how human and communicative factors give rise to speciﬁc interpretations. These explanations sometimes give the impression, however, of being ad hoc and unconstrained. In the absence of rigorous, detailed investigation, how can one be sure that the factors appealed to will invariably function in just the required way, to produce the precise patterns of uses and interpretations found in the data? To validate their own ideas, CS scholars might consider the strategy of Cognitive linguists, who feel compelled to learn all they can about phenomena like metaphor, metonymy, mental spaces, blending, prototypes, and basic level categories. Even though these are not speciﬁcally or uniquely linguistic, they are crucial to understanding how particular interpretations arise, and thus to an overall account of language, wherever we draw the line.

3.4. Complex expressions If one purports to have a theory of language, and wants it to be taken seriously, something cogent has to be said about the related problems of grammar (i.e. morphology and syntax) and semantic composition. It is not enough to bemoan the inadequacies of traditional grammar and the sins of generative grammar, egregious though these may be. The task remains of describing the formation of complex expressions and how their meanings relate to the meanings of their parts. A conceivable position is that there is in fact nothing to describe at the level of langue, that

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

a language comprises nothing other than individual elements and their abstract meanings. This may well be the CS position. If so, it nonetheless has to be shown in detail how grammatical patterns and composite meanings emerge extra-linguistically through interpretive processes, or alternatively, why virtually every other linguistic tradition is simply mistaken in believing that they exist. One aspect of grammar that CS does explicitly address is the abstract meanings of individual grammatical elements. I generally like the meanings proposed, and in the case of grammar I suspect that the most schematic values are often the most important. While I myself see a gradation, the elements linguists consider “grammatical” (as opposed to “lexical”) are precisely those whose meanings are more schematic. The semantic import of grammar resides primarily in the construal imposed on lexical content, and one dimension of construal consists of various kinds of prominence (e.g. proﬁling, trajector/landmark alignment). I would not disagree with the following description by Diver (1995: 103): . . . the discovery, in language after language, of a semantic substance that may be characterized in general as ‘Concentration of Attention . . .’ This communicative problem appears to be the single most important factor in determining the makeup of grammatical systems.

For a speciﬁc example of grammatical structure, let us focus on prenominal possessives in English, marked by ’s and its variants. The abstract meaning I ascribe to ’s consists in a reference point relation between two things, i.e. the dynamic process of directing attention ﬁrst to a reference point and then to a target accessible through it (Figure 6). This schematic meaning is comparable (at least in degree of abstractness) to those adopted in CS. Moreover, it accounts in part for the morpheme’s range of uses. It is suﬃciently abstract to accommodate the wide variety of possessive locutions, as in (4)a. Yet, owing to the inherent asymmetry of a reference point relationship, it accounts for the usual irreversibility of such expressions, as seen in (4)b. This too is in the CS spirit. But is that suﬃcient? Is this single abstract meaning all we need to say about ’s and the prenominal possessive construction in our description of English grammar? In the CG perspective, it is also necessary to include a range of more speciﬁc senses, reﬂecting certain kinds of uses common enough to become entrenched and conventionalized.²¹ Among these are prototypical instantiations of possessive relationships, notably ownership, kinship, and whole-part relations. Examples of more peripheral senses are those pertaining to modes of transport (e.g. our bus), emotional states (her anxiety), and the focal participants in a reiﬁed event (the army’s destruction [of the city], the city’s destruction [by the army]). As noted previously, how many senses we posit is largely dependent on how salient we require them to be, which in turn depends on our purpose. The important point is that a particular range of uses — out of all the conceivable ones — stand out as being familiar and conventional. As such they constitute packaged solutions to particular interpretive and communicative problems, one facet of knowing how to speak the lan-

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guage. Hence they are part of the “linguistic system,” under the broad deﬁnition (Figure 16). From the abstract meaning alone, one cannot predict exactly what the conventional range of uses might be (cf. Nikiforidou 1991). For instance, we can imagine a language just like English except that prenominal possessives could not be used for emotional states, or could only be used for the trajector of a reiﬁed event (not its landmark). But whether a single meaning is posited or a family of related meanings, we have not yet described the grammatical construction. The possessive morpheme’s meaning, in and of itself, will not tell us everything we need to know in order to use it correctly in complex expressions. For instance, it has to be speciﬁed that ’s occurs on the possessor noun phrase (e.g. Bill’s knife), and not on the possessed noun (*Bill knife’s), on both (*Bill’s knife’s), or on neither (*Bill knife). It has to be speciﬁed that the possessor nominal precedes rather than follows the possessed noun (*knife Bill’s). It has to be speciﬁed that, in the case of complex possessor nominals, ’s attaches phonologically to the last word of the nominal, which retains its contiguity (the King of France’s wig); it does not attach to the head noun (*the King’s of France wig), nor can a modiﬁer be postposed (*the King’s wig of France). But even when the marker is borne by another element, e.g. France in the King of France’s wig, the possessor (or reference point) is still identiﬁed with the entity proﬁled by the head noun (and thus by the nominal as a whole). Suppose you knew nothing about English possessives other than the form and abstract meaning of the possessive marker. From this information, you could not predict all the details just listed, nor the countless other details required for conventional possessive use in the language. For this reason, a full description of English — even as langue — has to include an explicit characterization of the prenominal possessive construction. In CG this is done by means of constructional schemas, i.e. schematic symbolic assemblies which embody the abstract organizational commonality inherent over a range of complex expressions. Prenominal possessives, for instance, would be described by a symbolic assembly analogous to Figure 7, except for containing schematic nominal elements rather than speciﬁc ones.²² The one explicit discussion of this issue I have encountered in the CS literature actually amounts to a proscription of constructional schemas: . . . If combinations of signs can themselves be signs, then there is no principled way to put limits on the system and make it discrete . . . The limitless, inﬁnitely recursive Saussurean sign, then, is the sponsor of maximalist linguistics . . . In both [Saussure and Langacker], the inventory of units is ill-deﬁned, making it very easy to attribute to the conceptual inventory of the language what would be more reasonably conﬁned to the ever-shifting conceptual set of communication. (Otheguy 1995: 232–233)

A symbolic structure is a sign, and an assembly of symbolic structures is a combination of signs. It is not, however, true that recognizing constructions and constructional schemas results in an inﬁnite regress. It is wrong to claim that in a maxi-

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

malist view there are no limits and no principled grounds for delimitation. The basis for delimitation is the same as for the senses of a lexical item: the joint factors of entrenchment and conventionalization. These are matters of degree, so there is no sharp cut-oﬀ point, but rather a gradation. But they do impose limits, since structures with zero entrenchment and conventionalization are totally “outside” the linguistic system.²³ It is true that the inventory of complex signs is nonetheless very large, so that actually writing a complete grammar is not a realistic task. This is not a valid argument against the maximalist view, however, any more than the impossibility of fully describing the brain (describing every neuron and every neural connection) is an argument that the brain does not exist. Large numbers of constructional schemas have to be recognized in a minimally adequate description of the conventional patterns speakers employ in putting together complex expressions. On grounds of theoretical preference, one can certainly make an a priori decision to exclude such patterns from the “linguistic system,” but only at the cost of omitting a large proportion of the conventional knowledge one needs to learn in order to speak a language. We cannot just attribute grammatical patterns “to the ever-shifting conceptual set of communication” and let it go at that — whatever their degree of conceptual and communicative motivation, the speciﬁc patterns conventionally employed in a language have to be learned by speakers and explicitly described by linguists. Nor does the fact that speakers often stray from these patterns, through negligence or creative innovation, constitute an argument against their existence. It is only by acknowledging and elucidating the patterns that we can recognize and characterize such behavior.²⁴ Grammatical patterns are further necessary for an account of semantic composition, which concerns the relation between the meaning of a complex expression and the meanings of its parts. I have not detected in CS any systematic attempt to deal with this fundamental linguistic problem, or even an explicit recognition that the problem exists. In practice, there often seems to be a tacit assumption that the meaning of a whole is merely the sum of the abstract meanings of its parts (i.e. the component lexical items), and that anything beyond this is attributable to contextual interpretation based on communicative strategies and other “human factors.” That is not however a viable assumption. If it were true, then a pair of sentences like (23)a-b would have the same linguistic meaning, since they consist of the same lexical items: (23) a. The big dog frightened a tiny cat. b. A big cat frightened the tiny dog. A complex expression’s meaning is not just a pile of semantic features, nor an unordered set of lexical meanings, but rather a structured conceptualization in which conceptual elements ﬁt together in very speciﬁc ways. In (23)a, for instance, the property ‘big’ is ascribed to the dog, and the property ‘tiny’ to the cat — it is not the reverse, nor are these properties assigned to other entities evident in the discourse context.²⁵

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These speciﬁcations and others (e.g. the ascription of agentivity and of deﬁniteness to the dog rather than the cat in (23)a) are totally determined by structural relationships enshrined in linguistic convention. They are not left for individual speakers to ﬁgure out de novo subject to the vicissitudes of an “ever-shifting conceptual set of communication”. Nor do they follow inexorably from human factors or functional principles. It might be suggested, for instance, that contiguity is such a strong factor in cognitive processing that big is necessarily attributed to dog in (23)a, and tiny to cat, as the invariable and automatic outcome of interpretive processes. This strategy is simply not adequate, however. There are languages which do not require contiguity between a head and its modiﬁers. More generally, cognitive, communicative, and functional considerations are notorious for their underdetermination of linguistic structure — that is why languages diﬀer synchronically and diverge diachronically, even though such factors are largely universal. Without denying the strong and pervasive inﬂuence of functional motivation, the fact remains that language structure includes large inventories of learned, conventional grammatical constructions. In CG, these constructions take the form of symbolic assemblies which specify how component elements are integrated semantically and phonologically (see Figures 5, 7, 10, 12–14).²⁶ Although grammatical constructions are a central concern of CG, and are seemingly proscribed in CS, I would like to suggest that the contrast is not absolute. I believe in fact that the notion of a grammatical construction is already implicit in CS. It inheres in the recognition that certain abstract meanings are symbolized by position rather than by a separate morphological element. A case in point is central focus (or trajector) in a language which marks it by means of word order. In a sentence like Alice admires Bill, for instance, position before the predicate is what tells us that Alice, and not Bill, is the central focus. As it stands, however, this description is quite vague. It presupposes a number of very speciﬁc relationships that need to be made explicit in any full or rigorous characterization of the sign. Phonologically, what the sign consists of is the relative position in the speech stream of two other signs, namely Alice and admires Bill (or just admires — the choice is immaterial to the argument). If we state this in general terms (not just for the sentence in question), the sign consists of the relation between two other phonological structures, call them X and Y, such that X and Y are contiguous in the dimension of speech time (T) and X precedes Y. This is shown in Figure 17(a). Semantically, a central focus does not exist in isolation; we can only speak of a central focus with respect to the situation described by a verb or clausal predicate. Using CG terminology (for sake of ready comparison), we can call this situation a process and represent it with an arrow, as shown on the right in 17(b). The central focus — or trajector — is some participant in this process, represented as a circle. The predicate, however, does not itself identify this entity (except through its role in the process). Its identiﬁcation is eﬀected by the accompanying nominal expression, e.g. Alice in Alice admires Bill. In particular, the focused entity is the one that is designated — or in CG terms, proﬁled — by this nominal as a whole. This is

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions

shown on the left in 17(b). The dotted correspondence line makes it explicit that the predicate’s trajector and the nominal’s proﬁle are equated. We also need to be explicit concerning the relation between the phonological structures in Figure 17(a) and the semantic structures in 17(b). Namely, the process whose central focus is at issue is speciﬁcally the one symbolized by the phonological structure given as Y, and the nominal whose referent functions as its central focus is speciﬁcally the one symbolized by X. These connections are shown in 17(c), which depicts the semantic and phonological relationships between two component signs, characterized as a nominal expression and a predicate. The overall conﬁguration amounts to a complex sign consisting of a combination of signs — supposedly proscribed in CS. Yet there is nothing here that is not essential to making precise and explicit the notion that a concept like “central focus” can be symbolized by relative position in the speech stream. I suggest, then, that the proscription of signs consisting of other signs has to be abandoned even on grounds internal to CS, to avoid contradiction. This should not be regarded as problematic, since (pace Otheguy) it does not in fact lead to inﬁnite recursion; complex signs need only be recognized as part of the linguistic system to the extent that they are entrenched and conventionalized. And if complex signs are allowed in CS in the guise of meanings marked by relative position, why not allow them for other purposes as well? In particular, they would permit CS to say something substantive about grammatical patterns and semantic composition (which are currently just ignored, if not denied). Accepting complex signs would lend CS greater credibility as a viable theory of language structure. This would also move CS in the direction of CG, because there is no diﬀerence in principle between a complex sign and an assembly of symbolic structures. It should be evident that a structure like Figure 17(c) is equivalent to a CG constructional schema describing a grammatical pattern. Using the representational format adopted in this chapter, 17(c) can be reformulated as shown in 17(d). a.

X

tr

b.

Y

T tr

c. X

tr

d.

XY

Y tr

T X Figure 17.

Y

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The two component signs in 17(c) appear as the component symbolic structures in 17(d). The composite structure, shown at the top in 17(d), simply makes explicit the result of combining the component signs. The arrow for speech time in 17(c) is omitted in 17(d) just for sake of diagrammatic convenience. The diﬀerences, in short, are merely notational.

4 Conclusion I hope this critique of CS has been fair and constructive. While I obviously disagree with CS doctrine on certain fundamental issues, there are many points on which we agree, and grounds for much broader agreement should CS practitioners be willing to reconsider some basic tenets adopted for reasons that might be viewed as suspect. Theory aside, however, I usually ﬁnd the analyses proposed in CS to be both insightful and revelatory. Linguists of other persuasions will proﬁt by carefully examining CS descriptions and the methodology used to support them. At the same time, CS would beneﬁt from greater awareness of work in Cognitive linguistics dealing with problems crucial to an overall account of language. Even under a narrow deﬁnition of “language,” interpretive phenomena have to be carefully investigated and thoroughly understood, since these are being relied on to make up the diﬀerence. Only by studying such phenomena systematically (rather than just appealing to them) can one show a narrow construal of “language” to be principled and viable. The bottom line is that I perceive the diﬀerences between CS and CG as being less fundamental and less important than they might appear to be on superﬁcial examination. This has the consequence — like it or not — that I consider CS to be part of Cognitive linguistics, and one place I can regularly look to for insight into language. I hope nobody objects too strongly.

Notes 1. See Langacker 1987, 1990, 1991, 1999b, and the references cited therein. 2. Analogously, the reduction expressed by the formula H2O fails to imply the non-existence of water. 3. We thus avoid the circularity of deﬁning husband as ‘one who has a wife’, and wife as ‘one who has a husband’. 4. The relational participants are given as circles. The labels tr and lm stand for “trajector” and “landmark”, discussed in the following section. 5. In diagrams, I normally use circles to represent things, and various kinds of lines and arrows for relationships. 6. Expressed by a clause, the proposition is represented mnemonically by a circle and an arrow, to indicate a thing participating in a process. The box is simply meant to show that the proposition as a whole functions as target.

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions 7. Examples from the ﬁve languages represented are taken respectively from Kumashiro 2000; informal notes by Kee-Dong Lee; Teng 1974; Cook 1988 and Hung 1988; and Steele 1977. The following abbreviations are used: SUBJ = subject marker; ASSR = assertive; COM = comitative; DAT = dative; PRES = present; 1/3s = ﬁrst/third person singular. In his very detailed description of this phenomenon in Japanese, Kumashiro provides strong evidence that there are two basic construction types, the type illustrated in (6) being reanalyzed as having a complex predicate with a single subject. For present purposes we can ignore this further development. 8. Evidence for these points depends on the language. In Japanese, for instance, both NP1 and NP2 can take the subject marker ga, at least under certain conditions. In Luiseño, the clitic agreeing with the subject appears as the ﬁrst person singular =n in (14), agreeing with NP1, and as the third person singular =up in (15), agreeing with NP2. There is no intonation break, and since the clitic in Luiseño occurs in second position within a clause, its placement after NP1 indicates the single-clause nature of these examples. 9. It is suggestive that this highly eminent lexicographer should believe that long, elaborate deﬁnitions are needed (and also polysemy, sparingly used) if they are to do the job of properly predicting occurrences. 10. For instance, the theories of metaphor, mental spaces, and conceptual blending give a radically diﬀerent view of cognition than anything preestablished or generally assumed in psychology. See Lakoﬀ and Johnson 1980; Lakoﬀ and Turner 1989; Fauconnier 1985, 1997; Fauconnier and Turner 1998. 11. It seems less radical today, since “mainstream” linguistics has steadily evolved in its direction. 12. Note the title Meaning as Explanation (Contini-Morava and Goldberg 1995). 13. It comes to the fore in my study (with Eugene Casad) of the u/a opposition in Cora locatives (Langacker 1990: ch. 2). Also, maximal opposition ﬁgures in the characterization of prototypes and basic level concepts (Rosch 1978). 14. A new sense can either deviate from the one that spawns it (implying some conﬂict in semantic speciﬁcations) or else elaborate it (by incorporating additional content or spelling it out in ﬁner-grained detail). 15. Note that I am not demanding absolute predictability of an element’s range of uses. In fact, its non-predictability is precisely why I adopt the network model. I further believe that the method of ex post facto rationalization employed in CS descriptions is quite appropriate (notwithstanding the pretentious rhetoric of prediction standard among linguistic theorists). I am merely proposing what I consider a realistic assessment of what a single abstract meaning can do, even granting its correctness. 16. For present purposes this basic meaning can be taken as either a prototype (more likely in CG) or an abstract schema (as in CS). 17. I realize, of course, that proponents of every theory would like to impose their own definition of “language” in order to enhance the perceived importance of their own work. 18. Presumably the pattern of stripes we see on a zebra would not be a property of the zebra per se, but the result of using “visual strategies”. 19. This is not to deny the value of limited, focused contributions. The issue, rather, is whether there are sound arguments for the particular limitations imposed by CS doctrine.

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Ronald W. Langacker 20. Of course, the evidence might point in the opposite direction. It seems clear, for example, that children ﬁrst use words in fairly speciﬁc circumstances, and that the general direction of development is from concrete to abstract. In claiming that highly schematic meanings are the only ones which count as “language,” CS scholars will be more credible if they indicate how their view can be reconciled with the developmental facts. 21. It does not matter whether we talk about multiple senses of the morpheme or multiple variants of the grammatical construction in which it occurs. In CG these are two sides of the same coin (Langacker 1999b: ch. 4). 22. Naturally, Figure 7 is only illustrative, hence signiﬁcantly oversimpliﬁed. Moreover, to fully describe a construction — and capture the kinds of details listed in the text — requires not just one but a family of related constructional schemas (analogous to the family of related senses of a lexical item). 23. I reiterate that these factors can in principle be scientiﬁcally investigated and measured (e.g. by text counts for conventionalization, by psychological experiments for entrenchment), and that the maximalist position is adopted (reluctantly) for the purpose of achieving adequate descriptions. Counter to Otheguy’ s statements, positing units is not done just on the basis of “felt stability” of a group (1995: 234) or because a group “struck the analyst as unitary” (232). 24. Beyond grammatical patterns, a vast number of speciﬁc complex expressions are learned and stored as units. Typically they incorporate a measure of idiosyncrasy that has to be recognized as part of their conventionally established value. If CS wishes to deny the existence of signs consisting of other signs, it needs to confront the massive amount of evidence to the contrary adduced in the construction grammar literature (e.g. Fillmore et al. 1988; Goldberg 1995; Michaelis and Lambrecht 1996). 25. I realize that word order is recognized in CS as a signalling device. However, it is posited for only a small fraction of the structural and semantic relationships that need to be accommodated (notably for what are traditionally called “subject” and “object” relations), and I see no way to make it work for the full range of cases. Moreover, positing a word-order sign does not per se make explicit the nature of the structured conceptualization emerging from the ordered elements. I suggest below that making this explicit (as it has to be) amounts to the adoption of grammatical constructions in the CG sense. 26. Cognitive linguists do not claim that semantics is fully compositional, only that patterns of composition (as embodied in constructional schemas) are one, crucial factor in “meaning construction”.

References Contini-Morava, E. 1995. “Introduction: On linguistic sign theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg, 1–39. Contini-Morava, E., and Goldberg, B. S. (eds.). 1995. Meaning as Explanation: Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory. Berlin/New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Cook, K.W. 1988.“The semantics of Newari case-marking distinctions.” Linguistic Notes from La Jolla 14: 42–56. Diver, W. 1995. “Theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg, 43–114. Fauconnier, G. 1985. Mental Spaces: Aspects of Meaning Construction in Natural Language. Cambridge, MA/London: MIT Press/Bradford.

Cognitive Grammar and double subject constructions Fauconnier, G. 1997. Mappings in Thought and Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fauconnier, G., and Turner, M. 1998. “Conceptual integration networks.” Cognitive Science 22: 133–187. Fillmore, C. J., Kay, P., and O’Connor, M. C. 1988.“Regularity and idiomaticity in grammatical constructions: The case of let alone.” Language 64: 501–538. Goldberg, A. E. 1995. Constructions: A Construction Grammar Approach to Argument Structure. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Huﬀman, A. 1997. The Categories of Grammar: French lui and le. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Hung, T. 1988. “Case and role in Newari: A Cognitive Grammar approach.” Linguistic Notes from La Jolla 14: 95–107. Janssen, T. 1995. “Deixis from a cognitive point of view.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg, 245–270. Kirsner, R. S., and Thompson, S. A. 1976. “The role of pragmatic inference in semantics: A study of sensory verb complements in English.” Glossa 10: 200–240. Kumashiro, T. 2000. The Conceptual Basis of Grammar: A Cognitive Approach to Japanese Clause Structure. San Diego: University of California doctoral dissertation. Lakoﬀ, G., and Johnson, M. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Lakoﬀ, G., and Turner, M. 1989. More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Langacker, R.W. 1987. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar, vol. 1, Theoretical Prerequisites. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Langacker, R.W. 1988. “A usage-based model.” In Topics in Cognitive Linguistics, B. RudzkaOstyn (ed.), 127–161. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Langacker, R.W. 1990. Concept, Image, and Symbol: The Cognitive Basis of Grammar. Berlin/ New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Langacker, R.W. 1991. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar, vol. 2, Descriptive Application. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Langacker, R.W. 1993. “Reference-point constructions.” Cognitive Linguistics 4: 1–38. Langacker, R.W. 1995a. “Possession and possessive constructions.” In Language and the Cognitive Construal of the World, J. R. Taylor and R. E. MacLaury (eds.), 51–79. Berlin/New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Langacker, R.W. 1995b. “Raising and transparency.” Language 71: 1–62. Langacker, R.W. 1997. “Constituency, dependency, and conceptual grouping.” Cognitive Linguistics 8: 1–32. Langacker, R.W. 1999a. “Double-Subject Constructions.” In Linguistics in the Morning Calm 4, S.-Y. Bak (ed.), 83–104. Seoul: Hanshin. Langacker, R.W. 1999b. Grammar and Conceptualization. Berlin/New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Langacker, R.W. 1999c.“Assessing the cognitive linguistic enterprise.” In Cognitive Linguistics: Foundations, Scope, and Methodology, T. Janssen and G. Redeker (eds.), 13–59. Berlin/ New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Langacker, R.W. 2001. “Topic, Subject, and Possessor.” In A Cognitive Approach to the Verb: Morphological and Constructional Perspectives, H. G. Simonsen and R. T. Endresen (eds.), 11–48. Berlin/New York: Mouton de Gruyter.

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Ronald W. Langacker Levinson, S. C. 1997. “From outer to inner space: Linguistic categories and non-linguistic thinking.” In Language and Conceptualization, J. Nuyts and E. Pederson (eds.), 13–45. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Michaelis, L. A., and Lambrecht, K. 1996. “Toward a construction-based theory of language function: The case of nominal extraposition.” Language 72: 215–247. Nikiforidou, K. 1991. “The meanings of the genitive: A case study in semantic structure and semantic change.” Cognitive Linguistics 2: 149–205. Otheguy, R. 1995. “When contact speakers talk, linguistic theory listens.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg, 213–242. Reid, W. 1991. Verb and Noun Number in English: A Functional Explanation. London/New York: Longman. Reid, W. 1995. “Quantitative analysis in Columbia School theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg, 115–152. Rosch, E. 1978. “Principles of categorization.” In Cognition and Categorization, E. Rosch and B. B. Lloyd (eds.), 27–47. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Steele, S. M. 1977. “On being possessed.” Berkeley Linguistics Society 3: 114–131. Talmy, L. 1988. “Force dynamics in language and cognition.” Cognitive Science 12: 49–100. Taylor, J. R. 1996. Possessives in English: An Exploration in Cognitive Grammar. Oxford: Oxford University Press/Clarendon. Teng, S.-H. 1974. “Double nominatives in Chinese.” Language 50: 455–473. Wierzbicka, A. 1988. The Semantics of Grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Wierzbicka, A. 1996. Semantics: Primes and Universals. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 2

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators Their conceptual import and discourse function Michael B. Smith Oakland University, Rochester, Michigan

Building on Fauconnier’s mental space theory (1985), I argue that some languages have mental space designators, morphosyntactic elements which designate the mental spaces set up by linguistic expressions called space builders. Cataphoric pronouns can serve this function as forward referring devices that link with a discourse entity not yet overtly mentioned, as illustrated by the pronoun it in the sentence I despise it that John voted for the governor. Their discourse function is to anticipate the mental spaces set up by space builders (such as despise) by grammatically designating the spaces themselves, which are then elaborated with linguistically expressed propositions (e.g. that John voted for the governor). Evidence for this analysis includes English space building verbs evoking negative feelings which require cataphoric object it (cf. dislike, resent), where the cataphor’s overt mention of the space itself accentuates the conceptual distance (cf. Haiman 1983, 1985a, b) between the matrix subject and the undesirable relation(s) holding within the spaces by iconically distancing — in the grammar — the matrix subject from the subordinate clause describing those relations. The cataphor can also accentuate the salience of the space’s boundaries as a setting for an event, e.g. You know (it) when the train goes by. Cataphoric it forces a reading emphasizing the train’s physical eﬀect on the setting preﬁgured by it, and thus accentuates the sense of know which evokes knowledge gained by the senses; omission of cataphoric it emphasizes someone’s intellectual knowledge of the time when the train goes by, and thus accentuates the sense of know which evokes purely intellectual knowledge. The discussion will support a view of grammar in which there is an iconic link between the forms and the meanings conveyed by the forms in these constructions.

1. Introduction to the issue: anaphora vs. cataphora This chapter is concerned with investigating a grammatical phenomenon which is only infrequently discussed in the linguistic literature: the meaning and function of

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cataphoric pronouns like those occurring postverbally in the following English (1a) and German (1b) sentences and after the adjective uveren “sure” in the Russian sentence (1c) (the optionality of some of these pronouns will be addressed presently). (1) a. I despise it that John voted for the governor. b. Wir bedauern (es), daß Hans so dumm ist. we regret it that Hans so dumb is ‘We regret (it) that Hans is so stupid.’ c. Ja uveren (v tom), čto on sderžit svojo slovo. I sure in that, that he keep his word ‘I’m sure that he will keep his word.’ Note that the pronouns in these examples, English it, German es “it”, and Russian tom “that” (the prepositional case form of the neuter singular demonstrative pronoun to) are not anaphors, because they clearly have no antecedents within the clause to which they can refer. Consequently, their occurrence seems, at least at ﬁrst glance, grammatically and semantically arbitrary and/or superﬂuous, their functional motivation is unclear, and their meaning contribution to the clause (if any) is obscure. This is because, in contrast to backward referring anaphoric pronouns which are clearly linked with previously mentioned entities in the discourse, cataphoric pronouns are forward referring devices, i.e. their function is to anticipate some aspect of the discourse which follows their occurrence. As noted by Greenberg, In anaphora there is coreferentiality between the anaphoric substitute and the antecedent which precedes and is therefore identiﬁed. If we reverse this, the cataphoric substitute cannot be coreferential at the moment it is used because we do not yet know what it refers to. After the cataphor has been mentioned we can then in retrospect say that it is coreferential or that when the substitute is used it is proleptically cataphoric. (Greenberg 1985: 283)

The forward referring nature of cataphors means that a cataphor must, presumably, be linked with an entity of some sort which has not yet been overtly mentioned. The question before us, then, is to investigate the nature of this yet-to-be-mentioned entity, which will lead to a discussion of whether cataphoric pronouns like those illustrated in (1) are semantically motivated, or whether they are just arbitrary grammatical elements without semantic signiﬁcance. I will argue that it is possible to support the claim that cataphors of this kind do have semantic content when a sufﬁciently sophisticated view of meaning is taken into account.¹

2. Some theoretical background It is not an exaggeration to say that linguistic theory has devoted relatively little attention to the syntactic and semantic properties of cataphoric pronouns in comparison to their more familiar anaphoric counterparts. “The diﬃculty of ﬁnding true examples of cataphora, and the commonplace nature of anaphora suggests the

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

unmarked status of the latter”, notes Greenberg (1985: 284), which is probably related to the fact that cataphors are appreciably less common than anaphors. Few introductory textbooks on syntax and semantics even mention cataphoric pronouns, though they usually devote a great deal of space to accounting for the intricacies of anaphoric relationships in various languages (cf. such books as Cook and Newson (1996), Haegeman (1994), Sag and Wasow (1999), Van Valin, Jr. and LaPolla (1997), Radford (1997), and Culicover (1997) to name but a few). This neglect of cataphoric pronouns even extends to scholarly monographs on syntax and semantics. One need only reﬂect on the central importance of the binding theory in one recently (and still) popular syntactic framework as evidence for this (cf. Chomsky 1981, 1986), and a perusal of some other inﬂuential theoretical syntactic frameworks that have arisen in recent years conﬁrms this general neglect (cf. the articles in Bresnan (1982) on lexical-functional grammar; studies in Perlmutter (1983) and Perlmutter and Rosen (1984) on relational grammar; and papers in Webelhuth (1995) on the minimalist program, etc.). A descriptive monograph by Pütz (1986) on the syntax of German es is a notable exception to this generalization in devoting several sections to a consideration of the function of es in constructions like those in (1b) above. But, unfortunately, Pütz does not explicitly refer to this kind of es as a cataphor, nor does he oﬀer any kind of semantic characterization for its occurrence with some verbs but not with others (indeed he rejects the very possibility of a semantic explanation) (cf. Pütz 1986: 142). Some traditional German grammars also mention this sort of cataphoric use of es in their descriptive surveys, noting its anticipatory function in contexts like those exempliﬁed in (1b) above, but they too fail to fully consider the role of this morpheme in the grammar (see Pütz (1986: 55–56) for a summary of these descriptions). Even recent functional approaches to language, including cognitive grammar (Langacker 1987, 1991a, b), have had little to say to date about the use and meaning of cataphoric pronouns, though they are potentially well-suited to the task. Nevertheless, Givón (1990, 1995) has investigated the diﬀerences between what he calls anaphoric (backward) grounding and cataphoric (anticipatory) grounding in discourse. Evoking Gernsbacher (1990), he notes that the former “has been studied much more extensively . . . [i]t involves connecting incoming new information chunks to some existing mental representation”, whereas the latter “has been studied in much less detail . . . [i]t involves the opening of pending connections in yetto-be completed structure, in anticipation of a text that is in the process of being constructed” (Givón 1995: 347). As will become clear in the following paragraphs, this conception of cataphora is compatible in spirit to the approach I will adopt and attempt to make more explicit in this chapter. The analysis I will propose will be grounded within the cognitive linguistic approach to language as described in works by Langacker (1987, 1991a, 1991b), Lakoﬀ (1987), and Fauconnier (1985, 1997), all of which emphasize investigating the symbolic nature of grammar and the meaningfulness of grammatical constructs.² A theoretical construct in this framework which will prove particularly relevant in

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explaining the occurrence of cataphoric pronouns is the notion of mental spaces, which have been shown independently by Fauconnier (1985) and studies in Fauconnier and Sweetser (1996) to be insightful in analyzing a wide array of classic problems in semantics, including opaque-transparent ambiguities associated with propositional attitude verbs, the projection problem with presuppositions, and the interpretation of counterfactuals, to name but a few. Because the notion of a mental space will play a crucial role in this chapter, I will brieﬂy outline its substance below and provide a couple of short examples adapted from Fauconnier’s work to illustrate the concept’s validity as a theoretical construct in linguistics. Space limitations preclude a detailed presentation of the many arguments in favor of mental spaces, which can be found in Fauconnier’s works. Let us ﬁrst consider some preliminary background. The relevant literature (cited above) holds that the notion of a mental space evokes the intuitively natural idea that various aspects of sentence structure — both lexical and grammatical — set up “cognitive constructions” which help organize the processing of meaning within individual sentences and the ﬂow of information between sentences in a larger discourse (cf. Fauconnier and Sweetser 1996). Fauconnier and Sweetser identify a number of such cognitive constructions, including metaphoric projection, frame organization (Goﬀman 1974, Fillmore 1985), roles, ﬁgure ground conﬁgurations, metonymic pragmatic functions (Nunberg 1978), cognitive schemas, and cultural models (Fauconnier and Sweetser 1996: 8). Mental space research, they note, is one line of investigation within cognitive linguistics which addresses the question of what kinds of cognitive entities or mental representations are involved in meaning construction in language. This research program represents an attempt to develop “a detailed model of the meaning construction that takes place under pressure from language forms, context, structured background knowledge, and other pragmatic factors” (Fauconnier and Sweetser 1996: 10). Fundamentally, mental spaces are theoretical constructs within cognitive linguistics posited to facilitate important aspects of meaning construction. In eﬀect, they are conceived to be mental “places” or frames, usually triggered by certain lexical or grammatical devices, that are created in certain contexts and within which semantico-pragmatic information is located and organized relative to aspects of background knowledge (as mentioned above). Often the real world itself (or the speaker’s conception of what that world is like) is represented as reality space. The following quote from Fauconnier and Sweetser gives a representative idea of their conception of mental spaces: The dynamics of mental space construction and space linking are technically abstract, but conceptually straightforward. The basic idea is that, as we think and talk, mental spaces are set up, structured, and linked under pressure from grammar, context, and culture. The eﬀect is to create a network of spaces through which we move as discourse unfolds. (Fauconnier and Sweetser 1996: 11)

From this perspective, then, note that part of the meaning of a propositional attitude verb such as believe involves opening up a new domain or knowledge struc-

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

ture within the prevailing or current context that is “set up to contain structured information and inferences ‘about’ beliefs” (Fauconnier and Sweetser 1996: 10). This knowledge structure is a mental space. According to Fauconnier, mental spaces play an important role in the dynamic aspects of meaning construction, which he deﬁnes as “high level, complex mental operations that apply within and across domains when we think, act, or communicate” (1997: 1). These domains are mental structures (Langacker has called them “conceived worlds” (1991b: 71)), i.e. “partial structures that proliferate when we think and talk, allowing a ﬁne-grained partitioning of our discourse and knowledge structures” (Fauconnier 1997: 11).³ Mental spaces are internally structured by frames and cognitive models which are akin to Lakoﬀ ’s idealized cognitive models (1987). Much of Fauconnier’s work focuses on motivating mental space mappings, “which link mental spaces set up in discourse” (1997: 12) by means of connectors (pragmatically induced links or functions) that “relate . . . structures across spaces” (1997: 39) (see also Fauconnier (1985: 3ﬀ.)).⁴ Fauconnier claims that mental spaces are “constructs distinct from linguistic structures [my emphasis] but built up in any discourse according to guidelines provided by the linguistic expressions” (1985: 16). They can be built up in discourse by certain kinds of linguistic expressions called space builders, such as prepositional phrases (in Dali’s painting), adverbs (possibly), connectives (if . . . then), subject-verb complexes (Harry believes), and also subject-adjective complexes in Russian (Ja uveren “I’m sure” in (1c)). Space builders are “overt mechanisms which speakers can use to induce the hearer to set up a new mental space” (Fauconnier and Sweetser 1996: 10); i.e. they “will typically establish new spaces, elements within them, and relations holding between the elements” (Fauconnier 1985: 17).⁵ Note that the criteria used to discern which kinds of linguistic elements set up mental spaces is primarily semantic in nature. In eﬀect, we are making a theoretical assumption that certain linguistic expressions set up mental spaces by virtue of the kinds of meanings they evoke, as will be seen in more detail in the discussion to follow.⁶ As mentioned earlier, the positing of mental spaces can elegantly facilitate the interpretation of opaque-transparent ambiguities associated with propositional attitude verbs, as illustrated in sentence (2), in which the verb believe sets up a mental (belief) space M along side of reality space R (representing the world as it is) against which the interpretation of the indeﬁnite noun phrase a governor can be disambiguated. (2) John believes that a governor will win the presidency. The nominal a governor can be interpreted as referring either to a governor in John’s belief space which is the same as a particular governor in R (the transparent or speciﬁc reading sketched in the top diagram in Figure 1), or it can be interpreted as referring to an entity in M (John’s belief space) that has no counterpart in R (the opaque or nonspeciﬁc reading sketched in the lower diagram in Figure 1). Fauconnier notes that, according to this analysis, the existence of two diﬀerent readings for

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x1: a real governor

x2: a governor in John’s belief space

x1

x2

R

M (“John believes ______”)

Transparent (speciﬁc) reading x2: a governor in John’s belief space x2

R

M

Opaque (nonspeciﬁc) reading Figure 1. Transparent vs. opaque ambiguities associated with verbs of propositional attitude (cf. Fauconnier 1985: 28)

this sentence “is purely a consequence of the discourse processing involved (construction of spaces, connectors, etc.); it is not linked to any structural ambiguity of the linguistic form at deep, semantic, or logical levels” (1985: 28–29). Mental spaces also provide a straightforward way of dealing with intricate and complex ambiguities involving anaphoric pronouns and their antecedents which cannot be represented easily by coindexing, especially in cases where “a pronoun with an antecedent in one space can freely identify its counterpart in another, connected space” (Fauconnier 1985: 35). Consider as an example a scenario (adapted and simpliﬁed from one discussed by Fauconnier (1985: 36–37)) in which someone makes a movie about Alfred Hitchcock’s life, with an actor playing the role of Hitchcock, but that Hitchcock himself plays a minor role (as he always did in his own ﬁlms). Suppose further that in the movie’s script the character of the movie Hitchcock accidentally hurts himself in some way and that the real Hitchcock also actually hurt himself while playing the minor role in the movie. Then sentence (3) in this context is multiply ambiguous with respect to what the reﬂexive anaphor

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

himself refers to (i.e. designates in the real or some possible world), in contrast to the apparent single reference of himself suggested by the traditional coindexing of the reﬂexive anaphor with its linguistic antecedent. (3) Hitchcocki hurt himselfi in that movie. Though coindexing adequately represents the anaphoric relationship between the anaphor and antecedent, it fails to indicate that this relationship is open to multiple interpretations which are not overtly distinguished by the linguistic expressions themselves, since the anaphor’s interpretation depends upon which referent of the proper noun Hitchcock is intended. A mental space analysis clariﬁes the matter in the following way. Note ﬁrst that this sentence involves two diﬀerent, connected, mental spaces: speaker reality R, in which both the real Hitchcock exists (r1) and also an actor exists (r2) who is playing him in the movie, and the movie space M set up by the prepositional phrase in that movie, which contains the minor character played by Hitchcock himself (m1) and the character of Hitchcock (m2) which is being played by the other actor. Positing the existence of mental spaces provides a simple account of the range of possible interpretations for sentence (3). The anaphor could refer to (designate) either the real Hitchcock (r1) in R (with the interpretation that the real Hitchcock hurt himself while making the movie), or to the cameo character Hitchcock is playing in the connected M space (m1) (with the interpretation that the minor character Hitchcock is playing hurts himself as part of the movie’s plot). Or the anaphor could refer to (designate) the character of Hitchcock which is being played by another actor (m2) in M (Fauconnier suggested Orson Welles could have played the part). The latter reading would have the interpretation that the Hitchcock character being played by Welles hurts himself as part of the plot. The point is that these three diﬀerent interpretations of sentence (3) can be readily disambiguated by setting up diﬀerent counterparts for the proper noun Hitchcock in two diﬀerent mental spaces which the anaphor can refer to. Now that we have gotten a glimpse into how the notion of mental spaces can prove useful in dealing with problems in linguistic semantics, I will henceforth take it for granted that mental spaces are plausible theoretical constructs and turn now to the main claim of the chapter.

3. Mental space designators Up to this point we have focused on the idea that certain linguistic expressions set up or build mental spaces (space builders), but have not yet considered the possibility that in some cases these spaces might be overtly represented in grammatical structure itself. My central aim in this chapter is to present evidence that some languages not only have space builders, but also expressions I will call space designators, i.e. elements which actually designate — in the morphosyntax — the mental spaces

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themselves which are set up by the space builders (as opposed to forms which describe relations holding within such spaces). Fauconnier apparently makes no reference to this kind of construct in his work, but I will claim that the facts from English, German, and Russian support its viability and that the theory of mental spaces should be expanded to include it. Speciﬁcally, I argue that at least some uses of cataphoric pronouns serve this space-designating function, as illustrated by the anticipatory object pronouns in (1) above and the additional English (4), German (6), and Russian (7) sentences below. Consider ﬁrst the cataphoric it which functions as the direct object of the matrix verbs in the English examples in (4) below. (4) a. b. c. d.

We abhor it that the mayor absconded with the money. She resents it that the class starts so early. They dislike it that the weather is so cold here. He detests it that Clinton was impeached.

Note that the matrix verbs in each example express diﬀerent kinds of mental attitudes about the propositions which follow in the subordinate clauses. These propositional attitude verbs are therefore assumed to create mental spaces that represent new domains of knowledge within the prevailing or current context. The subordinate propositions are located conceptually within these spaces and are thus interpreted relative to the structured information and inferences about each kind of propositional attitude residing within each space. The cataphor it is either obligatory or highly preferred with the above space building verbs in English, but it is generally not tolerated with such space builders as believe, promise, feel, hope, know, think, etc., as shown in (5) below. A reason for this diﬀerence will be suggested in Section 5 below. (5) a. b. c. d.

*Mary believes it that the senator will lose. *The governor promised it that she would sign the bill. *They know it that there will likely be a drought this year. *She thinks it that the baby is crying.

In German, cataphoric es “it” may also appear either optionally or obligatorily with certain space building verbs, as shown by the data in (6) below. (6) a.

Ich wage (es) nicht, meinen Vater zu fragen. I dare it not my father to ask ‘I don’t dare ask my father.’ b. Paul vergißt (es), daß Inge kommt. Paul forgets it that Inge comes ‘Paul forgets that Inge’s coming.’ c. Peter lehnt *(es) ab, daß die Sozialisten gewonnen haben. Peter leans it from that the socialists won have ‘Peter refuses [to admit] that the socialists won.’

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

d. Ich kann *(es) kaum ertragen, daß Hans gewonnen hat. I can it hardly bear that Hans won has ‘I can hardly stand it that Hans won.’ Cataphoric es is generally not allowed after such German verbs as wissen “know”, annehmen “accept”, behaupten “assert”, empfehlen “recommend”, denken “think”, glauben “believe”, fühlen “feel”, etc. (see Pütz (1986: 70) for a more complete list). The evidence suggests that there is a basic distinction in German between space builders which require cataphoric es (cf. (6c) and (6d) above) and those with which its occurrence is either optional or generally not allowed (cf. (6a) and (6b) above) (cf. Pütz 1986: 58–88 for detailed discussion).⁷ The determining factors for its optionality likely reside in the idiosyncratic meanings of each verb and go beyond the scope of this chapter (indeed they have not yet been adequately studied, as is noted by Pütz). Thus, in many instances it is not possible to predict whether the cataphoric es will or will not appear with a particular space builder, as is the case with verbs like vergessen “forget” in (6b) above. But the data are usually quite clear with respect to which verbs require the cataphor vs. those which do not, so I will focus on trying to account for the diﬀerence between these two main sets. I will propose a reason for the basic distinction between the two classes of verbs in Section 5 below.⁸ As noted above, a similar kind of cataphoric function is apparently served in Russian by a form of the demonstrative pronoun to ”that” in the following correlative constructions (where the diﬀerences in the pronoun’s phonological form reﬂects diﬀerent cases) (cf. Leed, Nakhimovsky, and Nakhimovsky 1982: 150–151).⁹ (7) a.

Mne nravitsja (to), čto on vypolnjaet svoi obeščanija. me pleases that that he keeps REFL promises ‘I like the fact that he keeps his promises.’ b. Ja somnevajus’ (v tom), čto on skazal eto. I doubt in that that he said that ‘I doubt that he said that.’ c. Petja privyk (k tomy), čto kritiki ego vsegda xvaljat. Pete used to that that critics him always praise ‘Pete is used to critics always praising him.’ d. Ivan načal s togo, čto lično poznakomilsja so vsemi. Ivan began from that that personally acquainted with all ‘Ivan began by getting personally acquainted with everybody.’

We see from these data that, in addition to verbs and the other kinds of linguistic expressions mentioned previously, short form adjectives such as privyk “accustomed, used (to)” and uveren “sure” (from (1c)) can also serve as space builders in Russian. What might motivate the appearance of cataphors as mental space designators in constructions of this type? A natural explanation for the function of the cataphoric pronouns in discourse in these examples is to anticipate the mental spaces set up by space builders, such as despise in (1a), bedauern “regret” in (1b), and uv-

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Propositional attitude predicate preﬁgures a mental space (cataphoric pronoun accentuates space’s boundaries by actually designating space) I despise . . . it Wir bedauern . . . es Ja uveren v . . . tom

that . . . S dass . . . S čto . . . S

Figure 2.

eren “sure” in (1c), by actually designating the spaces themselves in the grammar. They often link the propositional attitude (or some action) of a matrix clause entity — usually the matrix subject — with particular relationships associated with that entity. The mental spaces are then subsequently elaborated by propositions expressed by “linguistic clauses, which typically. . .predicate relations holding between space elements” (Fauconnier 1985: 17). The sketch shown in Figure 2 gives a rough idea of how this works: the mental space set up by the space building verb or adjective that is designated by the cataphor is represented by the circle, and the clauses which ﬁll in the space are shown inside the circle to indicate that they are inside the mental space. Under this analysis, the English space builder despise in (1a) sets up a mental space anticipated and designated by it, in which the proposition that John’s vote for the governor is negatively appraised. Similarly, in (1b) the German matrix verb bedauern “regret” sets up a mental space designated by the pronominal es, which is then elaborated by the clause stating the proposition that Hans is stupid. And in (1c) the Russian space builder uveren “sure” sets up a mental space which is then elaborated by a proposition expressed by subordinate clausal elements which describe what the matrix subject is “sure” (uveren) about. Similar descriptions could be given for the other data in (4), (6) and (7) above. In a nutshell, the proposed model is that the cataphor designates a space set up by a space building verb or adjective which is then elaborated with a subordinate proposition expressed by a linguistic expression. This latter proposition is then interpreted relative to the knowledge structures evoked in each space (i.e. with respect to despising something (1a), being regretful about something (1b), or being sure about something (1c)). Before proceeding further, it is worth mentioning that an apparently similar kind of function is proposed for such English “abstract and nonspeciﬁc nouns” as fact, idea, problem, rumor, advantage, claim, thing, point, etc. in a paper by Schmid (1999: 111), as illustrated by sentences like the following (which I have constructed to take the place of his longer examples extracted from corpus data).

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

(8) a. b. c. d.

The fact was that we ran out of time. The idea was that we would go together to the concert. The problem was that they forgot to bring along any money. The rumor was that they were having an aﬀair.

Schmid suggests that such nouns, which he calls “shell nouns”, function to provide “conceptual shells” (1999: 113) in the discourse which are subsequently elaborated by diﬀerent contents that are expressed by the subordinate clauses which follow them.¹⁰ He goes on to note that “isolated uses of shell nouns do not activate conceptualisations that are experienced as saturated thoughts . . . Therefore speakers must link them to clauses or even longer stretches of text” (1999: 114). But each noun’s lexical content, however abstract it might be, does “have some potential for the characterisation of cognitive content” which inﬂuences the way in which the information to be supplied in the shell is construed (1999: 114). The use of the shell nouns problem in (8c) and rumor in (8d), for example, shade the interpretation of the subordinate clauses which follow their occurrence by labeling the content as being either negative or hypothetical in some way, respectively. Schmid notes that the conceptual shells set up by shell nouns are remarkably similar to Fauconnier’s notion of mental spaces, though Fauconnier does not seem to consider nouns as possible space builders (Schmid 1999: 115). Among the more interesting “cognitive eﬀects” or functions of shell nouns noted by Schmid include their use in conceptual packaging, whereby they eﬀect the “temporary reiﬁcation of complex cognitive content as a thing” (1999: 122). That is, shell nouns are a linguistic means of packaging information economically and compactly into “unsaturated” (conceptually unelaborated) concepts which are then elaborated by “saturated thoughts” (conceptually elaborated concepts) that are ordinarily packaged less economically by linguistic clauses describing events or relations (Schmid 1999: 120). By using a shell noun, a speaker can more easily link the information referred to by the noun to other kinds of conceptualizations, since nouns prototypically designate things, and things are conceptually simpler and more eﬃcient to manipulate than clauses designating events or relations. Schmid also observes that the shell-content pattern like that illustrated in (8) above eﬀects the interpretation that “the information provided by [the shell nouns] is construed as given, and marked as being accessible” or taken for granted (i.e. topicalized), and that “the shell contents are highlighted for attention” and construed as “new and particularly noteworthy” or in focus (1999: 127–128). Schmid’s paper is interesting in the present context because it convincingly argues that mental spaces can be constructed by relatively abstract nominal entities (shell nouns) which are apparently more semantically abstract than Fauconnier’s space builders, but several degrees less abstract than cataphoric pronouns, plausibly the most abstract nominal elements of all. I would argue that his analysis supports my own claim that cataphoric pronouns can designate mental spaces, in that it suggests the possibility of the existence of a continuum of linguistic entities ranging

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from highly concrete expressions such as verbs, which set up mental spaces but do not designate them, to the more abstract space building shell nouns, to cataphoric pronouns which, I argue, do not so much create spaces as designate the spaces set up by more concrete clausal elements. Crucially, Schmid does not claim that shell nouns designate the mental spaces which they set up, but that they act very much like other kinds of more semantically concrete space builders in creating such spaces. If my own analysis is correct, then it is likely that cataphoric pronouns represent an extreme degree of grammaticalization and abstraction of this general process.¹¹ At this point let us stop to consider possible objections to an analysis that treats cataphors as space designators and even consider a possible counter-analysis. Some readers might claim that a linguistic construct with this kind of function really does not make any substantial meaning contribution to the clause, since the cataphor’s lexical content is essentially null, and that its proposed use in these sentences is nothing more than an arbitrary grammatical marker without semantic signiﬁcance. Indeed, Greenberg alludes to this possibility when he notes that “a normally anaphoric marker used in this way cannot usually be anymore than a sign that some identiﬁcation will follow, very much as an opening quotation mark tells us that a quotation is coming without it yet being known. For this reason it is always redundant from the speciﬁcally referential point of view” (1985: 283). While cognitive grammar does not deny the possibility that “such elements are, so to speak, grammaticized” (Greenberg 1985: 283), their regular and predictable grammatical function and apparently “redundant” contribution to the referential meaning of the clause does not necessarily mean that they are completely devoid of meaning. Indeed, the suggested function of cataphoric pronouns in the examples above can be viewed as reﬂecting the importance of the cognitive grammar notion of imagery in linguistic semantics, whereby each grammatical construction is conceived to impose a particular kind of conceptual organization on a conceived situation (cf. Langacker 1987, 1991a, 1991b), and the meaning of a linguistic expression involves not only its objective content but also how that content is construed. What this means is that, in spite of their apparent meaninglessness, the presence of cataphors in some constructions might provide a particular way of construing a scene or of organizing the elements in a given conceptualization which, at least in some instances, is semantically relevant. I will present evidence for this later in the chapter. Alternatively, it might be claimed that these pronouns are not cataphors at all, but that they are in fact actually “anaphoric, since what will follow has already been mentioned and the apparently cataphoric element is really coreferential with something that preceded and is simply about to give us an additional characterization or identiﬁcation” (Greenberg 1985: 283). While I know of no way to prove conclusively that the pronominal elements in question are cataphors and not just anaphors in disguise (so to speak), I would simply note that it seems perfectly acceptable to use any of the English sentences in (4) above to start a conversation about a relevant topic, without the information which

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

appears in the subordinate clauses necessarily already having been mentioned in previous discourse or even being part of the common ground. For example, it would be completely natural for me to change the topic of a conversation about a mutual friend of ours which had nothing at all to do with a class’s starting time by uttering (4b), and a similar point could be made about (4c) (repeated below). (4) b. She resents it that the class starts so early. c. They dislike it that the weather is so cold here. Notice that neither sentence would sound right if it were uttered in a context which had previously had nothing to do with someone resenting or disliking something and the subordinate clause following the pronoun were omitted, but both sound ﬁne in such a context when the subordinate clause follows the pronoun. This suggests strongly that it is the matrix space building verbs which create the context for the pronouns, not some previous discourse context, and that they cataphorically preﬁgure (i.e. designate) the mental spaces set up by these verbs. Finally, note also the possibility that these pronouns may refer cataphorically not only to the spaces set up by the space builders, but also to the clauses themselves which explicitly describe the relations involved within those spaces. But, even if this is true, when the pronouns are ﬁrst encountered by the hearer, they can refer to nothing yet introduced into the context but the expectation of information to come (propositions in the examples under discussion) which is preﬁgured by the space builders, as was mentioned earlier. Interpreting this expectation as the establishment of a mental space that is designated by the cataphoric pronoun seems to be a natural explanation for its occurrence. Characterizing cataphoric pronouns (vs. some other kind of linguistic item) as space designators therefore seems intuitively appealing due, at least in part, to their highly schematic meanings in this kind of usage and the fact that the meanings of pronouns in general (if they are attributed any meaning at all) are usually considered to be more grammatical than lexical in nature. But, to support an analysis claiming that cataphoric pronouns can designate mental spaces, it is necessary to show that the pronouns in question are polysemous, i.e. they have a number of distinct but interrelated senses — usually radiating from a prototypical sense — which can be plausibly related to one another via meaning chains motivated by semantic extensions of various kinds (see Taylor (1995) and Lakoﬀ (1987) for extensive discussion). The reason for this is that in its use as a space designator we are attributing to the pronoun a sense/use which is clearly distinct from its more familiar anaphoric function. Unless these diﬀerent uses can be linked in some way, there is no explanation for why a pronoun can be used as a space designator, and thus the use of what otherwise looks like an ordinary anaphoric pronoun to designate mental spaces would be arbitrary. In the next section, I will discuss how the use of cataphoric pronouns as abstract mental space (abstract setting) designators follows naturally from some of their more prototypical uses/senses as anaphors, focusing on the evidence from English and German.¹²

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4. Evidence for the mental space senses of English it and German es In this section I show how the various senses of German es can be related to each other as members of a complex conceptual category centering around its prototypical sense as a pronominal anaphor. For the most part, the senses of English it are essentially parallel to those of es, as will be clear from the English translations of the German sentences, so I will combine the discussion for both languages where possible (cf. Smith (2002) for more detailed argumentation).

4.1. German es and English it as pronominal anaphors Prototypically, these pronouns refer to an earlier 3rd person singular entity (thing) in the discourse (which is also speciﬁed as grammatically neuter in German), as shown in (9) below. The anaphoric relation is indicated by the usual subscript notation in the following examples. (9) a.

Ich kaufte [ein Buch]i und habe esi mit mir gebracht. I bought [a book and have it with me brought ‘I bought [a book]i and I’ve brought iti with me.’ b. Ist das [Ihr Kind]i? Bitte nimm esi weg von hier! is that [your child please take it away from here ‘Is that [your child]i? Please take iti away from here!’

It is evident that English it has an analogous function in this kind of sentence which requires no further discussion.

4.2. German es as an anaphor for other types of things German es, though apparently not English it, can also refer to non-neuter noun phrases (10), have a plural noun phrase antecedent (11), or be used as a general kind of indeterminate accusative object pronoun (called a “bloßes formales Objekt” in many German grammars), in which it does not refer to any particular antecedent, but rather to some unspeciﬁed thing or concept (12). Clearly, each of these uses represents a separate extension (and resulting sense) for es which is slightly diﬀerent from the prototype exempliﬁed in (9) above.¹³ (10) Ich kannte [seinen Bruder]i. Esi/eri war ein guter Arzt. I knew his brother it/he was a good doctor ‘I knew [his brother]i. Hei was a good doctor.’ (11) An der Ecke standen [ein Mädchen und ein Junge]i. Esi/siei waren seine on the corner stood a girl and a boy it/they were his Kinder. children ‘On the corner stood [a girl and a boy]i. Theyi were his children.’

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

(12) a.

Er nimmt es mit jedem auf. he takes it with each up ‘He’s a match for everyone.’ b. Er hat es weit gebracht. he has it far brought ‘He’s gotten on (succeeded) in the world’.

These data show that German es is susceptible to semantic bleaching even in its basic anaphoric sense (cf. Sweetser 1988), in which, ﬁrst, its erstwhile neuter gender speciﬁcation is lost (10), then its number speciﬁcation may be lost (11), and then, in a further extension, it may come to designate no more than some unspeciﬁed thing which has no apparent antecedent in the discourse (12).

4.3. German es and English it as anaphors for relations and reiﬁed clauses As a crucial way-station toward its more grammaticalized uses (as a cataphor, for example), German es can be anaphoric for relational predications (and not just for individual noun phrases mentioned previously in the discourse). In both (13) and (14) below, es refers back to the atemporal relations (i.e. adjectives) arm “poor” and angenehm “pleasant”, respectively. English it doesn’t seem to have this particular function. (13) Er ist armi, du bist esi auch. he is poor you are it [i.e. poor] too ‘He’s poor, (and) you are too.’ (14) Peter ist mir angenehmi. Aber Paul ist esi mir nicht. Peter is me pleasant but Paul is it me not ‘Peter is pleasant to me. But Paul is not (i.e. pleasant to me).’ And, in a further semantic extension, in (15) and (16) below, German es and English it appear to be anaphoric for an entire proposition, in which a clause (a linguistic representation of an entire proposition) has been reiﬁed as a kind of abstract thing. For example, in sentence (15) below the process of someone’s reciting has been reiﬁed (as indicated in the gloss) in order to serve as the antecedent for es and it in the following clause. The reiﬁcation of an act of theft is likewise the antecedent for es and it in sentence (16). (15) [Wir haben ihn wieder deklamieren gehört]i. [we have him again recite heard Esi war ein verbales Schlachtfest. it was a verbal slaughter ‘[We’ve heard him recite again]i. Iti [the reciting process] was a verbal slaughter (lit. a ‘slaughter-fest’ in German).’

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(16) [In der Klasse ist gestohlen worden]i, [in the class(room) is stolen become aber keiner will esi getan haben. but no.one wants it done have ‘[Something was stolen in the classroom]i, but no one claims to have done iti.’ The evidence shows so far that es and it can be used as anaphors for anything from a thing construed as a participant in a given event to a reiﬁcation of a full clause. I claim that this latter sense provides the bridge for its use to designate settings of various sorts.

4.4. German es and English it proﬁling mental spaces (abstract settings) There is a plausible conceptual mechanism by which es and it can be extended in use from designating individual entities (or relations) previously mentioned in the discourse to designate mental spaces or abstract settings (cf. note 4) of various kinds within which participants are conceived to interact. The conceptual mechanism in question is facilitated by the use of the pronouns in data like that in (15–16) above, where they designate reiﬁed clauses previously mentioned in the discourse. The semantic extension in question probably comes about via a kind of metonymy in which the pronouns lose their association with individual participants (however indeterminate) or reiﬁcations of an event itself (cf. 15–16) and instead come to be associated with the setting or space in which the action or state transpires.¹⁴ This may be a kind of whole for the part metonymy, as opposed to the more frequent part for the whole metonymy illustrated in a sentence like (17), in which the person who ate the sandwich is indirectly designated by referring to an entity with which the person was closely identiﬁed in the given context (cf. Lakoﬀ and Johnson 1980: 35–40). (17) The ham sandwich left without paying. A metonymic analysis of the proposed semantic extension is completely reasonable when one considers that events are integrally associated with the settings in which they occur. Indeed, a setting often serves as a kind of reference point with respect to which the event in question can be located (cf. Langacker 1991b: 351, Langacker 1993, and note 4). Langacker notes, for example, that elements like it and there in English, in their use in designating abstract settings (cf. the setting subject designated by there in the sentence There’s a lamp on the table), “should probably be thought of as abstract presentational frames serving to announce the intention of subsequently introducing something in those frames. With such an analysis, it is perfectly understandable that it and there should serve as reference points: a setting constitutes a natural and obvious reference point for the elements that occur within it” (Langacker 2000: 347).

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

It is not surprising, then, that the sense exhibited by the pronouns when they are used as anaphors for a reiﬁed clause could be extended to a related sense in which the pronouns designate the setting in which the clause is construed to take place. The additional conceptual leap required to go from the one use to the other is not appreciably greater than that needed previously to justify the extension of their meaning from an anaphor for a relation (13–14) to an anaphor for a reiﬁed clause (15)–(16). Each of these semantic extensions from the prototype reﬂects a further step toward abstractness, with the setting (mental space) sense representing the most abstract use of all, i.e. the use which is usually viewed as a meaningless grammatical marker in many frameworks. On the basis of the material in Section 4, I will now assume that cataphoric pronouns can be used to designate mental spaces preﬁgured by certain space builders.

5. Additional evidence that cataphors can designate mental spaces In this section I will present three kinds of additional evidence that cataphoric pronouns can designate mental spaces preﬁgured by space building predicates of various kinds.

5.1. The use of cataphors to accentuate conceptual distance As shown in (1a) and (4) above, the class of space building verbs in English requiring cataphoric object it is, in general, semantically restricted to those involving negative, uncertain, or otherwise undesirable feelings (as expressed by such verbs as dislike, resent, loathe, abhor, detest, hate, etc.). The same is true for German (6), though the class of German space builders either allowing or requiring the space designator es is apparently broader than that in English. German seems to be more tolerant of allowing cataphoric es to preﬁgure spaces construed either as important or especially desirable (18), or not yet accomplished or incomplete (19).¹⁵ (18) a.

Wir loben es, daß Sie das gemacht haben. we praise it that you that done have ‘We praise (it) that you did that.’ b. Meine Eltern lieben (es), am Wochenende an einen See zu my parents love it on-the weekend on a lake to fahren. drive ‘My parents love to drive to the lake on the weekend.’

(19) a.

Er kann es kaum erwarten, seine Braut wiederzusehen. he can it hardly wait his bride again-to-see ‘He can hardly wait to see his bride again.’

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b. Er gönnt es mir nicht, im Sommer nach Italien zu fahren. he allows it me not in-the summer to Italy to travel ‘He grudges my traveling to Italy in the summer.’ Also, cataphoric es is possible in German after verbs of permitting (something not yet done). (20) a.

Ich erlaube es dir, meine Schreibmaschine zu benützen. I permit it you my typewriter to use ‘I permit you to use my typewriter.’ b. Ich überlasse es dir, morgen zu kommen oder nicht. I leave it you tomorrow to come or not ‘I leave it to you to come tomorrow or not.’

In all such cases, I suggest that overt mention of the space itself by the pronoun accentuates (for whatever reason) the conceptual distance judged to exist between the matrix subject and the relation(s) holding within the spaces by iconically distancing — in the grammar — the matrix subject from the subordinate clause describing those relations (cf. Haiman (1983, 1985a, 1985b) for detailed discussion of the notion of conceptual distance and examples of the phenomenon from other languages). The use of cataphoric pronouns to accentuate the conceptual distance between the matrix subject and the proposition in the subordinate clause is likely a manifestation of a spatialization metaphor closely related to one identiﬁed in Lakoﬀ and Johnson (1980) to the eﬀect that closeness is strength of eﬀect, as illustrated by the following examples (from Lakoﬀ and Johnson (1980: 130)). (21) a. Harry is not happy. b. Harry is unhappy. (22) a. I taught Greek to Harry. b. I taught Harry Greek. Lakoﬀ and Johnson note that (21a), in which the negative morpheme not is a separate word, could be neutral with respect to whether Harry is fundamentally happy or sad, even though it indicates that at the present time he is not happy. (21b), on the other hand, in which the negative morpheme is more closely attached to the word happy as a preﬁx, implies a stronger negative in which Harry is deﬁnitely sad. And, in (22a), in which Harry is separated from Greek by the preposition to, Harry may not have learned what I tried to teach him, whereas in (22b) the lack of any element separating Harry and Greek yields the clear implication of a stronger eﬀect in which Harry did actually learn Greek. Lakoﬀ and Johnson observe that spatial metaphors can “apply directly to the form of a sentence. . .. [t]his can provide automatic direct links between form and content, based on general metaphors in our conceptual system” (1980: 126). Thus, part of a sentence’s meaning can stem from the precise form the sentence takes due

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to this nonarbitrary linking between form and meaning, and “[l]inguistic forms are themselves endowed with content by virtue of spatialization metaphors” (Lakoﬀ and Johnson 1980: 126). It should be stressed that there may be multiple semantic motivations for using cataphoric pronouns to accentuate conceptual distance in the grammar. Many occurrences of the German and English cataphoric pronouns under investigation here seem to reﬂect a related (and possibly inverted) form of the above spatialization metaphor in which distance is weakness of eﬀect. In other words, the appearance of a cataphoric pronoun space designator after space builders signifying negative feelings about events or states (and in other circumstances in German) serves to distance the matrix subject from those events or states, which is not surprising, since it is natural for humans to avoid or distance themselves from negativelyconstrued situations in the hope that their eﬀect will be weaker if they are kept as far away as possible. Alternatively, there is ordinarily no need to distance states or events from the matrix subject which are construed in mildly favorable or neutral terms, which explains why cataphors are generally not found after such English space builders as believe, think, hope, know, etc., or after such German space builders as wissen “know”, annehmen “accept”, behaupten “assert”, empfehlen “recommend”, denken “think”, glauben “believe”, fühlen “feel”, etc. (a fuller list can be found in Pütz 1986: 70). But extending this metaphor to other situations that can be construed as distant in some way from the matrix subject is also natural and not necessarily contradictory when the motivating factors are properly taken into account. Thus, space designators can also be used in German not only to distance an undesirable event from the matrix subject, as discussed in the above paragraph, but also to iconically accentuate the separation between this subject and something conceived by that entity to be especially important or desirable beyond ordinary circumstances (18) (as though putting it on a pedestal). The space designating function of cataphoric pronouns can also accentuate the separation between the matrix subject’s expectation of some event and its fulﬁllment (19), or his permitting something and the subsequent realization of what is permitted (20), all of which are construed as distant from the state of aﬀairs assumed to hold for the matrix subject.¹⁶ The following additional data illustrate the meaning diﬀerences conveyed by the same space building German verbs when the cataphoric anticipatory-object pronouns are present vs. absent (from Pütz 1986: 88). (23) Ich schätze (*es), daß Peter wohl bald wieder gesund wird. I think (it that Peter deﬁnitely soon again healthy become ‘I think that Peter will deﬁnitely be well again.’ (24) Ich schätze *(es), daß du gekommen bist. I value (it that you come are ‘I value (esteem highly) that you have come.’

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In (23) the more neutral sense of schätzen “think” does not allow es, whereas its more positive sense in (24) “value, esteem” does require it, thereby accentuating what is valued by distancing it from the matrix subject by overt designation of the mental space by the pronoun. Note that the use of cataphoric pronouns in (18) and (24) above after matrix verbs designating highly positive feelings or emotions is just as motivated as its use after verbs designating highly negative feelings and emotions (though each for different reasons), because it is natural in either case to accentuate the distance between the matrix subjects and the subordinate propositions. The diﬀerent reasons for either motivation have already been discussed above, and it is important to see that they are not contradictory from the perspective of cognitive grammar. What is likely going on is that in German (and to some extent also in English, as mentioned in note 15) there is a scale along which matrix verbs can be seen to lie with respect to their proclivity to co-occur with a following cataphoric pronoun. At the one extreme we ﬁnd those designating highly negative feelings (detest, hate) and at the other we ﬁnd those designating highly positive feelings (love, admire). As one moves away from either extreme it is less likely for the pronoun to occur, and for verbs in the middle which do not evoke strong feelings either way (think, believe) the cataphor generally does not occur, because there are no strong motivating factors for separating the matrix subject from the subordinate proposition with these verbs. It is not possible to strongly predict where the cut-oﬀ point for using the pronoun is from either extreme, and indeed, in some instances, as with the verb enjoy in English, the use of the cataphor is optional, with its optionality an indication of the gradation inherent in the scale.

5.2. The use of cataphors to indicate diﬀerence in emphasis Now that we have examined evidence based on conceptual distance that cataphoric pronouns can designate mental spaces in the grammar, let us turn to another kind of closely related evidence: the optional occurrence of cataphors after verbs (with which they usually do not occur) when the speaker wishes to emphasize the propositional content of the subordinate clause. The following set of sentences shows how a diﬀerence in emphasis can be accentuated by es after wissen “know” in German, where es normally does not occur (cf. Lederer 1969: 202). (25) Ich weiß, daß er morgen kommt. I know that he tomorrow comes ‘I know that he’s coming tomorrow.’ Apparently, wissen can be used with object es if special emphasis is placed on the clausal object.

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

(26) Ich weiß es sicher, daß er morgen kommt. I know it certain that he tomorrow comes ‘I know for certain that he’s coming tomorrow.’ (27) Peter hat es doch gewußt, daß ich das getan hatte! Peter has it EMPHATIC known that I that done had ‘Peter knew [emphasis] that I had done that!’ Note that there is also a possible English translation of (26) in which cataphoric it can be used for emphasis, which suggests that this use of the cataphor is relevant in English as well, since it can also be used after other verbs of knowing, such as understand, realize, etc. (28) I know (it) for certain that he’s coming tomorrow. The cataphor’s evocation of special emphasis in these situations is likely due to the fact that overt designation of the mental space set up by the matrix verb draws more attention to the proposition contained in and characterized speciﬁcally by the knowledge structures inherent in that space than if the pronoun were absent. Also, by momentarily delaying mention of the subordinate clause by the use of the pronoun the speaker creates an air of anticipation in the ﬂow of discourse about what is to follow which can heighten the hearer’s interest in the subsequent information (again evoking another kind of conceptual distance). Related to this is that the use of the cataphor in eﬀect results in a kind of double-mention in which the space designated by the pronoun metonymically relates to the proposition located conceptually within that space by preﬁguring the space grammatically. Finally, in each of (26–28) it is also evident that the information construed as known, which is speciﬁed within the mental space designated by the cataphoric pronoun, is already in the realm of discourse, thus accentuating its independent existence apart from the matrix subject’s musings, and motivating the use of es or it to anticipate its speciﬁc mention in the following subordinate clause.¹⁷ Another pair of German sentences illustrating how a diﬀerence in emphasis can be characterized by including the cataphor is given below (from Pütz 1986: 60). (29) Ich sage nicht, daß ich Hans verleumdet habe. ich say not that I Hans slandered have ‘I’m not saying that I slandered Hans.’ (30) Ich sage es ja auch gar nicht, daß ich Hans verleumdet habe. I say it yes (EMPH.) also at-all not that I Hans slandered have ‘I’m not at all saying that I slandered Hans.’ Sentence (29) is relatively neutral with respect to the speaker’s saying that he did not slander someone, whereas (30) more forcefully emphasizes this claim, as shown by the addition of the emphatic particle ja.

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5.3. The use of cataphors to accentuate the importance of a space’s physical boundaries The evidence presented so far has suggested that overt mention of a mental space itself by the cataphoric pronoun in English and German can be exploited to play up the importance of the space’s boundaries with certain matrix verbs (cf. Figure 2 above), which further accentuates the “mental” distance between the matrix subject and what is conceptualized by that subject. We have also seen how the cataphor’s designation of the mental space set up by a space building matrix verb can evoke emphasis in some cases. A slightly diﬀerent kind of cataphoric it in English which evokes the enhanced relevance of a space’s boundaries is especially evident in minimal pairs like the following, with matrix verbs which usually evoke mental knowledge and/or some kinds of typical sensory experience. In these examples, rather than invoking a mental space’s boundaries to accentuate the conceptual distance between the matrix subject and what is conceptualized (or possibly intellectual emphasis on the subordinate concept per se), this kind of it highlights the relevant space’s boundaries to play up the importance of the space as a physical setting for some kind of event which is construed to have a physical rather than intellectual eﬀect on the matrix subject. (31) a. You know it when the train goes by. b. You know _____ when the train goes by. (32) a. Did you hear it when the train arrived? b. Did you hear _____ when the train arrived? (33) a. She was aware of it when the plane landed. b. She was aware of _____ when the plane landed. (34) a. The psychic could feel it when the UFO landed. b. The psychic could feel _____ when the UFO landed. In each sentence in (31–34) the use of cataphoric it in the (a) examples forces a reading that clearly accentuates the eﬀect of the vehicle’s action within a physical space or setting preﬁgured by it and that action’s eﬀect on the matrix subject within that setting, whereas the lack of it in the (b) examples more likely evokes a reading in which a statement is made about a person’s intellectual knowledge or awareness of the time at which the vehicle went by, with little if any emphasis on the action’s strong physical eﬀect on the setting. This can be seen in (31), for example, where the most likely interpretation of (31a) evokes the sense of the train’s having a physical eﬀect on the surrounding environment and the people in it as it speeds by. Such an interpretation, while possible, is unlikely in (31b), where the lack of a cataphor and its evocation of the setting emphasizes a reading in which the train’s physical eﬀect on bystanders is less important than the matrix subject’s mental awareness of the time at which it goes by. Note also how (34a) accentuates the psychic’s

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

physical awareness of the eﬀect of the UFO’s landing (as if he were actually there), whereas (34b) plays up the psychic’s mental ability to perceive the time when the UFO landed, without his being physically present or aﬀected by the landing (which is presumably possible if the person is a decent psychic).¹⁸ Before going on it is imperative to understand and reiterate the patterning in these data, which gives an important clue about their explanation with respect to the function of the cataphor. The (a) examples in (31)–(34) strongly evoke the sense that the actions described in the subordinate clauses preﬁgured by cataphoric it have some kind of physical eﬀect on the matrix subjects above and beyond whatever mental eﬀects they might produce; it is diﬃcult, if not impossible, to interpret them as meaning only that the matrix subjects have some kind of intellectual or mental understanding of the subordinate clause events. The (b) examples, on the other hand, while tolerating the interpretation that the subordinate clauses exert a physical eﬀect on the matrix subjects, are much more naturally interpreted as meaning that the subordinate events are comprehended intellectually by the matrix subjects. Signiﬁcantly, the (b) examples do not contain cataphoric pronouns which separate the matrix clause subjects from the subordinate clause events. We have assumed within mental space theory that emotionally neutral verbs evoking intellectual activity, like know and believe, set up mental spaces which are not ordinarily designated by cataphoric pronouns except under circumstances of special emphasis, as in example (28) above. And, even in cases of emphasis, the emphasis is usually of a purely intellectual kind. Nor do the other matrix predicates in (31–34) above ordinarily occur with cataphoric it when their meanings evoke purely intellectual activity. A moment’s reﬂection, however, conﬁrms that in these data the meanings of the matrix verbs when used with cataphoric pronouns in the (a) examples are somewhat diﬀerent from the meanings of these verbs in the (b) examples (when cataphors do not occur): they have been extended in the (a) examples to the perception or understanding of events in the concrete physical domain from their likely more basic senses in the abstract domain of purely intellectual activity which is typically reﬂected in the (b) examples. But my claim is that even in this extended meaning the matrix verbs are still space builders, with the proviso that the mental spaces set up by the matrix verbs now evoke knowledge structures relevant to the perception of physical events in addition to the usual knowledge structures associated with purely intellectual events. Thus, when the speaker wants to focus attention on perception of an event in the physical domain or setting (by using know, be aware of, etc.) he can accentuate the inﬂuence of that event’s occurrence in (and possibly on) the setting in which it occurs by designating the mental space set up by that verb (or verbal construction in the case of be aware of) with cataphoric it. The use of it to designate the space set up by the space builder highlights the importance of the physical location of the event with these verbs and thus the event’s eﬀect on the matrix subject. Clearly, this sense can also be obtained without the use of the pronoun, but this latter reading is dispreferred in favor of the one evoking perception in the mental domain. For example,

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in the context of (31a) the matrix verb know means something like “be physically (as opposed to intellectually) aware of something in the physical domain”, and so the cataphoric pronoun it‘s designation of the boundaries of the space set up by the verb is now understood as much in physical terms as intellectual terms in its evocation of the actual boundaries of the physical location in which action occurs. This is why the (a) examples in (31–34) evoke so clearly the idea that the events described in the subordinate clauses have some kind of physical eﬀect on the matrix subject, whereas in the (b) examples the relationships between the entities is purely mental in nature (under the usual interpretation). These observations are conﬁrmed in the following additional examples. Note that in (35a) emphasis is placed on the traveler’s actually being present when the plane landed (with the traveler’s physical awareness of the landing event accentuated), whereas in (35b) the cataphor is impossible if the seeing focuses on the traveler’s intellectually ascertaining, by visual means, the time at which the ﬂight landed. (35) a. The traveler could see it when the ﬂight landed. b. By using the timetable the traveler could see (*it) when the ﬂight landed. A similar distinction is found in another example with hear, as shown below in sentence (36): (36) a. The passengers were able to hear it when the train arrived. b. By listening to announcements over the loudspeaker the passengers could hear (*it) when the train arrived. Here, too, the cataphor is only possible when emphasis is placed on the physical effect of the train’s arrival on the passengers (36a). When the context is changed to emphasize the intellectual understanding of the time at which the train arrives, cataphoric it is impossible, since the relevance of the physical setting in this case (preﬁgured by the mental space designated by it) is less important.

6. The potential space designating function of another kind of cataphor As is well known, both English it and German es occur as so-called expletive (extraposition) syntactic-subject pronominals in constructions like those illustrated in (37) and (38) below. (37) a. It is likely that the governor will run for president. b. It is certain that Gore and Bush will have a close race. (38) a.

Es ist sicher, daß Inge morgen ankommt. it is certain that Inge tomorrow arrives ‘It’s certain that Inge will arrive tomorrow.’

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators

b. Es ist interessant, daß Hans sein Auto verkauft hat. it is interesting that Hans his car sold has ‘It’s interesting that Hans sold his car.’ I think that analyzing these cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators similar to those which preﬁgure spaces built up by propositional attitude predicates (such as verbs and adjectives) helps explain their semantic function in these clauses, and provides an argument against the usual view that they are just meaningless syntactic place-holders. While it is likely true that their syntactic-subject place-holding function is due in part to heavy noun phrase shift (reﬂecting phonological constraints on the length of sentential subjects), these pronouns may serve the additional semantico-discourse function of delaying overt mention of a clause designating a proposition which describes the relationships holding in a mental space (which might otherwise appear as a sentential subject) by setting up mental spaces (which they also designate) as semantic placeholders that remain empty until the speaker’s attitude toward or belief about those relationships is speciﬁed by the following adjectives. For example, in (37a) above the cataphor it would be analyzed as setting up a mental space which is then “tagged”, so to speak, with the speaker’s judgment about the likelihood of the following proposition taking place. In eﬀect, a kind of “likelihood” space is created. By aﬀording speakers the option of mentioning their attitude about a proposition before uttering the proposition itself, this construction type may reﬂect — in the grammar — a self-centered human tendency to rank one’s opinions about events as just as important (if not more so) as the events themselves. Undoubtedly, much more can and should be investigated along these lines, but space limitations preclude this here.

7. Concluding remarks I have argued in this chapter that the idea of analyzing cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators in English, German, and Russian leads to a revealing account of their meaning and function in grammar and discourse which has eluded discovery until now. The resulting conclusion is that cataphors are not arbitrary, meaningless grammatical devices, but are rather semantically motivated elements in the grammar. The chapter thus contributes additional evidence for the growing realization that many hitherto unnoticed aspects of grammar manifest iconic links between the linguistic forms and the meanings conveyed by the forms (cf. Haiman 1983, 1985a, 1985b, Givón 1990, 1995, and Greenberg 1985 for more discussion). Clearly, more work needs to be done to make the analysis begun here more detailed and convincing. This would include ﬁnding additional data in English and German to further support the points made in the earlier sections of the chapter, and to ﬁnd arguments for the analysis in Russian which go beyond its intuitive

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appeal and apparent ﬁt with the meanings of the matrix predicates presented in (7) above. More work also needs to be done to further justify applying the analysis to the cataphoric subject pronouns exempliﬁed by the English and German extraposition data in the preceding section. And, ﬁnally, data from other languages with cataphoric pronouns should be investigated to see whether they, too, might be insightfully characterized in the way I have suggested here.

Notes 1. I would like to acknowledge the valuable contribution of both the editors of this volume and several anonymous referees, whose suggestions have greatly improved the ﬁnal version of this chapter. Unfortunately, time and space limitations have prevented me from following all of their advice. Consequently, I assume full responsibility for any errors remaining in the ﬁnished product. 2. In this respect, cognitive linguistics owes a lot to the Saussurean approach to grammar known as the “Columbia School” and is largely compatible with its basic tenets. Some representative works in this framework include Diver (1975), Garcia (1977), and Kirsner’s monograph on Dutch presentative sentences (1979). More recently, Huﬀman (1997) deals specifically with pronouns. 3. This quotation is the closest language approximating an actual formal deﬁnition of a mental space that I can ﬁnd in Fauconnier’s work. I think he felt, as do I, that the notion is an intuitively natural one within the general cognitive approach to linguistics. 4. Mental spaces are theoretically similar to Langacker’s notion of abstract settings(1991b), which have been shown to play an important role in linguistic semantics (cf. Langacker’s discussion of existential there-clauses in English (1991b: 352–355), analyses of German and Russian impersonal setting-subject constructions found in Smith (1985a, 1985b, 1993a, 1993b, 1994) and parts of Smith (1987)). These analyses build on Langacker’s basic insight that the setting in which a state or event is conceived to occur can sometimes be accorded grammatical status via coding as the clausal subject (Langacker 1991b: 345ﬀ.), as in such English sentences as Tiger Stadium has witnessed many exciting baseball games and My dog is crawling with ﬂeas, in which the setting subjects are relatively concrete. A somewhat more abstract setting subject is exempliﬁed by the German sentence Es regnet heute and its English translation “It’s raining today”, in which the pronominal subjects es and it, respectively, designate the setting construed as the surrounding environment within which the weather is conceived to occur. Mental spaces extend this notion to the logical extreme in which the setting and/or space is a purely mental construct. See also Kirsner’s classic work on Dutch presentative sentences (1979). 5. Note that mental space researchers typically use any of the following terms to refer to the creation of a mental space by a space builder: build, create, set up, construct, etc. These terms and their synonyms should be interpreted by the reader as signifying the same kind of process, i.e. the creation of a mental space by a space builder. 6. An anonymous reviewer wondered if there are any kinds of objective tests or evidence that certain expressions build mental spaces. My understanding of the concept as employed in mental space research is that the theory assumes that an expression which evokes an appropriate meaning involving some kind of relevant knowledge structure or domain builds

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators a corresponding space to represent that structure, and that the validation of invoking the notion of mental spaces resides in their usefulness in explicating a wide range of linguistic phenomena in an intuitively natural way. 7. As noted earlier, Pütz (1986) presents evidence for just such a division, but does not explain the factors determining which verb belongs to which class. I will return to this question later in the chapter. 8. Readers who are familiar with German grammar might wonder whether the phenomenon under investigation in this chapter extends to constructions in which the subordinate clause functions syntactically as a prepositional object. German has many complex verbal constructions in which the verb co-occurs with a lexically-determined preposition (and in some cases also a reﬂexive (REFL) pronoun that is coreferential with the subject), e.g. sich freuen auf “look forward to”, sich verlassen auf “rely on”, sich erinnern an “remember”, denken an “think of ”, etc. When these verbs take sentential objects, the pronominal element da (not es) cataphorically anticipates the subordinate clause and is attached phonologically to the preposition in question. Here is an example of such a da-compound: (i) Ich habe mich darüber sehr gefreut, daß Peter gekommen ist. I have REFL it-over very been-happy that Peter come is ‘I was very happy (about the fact) that Peter arrived.’ It would appear that da in this kind of prepositional object construction is serving the same function as es in data like that in (6) above, with the main diﬀerence the fact that the da-compounds are generally not omissible, in contrast to es in some circumstances. Due to space limitations I will not mention da-compounds further in this chapter. 9. While it is true that the pronoun in example (7d) seems to be required by the presence of a preposition which would otherwise be stranded without an object, this speciﬁc grammatical function of the pronoun need not preclude its possible cataphoric discourse function, as well. It should also be noted that, as is often the case, there may be diﬀerences of opinion among native speakers as to whether the pronouns (and their sometime accompanying prepositions) in (7a–c) are required, or not. My claim is that, if the pronouns appear, they are cataphoric and designate mental spaces. 10. Schmid considers a larger variety of construction types containing shell nouns than I will discuss in this chapter. My use of the basic type illustrated in (8) will be suﬃcient to relate this concept to my own notion of mental space designators. 11. An anonymous reviewer suggests that the cataphoric pronouns also seem to eﬀect the kind of temporary reiﬁcation like that mentioned by Schmid and I would tend to agree. 12. I will not deal further with the Russian data, primarily for reasons of space, but also because I do not yet have arguments for the mental space designator analysis in Russian which are as convincing as those I have found for English and German. Nevertheless, I am convinced that the analysis can be extended to Russian and to other languages, as well, and that the Russian data presented here exemplify cataphoric pronouns that function as mental space designators. 13. An anonymous reviewer notes that “there will be discourse diﬀerences between Es war ein guter Arzt and Er war ein guter Arzt” in example (10) (and similarly between es and sie in example (11)). While this may be true, the diﬀerence is not relevant to my present argument. The point of the possibility of using es in place of er or sie in these examples is that the meaning of es has been extended to include these non-prototypical kinds of reference.

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Michael B. Smith 14. Cf. one of the senses of -er in a word like kegger, where the usually agentive suﬃx is used to derive a noun from a noun whose meaning is associated — by a similar process — with a reiﬁed event, not a participant in the event. (A kegger is a kind of party event often put together by college students in the United States in which the consumption of beer — which comes in kegs — is conspicuously prodigious.) An example involving an actual setting sense of -er would be the noun sleeper in its sense as a car on a passenger train (hence a location or setting) in which people sleep. 15. English also occasionally tolerates cataphoric it when the following subordinate clause is construed as especially desirable, as in sentences like I love it when she really prepares her speeches and He enjoys it when the students participate. 16. It should be clariﬁed here that, under the proposed analysis, space builders invariably set up mental spaces, whether the spaces are designated by cataphoric pronouns or not. What the cataphors are proposed to do is to highlight, for some reason, the salience of a mental space which has been introduced into the discourse by the space builders. 17. Interestingly, this suggests that in (26–28) the pronouns may be serving both anaphoric and cataphoric functions in the same sentence. It should also be kept in mind that there may often be multiple motivations for conceptual distancing which will depend on the meanings of the matrix verbs. Note, for example, that the distancing of a subordinate clause with es because it is construed as particularly desirable or noteworthy (as if putting it on a pedestal), which was described in the context of (18) above, could also be motivated as a kind of emphasis, as well. In most cases it is diﬃcult (and perhaps not all that important) to tease apart these mutually supporting motivations for using the cataphor to distance the subordinate proposition from the matrix subject, since they mutually support one another. 18. Apparently the only wh-word that can be used to introduce the subordinate clause in these examples is when, which creates a context which, together with the cataphoric pronoun, brings about the interpretation that the action designated by the clause has an eﬀect on the matrix subject. Note that substituting any other wh-word in place of when in the sentences in (31–34) does not have this eﬀect. While this may be a minor, possibly idiosyncratic, fact about English, the examples can still be used to make the point that the cataphors in these expressions designate mental spaces.

References Bresnan, Joan (ed.) 1982. The Mental Representation of Grammatical Relations. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Chomsky, Noam. 1981. Lectures on Government and Binding. The Pisa Lectures. DordrechtHolland/Cinnaminson-USA: Foris. Chomsky, Noam. 1986. Knowledge of language. Its nature, origin, and use. New York: Praeger. Cook, V.J. and Mark Newson, (eds.). 1996. Chomsky’sUniversal Grammar. An Introduction. 2nd edition. Oxford: Blackwell. Culicover, Peter W. 1997. Principles and Parameters: An Introduction to Syntactic Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Diver, William. 1975. “Introduction.” In Columbia University Working Papers in Linguistics 2, William Diver (ed.), 1–20. New York: Columbia University. [Corrected reprint 1980]

Cataphoric pronouns as mental space designators Fauconnier, Gilles. 1985. Mental Spaces: Aspects of Meaning Construction in Natural Language. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press/Bradford. Fauconnier, Gilles. 1997. Mappings in Thought and Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fauconnier, Gilles and Eve Sweetser (eds.). 1996. Spaces, Worlds, and Grammar. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fillmore, Charles J. 1985. “Frames and the semantics of understanding.” Quaderni di Semantica 6(2): 222–254. Garcia, Erica. 1977. “On the practical consequences of theoretical principles.” Lingua 43: 129– 170. Gernsbacher, M.A. 1990. Language Comprehension as Structure Building. Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Givón, T. 1990. Syntax: A Functional-Typological Introduction, vol. 2. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Givón, T. 1995. Functionalism and Grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Goﬀman, Erving. 1974. Frame Analysis. New York: Harper and Row. Greenberg, Joseph H. 1985. “Some iconic relationships among place, time, and discourse deixis.” In Haiman (ed.) 1985a, 271–287. Haegeman, Liliane. 1994. Introduction to government and binding theory. 2nd edition. Oxford/Cambridge: Blackwell. Haiman, John. 1983. “Iconic and economic motivation.” Language 59: 781–819. Haiman, John. (ed.). 1985a. Iconicity in Syntax. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Haiman, John. 1985b. Natural Syntax. Iconicity and Erosion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huﬀman, Alan. 1997. The Categories of Grammar: French lui and le. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Kirsner, Robert S. 1979. The problem of Presentative Sentences in Modern Dutch. [North-Holland Linguistic Series43]. Amsterdam/New York: North-Holland. Lakoﬀ, George. 1987. Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal About the Mind. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Lakoﬀ, George and Mark Johnson. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Langacker, Ronald W. 1987. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar, vol. 1: Theoretical Prerequisites. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Langacker, Ronald W. 1991a. Concept, Image, and Symbol. The Cognitive Basis of Grammar. [Cognitive Linguistics Research1]. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Langacker, Ronald W. 1991b. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar, vol. 2: Descriptive Application. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Langacker, Ronald W. 1993. “Reference-point constructions.” Cognitive Linguistics 4: 1–38. Langacker, Ronald W. 2000. Grammar and Conceptualization. [Cognitive Linguistics Research 14]. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Lederer, Herbert. 1969. Reference Grammar of the German Language. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Leed, Richard, Alexander Nakhimovsky and Alice Nakhimovsky. 1982. Beginning Russian, Volume 2. Columbus, OH: Slavica Publishers. Nunberg, Geoﬀrey. 1978. The Pragmatics of Reference. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Linguistics Club.

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Michael B. Smith Perlmutter, David M. (ed.) 1983. Studies in relational grammar 1. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Perlmutter, David M. and Carol G. Rosen (eds.) 1984. Studies in Relational Grammar 2. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Pütz, Herbert. 1986. Über die Syntax der Pronominalform es im modernen Deutsch. Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag. Radford, Andrew. 1997. Syntactic Theory and the Structure of English: A Minimalist Approach. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sag, Ivan A. and Thomas Wasow. 1999. Syntactic Theory: A Formal Introduction. Stanford: CSLI Publications. Schmid, Hans-Jörg. 1999. “Cognitive eﬀects of shell nouns.” In Discourse studies in cognitive linguistics, Karen van Hoek, Andrej A. Kibrik, and Leo Noordman (eds), 111–132. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Smith, Michael B. 1985a. “An analysis of German dummy subject constructions in cognitive grammar.” In Proceedings of the First Annual Meeting of the Paciﬁc Linguistics Conference, Scott Delancey and Russell S. Tomlin (eds), 412–425. Eugene, OR: Department of Linguistics, University of Oregon. Smith, Michael B. 1985b. “Event chains, grammatical relations, and the semantics of case in German.” Papers from the Twenty-First Regional Meeting of the Chicago Linguistic Society, 388–407. Chicago: Chicago Linguistic Society. Smith, Michael B. 1987. The Semantics of Dative and Accusative in German: An Investigation in Cognitive Grammar. Ph.D dissertation, University of California at San Diego. Smith, Michael B. 1993a. “Aspects of German clause structure from a Cognitive Grammar perspective.” Studi Italiani di Linguistica: Teorica e Applicata 22: 601–638. Smith, Michael B. 1993b. “Cases as conceptual categories: Evidence from German.” In Conceptualizations and Mental Processing in Language. [Cognitive Linguistics Research 2], Richard A. Geiger and Brygida Rudzka-Ostyn (eds), 531–565. Berlin/New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Smith, Michael B. 1994. “Agreement and iconicity in Russian impersonal constructions.” Cognitive Linguistics 5: 5–56. Smith, Michael B. 2002. “The Polysemy of German es, iconicity, and the notion of conceptual distance.” Cognitive Linguistics 13: 67–112. Sweetser, Eve. E. 1988. “Grammaticalization and semantic bleaching.” Berkeley Linguistics Society 14: 389–405. Taylor, John R. 1995. Linguistic Categorization: Prototypes in Linguistic Theory. 2nd edition. New York: Clarendon Press/Oxford. Van Valin, Jr., Robert D. and Randy J. LaPolla. 1997. Syntax: Structure, Meaning, and Function. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Webelhuth, Gert (ed.) 1995. Government and Binding Theory and the Minimalist Program. Principles and Parameters in Syntactic Theory. Oxford: Blackwell.

PART II

Theoretical issues in classical sign-based linguistics

CHAPTER 3

Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy* Wallis Reid Rutgers University

1. Introduction Linguistic tradition has a three-way typology for describing the outcome of the semantic analysis of a lexical or grammatical form. The analysis may posit a single meaning for the form, as one would do for the English word barn, ‘a large wooden structure on farms for animals’. Charles Ruhl (l989) has dubbed this monosemy. Alternatively, the analysis may treat the form as two or more independent linguistic units and posit distinct and unrelated meanings for each. The traditional name for this is homonymy, and a classic example is the two English words seal the animal, and seal the stamp. Finally, the analysis may treat a form as a single linguistic unit and posit a series of semantically related meanings, or senses, for it. John Taylor (1995: 103) cites the word neck, meaning both ‘neck of a human body’ and ‘neck of a bottle’ as a clear example of what is traditionally called polysemy. Columbia School analysts have posited monosemy and homonymy, but not polysemy.¹ How so? In this chapter I will sketch out an answer. But explaining why one is not doing something puts one in an unavoidably defensive position. Better to keep theory to a minimum at ﬁrst and illustrate how a Columbia School analysis handles as monosemy data that would seem to call for polysemic treatment. The body of this chapter will thus consist of a monosemic analysis of three semantically related English words. I will make theoretical points foreshadowing my case against polysemy in passing, but will postpone a direct discussion of the issue until the end of the chapter. One theoretical point must be made at the outset, however, precisely because the existence of polysemy is sometimes not recognized as a theoretical issue. “Any dunce can see that neck has two senses” some might say. But this is because we have internalized the practical but unprincipled dictionary treatment of words at an early age. Embracing that tradition as a linguist, however, commits one to a particular view of language. To be sure, speakers can interpret an utterance holistically without theoretical commitments. But determining the precise semantic contribution of each lexical and grammatical form to that interpretation is an act of linguistic analysis, not observation.²

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Polysemy appears to be a directly observable phenomenon only if one makes two familiar assumptions about the essential nature of language. The ﬁrst is that language is a representational system of sentential meaning.³ The second assumption is the compositional view of sentence meaning. In the compositional view, the literal meaning of a sentence is assumed to consist of the meanings of the individual words amalgamated in a way determined by the grammatical structure of the sentence. In short, the semantic whole must equal the sum of its semantic parts.⁴ Adhering to the representational view of language and the compositional view of meaning obliges the analyst to attribute every notional fraction of a completed interpretation to some speciﬁc form. This requirement can only be met by assigning multiple semantic values to most forms. So, for example, in his wrinkly neck was sunburned and she grabbed the bottle by its neck, neck must necessarily be assigned two diﬀerent values if the meaning of those sentences is to be totally derived from their contributing words, among them neck. By contrast, Columbia School makes neither of these two assumptions. It begins with the fact that language functions as a communicative system but leaves open to empirical investigation whether or not it does so by virtue of semantically representing individual communications. This means the Columbia School analyst is not committed at the outset to making the semantic parts equal a semantic whole; they may or they may not. Analytical experience has led us to the conclusion that the communicated whole — the message — is always more than its semantic parts. Language functions not by formally representing the message but by providing hearers with notional fragments, clues, hints, and prompts for them to synthesize against the background of their unique cognitive, linguistic and life experience. This synthesis is a creative interpretive act, one that is not reducible to a mechanical algorithm. Alan Huﬀman (1997: 16–19) has dubbed this an instrumental concept of meaning. The meanings of linguistic forms contribute in various ways to the communication of a message without collectively composing it. Returning to the problematic word neck, the Columbia School analyst must decide whether a meaning can be posited for it that could serve to refer to both a body part and a bottle part; or, alternatively, decide to treat the word as two (or more) independent semantic units — two linguistic signs — each with its own meaning. But this decision is guided not by representational and compositional assumptions but by the general principle underlying all theory construction: namely, posit only as many theoretical constructs as required to account for the observations.

2. English IN, AT, and ON Regretfully, I currently have no solution to oﬀer for neck. Instead, I will present an analysis of in, at and on, three words that allow a more extensive exploration of the issues raised in the introduction above. Appearing below is an initial hypothesis of the semantic values of in, at and on.⁵

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in = three-dimensional location at = point-like location on = linear or planar location In, at and on all signal spatial location, but with diﬀerences. In designates location in three-dimensional space. At designates location at a point. And on designates location on a line or plane. Consider examples (1), (2) and (3); (1) He lives in New Brunswick. (= three dimensional location) (2) He stopped at the traﬃc light. (= point-like location) (3) He was shopping on Main Street. (= linear or ﬂat location) A city is clearly three-dimensional; a traﬃc light is reasonably point-like; and a street is ﬂat and linear. In examples (1), (2) and (3), in, at and on seem to be echoing information already implied by the words light, street and New Brunswick. In examples (4), (5) and (6) the three words function non-redundantly, making us focus on diﬀerent aspects of a car all by themselves: (4) She left her briefcase in the car. (5) She left her briefcase on the car. (6) She left her briefcase at the car. We understand a briefcase left in the car to be inside the car, a three-dimensional location. On the car suggests the hood or roof of the car, both planes. At the car suggests next to the car, on the ground perhaps, but not inside and not on the roof. Why so? The explanation begins with the fact that an automobile is not actually pointlike; it’s an object unmistakably occupying three-dimensional space. At, by designating a point-like location, implies that the dimensional extensions of the car are irrelevant to the message being communicated, thus disfavoring the ‘inside’ and ‘hood’ interpretations. Operative here is the systemic aspect of these three words. Because of the availability of all three options, the choice of one implies the inappropriateness of the other two. We don’t understand ‘at the car’ as including the seat or roof, because if the briefcase were in either of those two places, one would have said so. At work here is the Gricean Maxim of Quantity: “make your contribution as informative as is required (for the current purposes of the exchange)” (Grice 1967: 45). In brief, at implies ‘not an in-like location and not an on-like location’. This interrelatedness of at, on and in is best captured by putting them into a system, shown in Figure 1. At, on and in are in a single system because their meanings contrast with each other along a single semantic parameter: number of dimensions; and because the existence of each aﬀects the use and interpretation of the others. Note that both at and in are precise in their dimensional meanings. But on is imprecise; it designates a range of dimensions, those falling between zero and three. And since zero and three dimensions are the meanings of at and in, this makes on quite literally ‘not at

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Number of DIMENSIONS OF LOCATION

at: ZERO (0) on: MORE THAN ZERO AND LESS THAN THREE (0 < _< 3) in: THREE (3) Figure 1.

and not in’. Deﬁning on relationally this way would not be feasible if on were being treated in isolation, independent of its relation to at and in. Here, of course, one could question the attractiveness of such a deﬁnition in the ﬁrst place. Its appeal for the polysemy-shunning Columbia School analyst is clear. In my ﬁrst, informal characterization of on I said it designated location on a line or a plane. That made it sound as if on has two meanings. My more formal characterization — a location falling between zero and three dimensions — succeeds in positing a single, albeit imprecise, meaning for on. But why should one imprecise meaning be preferable to two precise meanings? Let me answer somewhat obliquely for the moment, postponing the fuller discussion for later. Imprecision is inescapable in language because no deﬁnition speciﬁes along all possible descriptive parameters. Consider (7) and (8): (7) He threw the keys on the grass. (8) He threw the keys in the grass. Asked how they diﬀer, informants usually say that the grass in (7) is short, a lawn perhaps, while the grass in (8) is tall, a ﬁeld perhaps. Does the word grass have two senses, ‘tall grass’ and ‘short grass’? I suspect most linguists would feel uneasy about positing two diﬀerent senses for grass and opt instead to say that grass doesn’t specify any particular height as part of its meaning; it is neutral for height. Moreover, my analysis of on and in oﬀers a plausible explanation for the diﬀerent interpretations of grass. Tall grass is unmistakably three-dimensional, whereas the height of short grass can be overlooked, making a well-mown lawn appear to be ﬂat. And the diﬀerence between a three-dimensional location and a two-dimensional location is the semantic boundary between in and on according to Figure 1. What this means then, is that speciﬁcations of ‘grass’ come from elsewhere in the context. The meanings of in and on are shaping its interpretation, ﬂeshing out detail that is not inherent in the word grass itself. In the case of grass, at any rate, an imprecise meaning not marked for height seems intuitively right. To be sure, an alternative formal treatment is possible. Posit two senses for grass and then have the meanings of in and on select the appropriate sense. This is an ideal solution if one were writing a mechanical translation program because it capitalizes on something a computer can do very well, store and select. But as a picture of how natural language works it is less satisfactory because it fails to capitalize on something human beings can do very well: solve problems and make sense of things, such

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as ﬁguring out that one way grass can be a three-dimensional location is to be tall. By contrast, the mechanical solution, so appropriate for the computer, is quite literally ‘mindless’. Returning now to the issue at hand, the meaning posited for on in Figure 1 does not distinguish between one and two dimensions. The rationale is the same in spirit as that for making grass unspeciﬁed for height: assigning two diﬀerent meanings, or senses, to on would be building precision into the language at the wrong place. Whether an on-like location is interpreted as a line (‘the bird on the wire’) or a plane (‘the cat on the mat’) is always decided by something else in the context. On by itself merely signals the semantic outer boundaries of its interpretation — constraining its interpretation without determining it — which is precisely the value assigned to it in Figure 1.

3. The Role of conceptualization In examples (1)–(8) in, at and on have functioned as close as language gets to objective description of the physical world. But in truth, the connection between language and the world is always mediated by a particular conceptualization by the speaker, even when speaking about the physical world.⁶ The role of speaker conceptualization is illustrated in the examples below: (9) Ricardo grew up in Cuba. (10) Ricardo grew up on the island of Cuba. Example (9) employs in because a country is clearly three dimensional. So why on in (10)? An island is objectively as three-dimensional as a country; but what makes an island an island is being surrounded by water, and that deﬁning property is often envisioned in a two-dimensional, map-like representation. On speciﬁes how many spatial dimensions are relevant to the message. (See Leech [1969, p. 162] for this point that the assessment of dimensions is subjective.) Usually cities are categorized as three-dimensional locations: I live in Boston. But if the message is one of contrastive location — here rather than there — then a city will be shrunk to a point with at. The message is simply ‘this place rather than that place’ and the actual dimensions of the place are irrelevant. Thus we say ‘the State University of New York at Plattsburgh’ because there are branches in other cities as well (e.g. at Stonybrook). Example (11), taken from the Brown Corpus, nicely illustrates this contrast between in and at with cities. (11) Arnold Palmer has been a blazing ﬁgure in golf over the past twelve months . . . He was heralded as “Sportsman of the Year” by Sports Illustrated, and last night was acclaimed in Rochester as the “Professional Athlete of the Year” . . . But he also achieved something that endeared him to every duﬀer who ever ﬂubbed a shot. A couple of weeks ago, he scored a

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monstrous 12 on a par-5 hole. It made him human. [Episode recounted] . . . He’ll even bull head-on into the rules when he is sure he’s right. That’s how he ﬁrst won the Masters in 1958. [Episode recounted] . . . Until a few weeks ago, however, Arnold Palmer was some god-like creature who had nothing in common with the duﬀers. But after that 12 at Los Angeles he became one of the boys, a bigger hero than he ever had been before. Brown 34101 Los Angeles is categorized as a point-like location with at because that highlights its spatial contrast with other host cities in which Palmer has played. None are actually named in this story, but the ﬁrst sentence speaks of Palmer’s performance over the past twelve months and the paragraph prior to the phrase at Los Angeles has recounted an episode at another location. On the other hand, there is no hint of contrast in the location of the awards ceremony, so the three-dimensional experiential reality of the location comes to the fore: in Rochester. Capturing such subjective ways of using in, at and on via a multiple sense treatment is awkward at best. Consider examples (12) and (13). (12) He put the leaf on the table. (13) He put the leaf in the table. Now the referential diﬀerence between a ‘tree leaf ’ in (12) and a ‘table leaf ’ in (13) may well call for a homonymic analysis of leaf. By contrast, no referential diﬀerence exists for the word table. But consider the striking diﬀerence in conceptualizations: the table is a ﬂat supporting surface in (12) and a three-dimensional object in (13). And a table can function as a point-like object as well, as in ‘he sat down at the table’. To enter these three interpretive possibilities as part of the semantic description of the word table seems a rather pointless exercise since it is adding nothing semantically beyond what at, on and in already provide. Examples (12) and (13) specify what in and on apply to: a ‘table’. Examples (14) and (15), on the other hand, leave that feature of the message entirely for the hearer to ﬁgure out: (14) He put his clothes in. (15) He put his clothes on. The three dimensional location for the clothes in (14) is likely to be understood as a washing machine (if interpreted in isolation), while the two dimensional location for the clothes in (15) is the surface of the body. The reason these features can be left out linguistically is that washing machines and bodies are two familiar places for clothes to be put, and they diﬀer from each other in terms of dimensions. In and on are simply semantic nods, as it were, in the direction of one or the other.⁷

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4. ON for linear location I want to turn now to examine on in more detail. Recall that the meaning of on — LOCATION IN MORE THAN ZERO AND LESS THAN THREE DIMENSIONS (0<_<3) — is less precise semantically than at and in because it encompasses both one-dimensional and two-dimensional locations. All of the examples of on so far, ‘on the car, on the grass, on the table’, have been two-dimensional locations, surfaces. Examples (16) and (17) show on used for a clearly one-dimensional location, a line: (16) The bird is perched on the telephone wire. (17) The clothes were hung on the line to dry. Consider, now, example (18): (18) Pick up the telephone; your mother is on the line. If one takes the word line in (18) as referring to the cords, wires and cables that have connected telephones to each other, then the meaning of on still ﬁts the message. ‘Mother’ is not on the line the way the clothes are in (17); she’s at the end of the line. But that is still a linear location.

4.1. Linear movement On, like at and in, is unmarked for motion. But if there is an indication of motion elsewhere in the context, the message becomes that of linear movement: (19) He walked on ahead of us. The element of movement is coming, of course, from the word walked. On simply describes the locus of the walking, a line, which, coupled with the motion from walked, becomes a trajectory. On regularly contributes to messages of linear motion in this way: (20) The ship is on course. He went on a trip to Italy. She had to go on a little errand. I’m on my way to visit her. The examples under (20) all express messages about something or someone traveling along a predetermined path. The meaning of on, LOCATION IN 0<_<3 DIMENSIONS, anticipates the notion of linear movement that actually comes from the words course, trip, errand and way. Consider now: (21) Turn on the water! (22) Turn on the light! In (21) and (22) the turning initiates the ﬂow of water and electricity through linear pipes and wires. The actual conduits are not mentioned; they are merely alluded to by on.

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4.2. The trajectory strategy The fact that on is often used for messages of linear movement is the key to understanding a wide range of uses. Consider Figure 2. Both columns A and B list phrases about boarding various vehicles of transportation. But the A phrases all employ in while the B phrases employ on. The A phrases pose no problem for the analysis; three-dimensional in is what we would expect for enclosed vehicles. The problem is the B phrases. Why on? The analytical challenge is to ﬁnd some diﬀerence between the two lists. Most striking is a diﬀerence in size: the vehicles in list B are larger. But that doesn’t help us explain the use of on. If anything, larger size should favor in. Another diﬀerence is that list A is private transportation while list B is public transportation; if one were teaching an ESL class this would be a good rule to help them use on correctly. But as analysts, we want an explanation of usage, not simply a description, however accurate. And the descriptive categories ‘private’ and. ‘public’ don’t provide that because they don’t tie in with the hypothesized meanings of in and on. However, something related to the ‘private/public’ contrast does tie in. In a car or private plane you can go where you want. But when you board a bus, train or airliner you cede your autonomy and must go where it goes because public transportation follows a predetermined sequence of scheduled stops. This, I propose, is what triggers on. The meaning of on — LOCATION IN 0<_<3 DIMENSIONS — encompasses location, stationary or moving, on a (one dimensional) line; and the physical trajectory and scheduled path of a vehicle of public transportation can reasonably be conceptualized as a line. This rationale for the use of in and on in Figure 2 may strike readers as inconsistent. In get in the car, in characterizes the car itself as a three dimensional location. But in get on the bus, on characterizes not the bus, but something that is not overtly expressed, its trajectory. In response, I would ﬁrst note that we’ve seen this before: in ‘put clothes on’ the body is unmentioned and in ‘turn on the water’ the pipe is unmentioned. Secondly, such conceptual ellipses and imprecision are the rule, not the exception, in normal speech: the waiter who says “Table 3 needs more water”; the traveler who asks “Does this road go to Somerville?” A table cannot need and asphalt cannot go. But such apparent incoherence doesn’t impede successful communication. We understand that it’s the people sitting at Table 3 that need the water and the driver following the road who goes, even though neither has been mentioned. A get in the car. get in the rowboat get in the carriage get in the Cessna get in the truck

B get on the bus get on the ship get on the train get on the 727 get on the ferry

Figure 2.

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Speakers count on the cognitive abilities of their interlocutors to ﬁll in such gaps and make sense of an utterance no matter what. In the case at hand, the shifting semantic relationship between the location described by on and bus is inferred rather than explicitly encoded.⁸

4.3. Representation vs. communication The answer above appears to beg the question of the essential nature of language. In the introduction I mentioned the widespread belief that a language is a representational system of sentential meaning, a view that leads one to expect a parallelism between the syntactic and semantic structure of a sentence. If one holds to that view of language, then my rationale for Table 2 is not only inconsistent, but, by leaving parts of the message to inference and guesswork, it fails to account for the (putative) representational function of language. On the other hand, if language functions merely to trigger an interpretation not represent it, then we have no reason to expect the logician’s precision in the way people use language. Columbia School analysts have regarded the representational issue as one to be resolved empirically rather than adopted as an initial guiding metaphor. We begin instead with the less problematic communicative function of language. Note that this analytical starting point — which simply serves to motivate the positing of units of form and meaning — does not prejudge the issue. Language could still have turned out, upon analysis, to be a representational system as well as a communicative system. However, the work done by Columbia School analysts over the past thirty years has led to the conclusion that the relation between a linguistic utterance and its interpretation is one of suggestion rather than representation.

4.4. Conventionalized vs. creative usage? Returning to the issue at hand, how well does my rationale for on the bus fare when tested against actual usage? Have the collocations in Figure 2 become conventionalized, or is the notion of a ﬁxed trajectory still operative? (23) There were thirty-eight patients on the bus the morning I left for Hanover, most of them disturbed and hallucinating . . . It seemed incredible . . . that technically I was a ward of the state of Illinois, going to a hospital for the mentally ill. Brown, 989311 (24) I stayed on the car for a few minutes until, turning right, it entered a huge square . . . Brown, 291156 The bus in (23) is taking the people to a mental hospital, clearly a prescribed trip not under their control.⁹ In isolation, (24) seems to contradict my rationale; but the larger context makes clear that the car is a streetcar.¹⁰ Example (25) below supports the predicted contrast between in and on, but also shows it is not as simple as my

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Table 2. The passage concerns people on a deep-sea treasure-hunting expedition. (25) Once, in New York, he had gone ﬂying with some friends in a small private plane with a single engine. They had all been laughing, joking, when suddenly the engine had failed . . . There had been tension in the plane during the silent descent; a tension similar to the one now. But in the plane there was a concrete reason for it. Now, at this moment, there should be none unless skin diving was much more dangerous than he had been led to believe. Yet tension existed. The same taut-nerved relationship as there had been between the passengers on the plane now strained at the three of them here on the boat. Brown 1037135 The passage has three instances of in with reference to a private plane, as predicted, and one on with boat. The boat, while not public transportation, has been chartered for a particular destination rather than a pleasure cruise. The passengers have been following a map and have expressed concern about being on course, all these justifying linear on. The puzzle is the shift to on the plane in the last sentence in reference to the same vehicle that occurred three times with in. Presumably this switch from in to on reﬂects a subtle change in conceptualization; but what evidence is there of such a change? The evidence is the accompanying shift from friends to passengers to describe those on board; passenger is the normal word to describe people on a vehicle of public transportation. Perhaps the writer wanted to underscore the similarity of emotional atmosphere on the two vehicles. For an example of in the boat to contrast with on the boat in (25), I must turn to another text. Example (26) does not concern a boat functioning as a vehicle of transportation following a linear course; rather, it concerns the structure of a boat, a message about its three dimensional physical reality, hence in. (26) Nowhere in the boat do the frames come in contact with the plywood planking. Brown 297751

5. IN for messages of containment In is often used for messages of physical containment. (27) I left my wallet in the drawer. I put the desk in the bedroom. In these examples the notion of ‘containment’ can be attributed entirely to the words drawer and bedroom, which are inherently containers because they delineate a threedimensional bounded space. When the word describing the location is open to interpretation as either a container or a surface, in favors the former and on the latter.

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(28) I left my wallet in the desk. I left my wallet on the desk. The meaning of in says to construe ‘the desk’ as a three dimensional location, and the most likely reason for doing so is that it is functioning as a container for ‘the wallet’. The problem with assigning in the meaning CONTAINMENT or LIMITED BY BOUNDARIES (Tobin 1990: 61) is that when the location is not bounded, the notion of containment weakens or disappears. (29) The ﬂag ﬂuttered in the breeze. The smell of spring was in the air. Explorer II is now deep in interstellar space. All that remains is the notion of ‘envelopment’. But if the meaning CONTAINMENT is loosened to the point that envelopment counts as containment, then for most examples CONTAINMENT and THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION will ﬁt equally well. However two examples (both from Tyler and Evans [2003: 196]) clearly favor THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION for in over CONTAINMENT: (30) Okay, class, put your chairs in a circle. (31) If ﬁre breaks out get in single ﬁle before leaving. In (30) the chairs form the perimeter of a circle rather than being contained within a circle and in (31) the people line up in back of each other, a conﬁguration that does not delineate any bounded space. Yet the ﬁgures formed — the circle and the line — are three dimensional because they are constituted by three-dimensional objects.¹¹ Examples (32) and (33) argue for THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION as well. (32) I saw a ﬂy on the window. (33) I saw a face in the window. Both the ﬂy and the face are ‘contained’ within a bounded entity, namely the rectangular frame of the window. But only the surface of the window is relevant to the location of the ﬂy whereas the face is located in the (unbounded) space visible beyond the window pane; in other words, the third dimension of depth is relevant in (33) but not in (32).

5.1. The connotative value of in The meaning THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION would seem to preclude its use for a location that is unmistakably two dimensional, the proper semantic province of on. Yet such usage occasionally occurs. A gym teacher may want students to stand inside a large circle painted on the gym ﬂoor and say: (34) I want the girls to stand in the circle and the boys against the back wall.

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Since the circle has no height or depth, the analysis would predict: (35) I want the girls to stand on the circle and the boys against the back wall. (35) occurs and could be taken as equivalent to (34). But it is also open to the interpretation that the girls should stand on the circumference of the circle painted on the ﬂoor. This dual reading arises from a conspiracy of imprecision. On the one hand, speakers are uncertain as to whether the word circle refers just to its curved linear perimeter or whether it includes the enclosed space as well; on the other hand, on does not distinguish between one and two dimensions and is hence compatible with both interpretations of circle. This leeway of interpretation is, in turn, the explanation for the use of in in (34). In makes it clear that the girls are to stand within the circle on the ﬂoor, not on the line that forms the circle. Operative here is the connotation of containment that in has due to its frequent use for situating objects in three dimensional spaces, as in (27).¹² In other words, the meaning THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION suggests a feature of the intended message — inclusion, containment, withinness — which is an inherent part of being situated in a three-dimensionally bounded location.¹³

6. Cognitive metaphor A well-known instance of peculiarly human logic is metaphor. The recognition of metaphor as a poetic device goes back to Aristotle. An important advance in the status of metaphor in contemporary times was Lakoﬀ and Johnson’s 1980 book Metaphors We Live By. Lakoﬀ and Johnson argued that metaphor is central and pervasive in language. That idea in itself is not new; it is a commonplace that language is full of frozen metaphors. What was innovative about their work was the claim that metaphor is a central process of conceptualization, not an occasional poetic device. A second . . . type of embodied imaginative structure . . . is metaphor, conceived as a pervasive mode of understanding by which we project patterns from one domain of experience in order to structure another domain of a diﬀerent kind. So conceived, metaphor is not merely a linguistic mode of expression: rather, it is one of the chief cognitive structures by which we are able to have coherent, ordered experiences that we can reason about and make sense of. Through metaphor, we make use of patterns that obtain in our physical experience to organize our more abstract understanding. (Johnson, 1987: xv)

If true, this provides a new answer to the vexing question of whether or not ‘frozen metaphors’ still count as metaphors. The traditional answer is no: once there is no discernible poetic eﬀect, there is no metaphor. But if metaphor is a central cognitive process — a basic way that people conceptualize their experience — then a usage may be metaphorical without producing any poetic eﬀect because no alternative non-metaphorical conceptualization exists. This insight has become one of the

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basic tenets of Cognitive Grammar. Langacker (1987: 5) argues that imagery and metaphor in language are not “peripheral aspects of our mental life, but in large measure constitutive of it.” Lakoﬀ and Johnson’s contribution as summarized so far is deﬁnitional and deductive. But they did more; they developed a kind of independent evidence supporting the metaphorical status of a particular usage. The evidence is the systematicity of metaphors. When people see a similarity between two ranges of experience, that similarity may spawn a whole family of metaphors. And that family, in turn, argues for the synchronic reality of the guiding metaphor. Lakoﬀ and Johnson’s showpiece case was “Argument is war.” They showed how our whole vocabulary describing arguments is appropriated from military discourse. A person defends his position from attack. A position may be undermined by skillful argumentation. One person wins and the other is defeated. Or there may be a truce.¹⁴ Columbia School linguists have long been wary of invoking metaphor, a wariness reﬂecting the misgivings of the school’s founder, William Diver. Diver was apprehensive that an uncontrolled appeal to metaphor would allow an unsatisfactory analysis to escape falsiﬁcation and maintained (personal communication) that an appeal to metaphor is legitimate only when accompanied by a recognizable “metaphorical eﬀect”. But his methodological concern arose, I believe, from his tacit acceptance of unrestricted polysemy in the lexicon. If lexical items, unlike grammatical signs, can have multiple senses, then the distinction between active metaphor and frozen metaphor is critical because a frozen metaphor must be treated analytically as a new sense. On the other hand, if hypothesized lexical meanings are tested according to the same criteria as grammatical meanings, metaphor need not pose a problem. I believe Columbia School analysts should adopt Cognitive Grammar’s thinking on this issue as our own and recognize the centrality of conceptual metaphors in cognition. Let me rephrase the case for metaphor in our terms. A metaphorical relation is one way a meaning can contribute to the communication of a message, one possible cognitive link between the two. So long as that link can be articulated and sustained empirically, one still has a metaphor, even though speakers may not be conscious of it. Columbia School analysts have never made their validation process dependent upon the conscious awareness of informants.

6.1. The spatial metaphor for time I have introduced this discussion of metaphor because I need to invoke metaphor as part of my account of at, on and in. All three are used for messages about time as well as space. (36) He arrived in time; on time; at a propitious time. What we have here is a spatial metaphor for time. The passage of time is being conceptualized as movement along a line. I take no credit for this idea, I hasten to add;

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it dates at least as far back as Whorf (1956: 145) and has been extensively developed in the literature (e.g. Langacker 1991: 243).¹⁵ What evidence do we have for this claim? First there is introspection. In this case I think English speakers are consciously aware that they think of time linearly. But what about linguistic evidence? Here Lakoﬀ and Johnson’s strategy of argumentation comes in. Setting aside in, at and on as the words at issue, most of our vocabulary for time is drawn from that of spatial reference. We speak of points in time, of long time and short time, of going through a diﬃcult time, of time passing. The words point, long, short, through, and pass all have spatial meanings. It certainly appears that English speakers — indeed, speakers of many languages — conceptualize time as spatial. This guiding metaphor then motivates the use of words with spatial meanings to talk about time.

6.2. At for temporal messages Returning to my three words, at, designating a point in space, is used for points in time as well: (37) He arrived at three o’clock; at noon; at midnight; at sunset; at dawn. Just as a spatial point has no length, depth, or height, a temporal point such as three o’clock and noon, has no duration. A problematic use of at is the phrase at night. Unlike noon, night lasts from eight to twelve hours. Section 3 showed that a three-dimensional location is sometimes shrunk to a point when the message is one of contrastive location. At night is the temporal analog of at Plattsburgh and at Stonybrook, contrastive location in time: (38) What do the pretty SMU girls like on their plates? “Pretty much hamburger, hotdogs, steak and, at night, maybe pizza” says the handsome food expert. Brown, 70361 The contrast in (38) is the diﬀerent food preferences of the girls at the noon and evening meals. The implication of contrast in at night is better perceived when compared to in the night. Suppose the song ‘Strangers in the Night’ were titled ‘Strangers at Night’. The title would no longer suggest two lonely people searching each other out, but a dysfunctional couple: “Companions by Day, Strangers at Night”. In example (39) the two phrases appear in a single passage. The neighbor of a woman who may or may not have committed suicide describes the circumstances of her death: (39) I had made a habit of calling her at night from my cottage, just to check. The last night I had called, but the line was always busy and it reassured me . . . She was found the day after at the bottom of the cliﬀ. I tried to believe that what must have happened was that, restless, disturbed by this telephone call or whatever, she walked out in the night, as she had a habit of

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doing . . . With all that warm rain and the fog it might have been as simple as a loosened rock, a misstep. Brown, 1171886 The phrase at night implies ‘evenings rather than daytime’ for the regular calls, a message of temporal contrast. In the night carries no hint of contrast; it describes the dark three-dimensional space into which the woman walked.

6.3. On for temporal messages I turn now to the temporal use of on. The meaning of on — LOCATION IN 0 <_< 3 DIMENSIONS — encompasses linear location and is therefore the appropriate choice for messages about the temporal location of an event: (40) Is the meeting still on for two o’clock? If the verb is intrinsically durative, the addition of on prolongs the event. (41) The professor stayed on after the others had left. He kept talking on and on. (cf. He walked on ahead of us.) One might expect on to be used for messages of temporal duration for a speciﬁed interval. But in English the word for is used whenever the duration is speciﬁed e.g., he worked for an hour. As seen in (42), on is reserved for a subset of temporal messages, namely, temporal location deﬁned in terms of temporal order. This is a carryover of the spatial trajectory strategy of on to time: (42) On the following morning, I worked at my desk. The fact that the notion of temporal order is responsible for on can be demonstrated by eliminating the word that suggests it. When the word following is deleted, on switches to in (the temporal use of in will be discussed below): (43) In the morning, I worked at my desk. The notion of temporal order may come from a variety of sources. In (44) it is the identiﬁcation of a day by a number, a description that is inherently linear and sequential: (44) On the morning of the 4th, I worked at my desk. On the 4th, I worked at my desk. An ordinal number may even trigger the use of on with the word year, which normally calls for in e.g., in a year. Example (45) concerns investors in a new art museum in Bilbao, Spain: (45) They made back 116 million dollars on the ﬁrst year. T. R. Reed. Morning Edition, June 25, 1999. The story is about the surprising success of the museum and how quickly the investors would recoup their money. The word ﬁrst implies a succession of years over

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which this will happen, and the meaning of on, encompassing linear location, ﬁts this message as well. Similarly, as noted above, for points in time at is normally used: at midnight. But when allusion is made to the (sequential) striking of a clock as in (46), then on may be chosen: (46) He arrived on/at the stroke of midnight. Just as on is employed for vehicles that follow a ﬁxed spatial path (e.g. he got on the train), so on is chosen for messages about following timetables and temporal schedules, also conceptualized as linear order: (47) The Boston-New York train was on schedule. The train was on time. The bus to New York leaves on the hour. The notion of sequential order is, I believe, the explanation for the use of on with the days of the week — on Monday, on Tuesday, on Wednesday. There are no numbers here, but the days of the week are, to a large extent, deﬁned in terms of sequential order: Tuesday is little more than the day after Monday and the day before Wednesday; Monday and Friday are the beginning and end of the ﬁve-day work week, while Saturday and Sunday are the regularly repeating days of recreation and religious observance. So a hint of sequentiality is always present when days of the week are mentioned. Note, for example in (48) the additional references to sequential order in the immediate environment of on Sunday: two-day event; which began Saturday: (48) Montpelier hosted its Fall Fiber Festival and Sheepdog Trials on Sunday. The two-day event, which began Saturday, featured displays, demonstrations and workshops. Charlottesville Daily Progress, 10 Apr. 1999, p. 1 In contrast, months (with which in is used) do have intrinsic deﬁning characteristics. April is a good deal more than simply the month between March and May. It is the month of Easter and Passover, the ﬁrst signs of spring, the month celebrated by Chaucer and reproached by Eliot.

6.4. IN with temporal messages The meaning THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION would seem inappropriate for temporal messages if time is conceptualized as linear. Yet as seen above, in is regularly used for temporal messages: (49) In the morning, I worked at my desk The roses will bloom in June. In Section 5, I appealed to the connotation of inclusion of in due to its frequent use for enclosed spatial locations: (50) I left my glasses in the bathroom.

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Example (50) says that the glasses are located within the three dimensional space deﬁned by the bathroom without specifying exactly where. Similarly, the phrases in the morning and in June in (49) both designate periods of time which include the working and the blooming without specifying exactly when within these respective periods. Consider (51), which recounts a dream: (51) She was searching for someone . . . .She was in an empty room with long, dark halls . . . Her body was aching with need . . . Her arms were outstretched . . . What was that poem she’d read somewhere? “Is there yet one, oh eyes and lips remembered, who turns and reaches for me in the night?” Mary Higgins Clark. Weep No More, My Lady. Dell Publishing. New York: 1987. Three-dimensional in, suggesting maximal spaciousness of location, places the turning and reaching somewhere within the time-span beginning at bedtime and ending at dawn. (Compare in the night in [51] to at night in [39].)

7. AT, ON and IN with abstractions At, on and in are regularly used for messages that, while not strictly spatial or temporal, are still shaped by the spatial meanings of these words. (52) He left at my request. A ‘request’ is a verbal interaction, not a space or a time. But it is an event that has a deﬁnite temporal location, is of negligible length, and so is categorized by at as a point-like location. Examples (38) and (39) showed the word night categorized as point-like for a message of temporal contrast (i.e. night vs. day). Similarly, activities of lengthy duration are categorized as point-like with at for messages of contrasting states. Examples (53) and (54) contrast at war with in war. (53) Prior to 1942, [state-owned] automobiles were the individual responsibility of the agency to which assigned . . . In 1942, however, the nation was at war . . . The state was confronted with transportation problems similar to those of the individual. It met these problems by the creation of the state automobile maintenance unit . . . Brown, 657162 The passage describes a shift in responsibility for the maintenance of state-owned automobiles when the United States entered World War II. Prior to 1942, we were at peace while in 1942 we were at war. Note the word however underscoring this thematic contrast. On the other hand, when the word war designates a time period within which other events occur, in is used. (54) Shipbuilding, aircraft procurement, and weapon programs indicate that there will not be enough of anything. Therefore, any measures taken in

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peacetime which will decrease force requirements in war will contribute greatly to success when hostilities occur. Brown, 891125

7.1. On for messages of contact and eﬀect Sections 2 and 3 showed on used for messages of physical contact between two objects. (55) She left her briefcase on the car. The book is on the table. I saw two pictures on the wall. On is appropriate because contact is a relation between surfaces, and surfaces fall within its meaning LOCATION IN 0<_<3 DIMENSIONS. Furthermore, by excluding a location conﬁgured three-dimensionally, on excludes the possibility of any space between the object and its two dimensional location. This makes contact a necessary consequence of its meaning. This semantic corollary of contact then carries over to its use with abstractions. (56) His responsibilities weighed on him. The meaning of weigh involves gravity-induced downward pressure. The message is that his responsibilities aﬀect him psychologically the way carrying a heavy load aﬀects one physically. Since actions often aﬀect entities in their immediate surroundings as (56), on, whose meaning implies contact, is used to locate a person close enough to an event to be aﬀected by it. (57) He told on her. (58) The joke is on him. Note that in (57) the referent of her is not a central participant in the event of ‘telling’ (i.e. neither speaker nor hearer), but rather an aﬀected bystander. The meaning LOCATION IN 0<_<3 DIMENSIONS is suitable because it locates ‘her’ close to the ‘telling’ and implies that it ‘touches’ her. Similarly, in (58) the referent of him is the butt of the joke rather than the teller or the audience.¹⁶

7.2. On for sequentially structured events As seen in Sections 4 and 6.2, on is used for linear paths (59), temporal schedules (60) and sequentially deﬁned temporal dates (61) because its meaning, LOCATION IN 0<_ <3 DIMENSIONS, encompasses linear location. (59) The ship was on course. (60) The train arrived on time. (61) He left on the following morning.

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The notion of temporal order provoking on is often subtle. On is used in adverbial phrases describing events that involve any kind of linear structure deﬁned in terms of time as illustrated by examples (62)–(69). (62) The professor stayed on the topic. He lectured for the whole hour on the Industrial Revolution. (cf. The hiker stayed on the path.) (64) During the ‘92 campaign, Clinton’s advisors kept him on message. Sticking to a single topic, or being on message, is to follow a thematic plan of discourse over time. (65) The project was on budget. Similarly, being on budget involves adhering to an itemized ﬁnancial plan over time. (66) The defendant is on trial. Being on trial means being subjected to the complex sequential structure of courtroom proceedings. (67) He refused to answer on the advice of counsel. Doing something on the advice of counsel is to follow the advice of one’s lawyer whom one has hired to give advice over the course of a trial or judicial inquiry.. (68) The teacher depended on the student to have an answer. She depended on the advice of her older sister. She depended on the kindness of strangers. In (68) the use of on is not due to an inherent characteristic of ‘the student’, ‘advice’ or ‘kindness’, but rather to the nature of dependency, which involves a subordinate relationship maintained by regular interactions over time. (69) Because of his blood pressure, he went on a strict diet. She was on the pill. Though home for dinner, the doctor was still on call. While I was on vacation, the oﬃce manager ﬁred my secretary. Winter clothing is on sale in January. Her landscapes are on view from noon to three at the gallery. Being on a diet involves following a prescribed regime of eating over a lengthy period of time; being on the pill means taking a birth control pill daily to prevent pregnancy; being on call involves remaining accessible by telephone for an agreed upon time; being on vacation means to cease working at one’s regular job for a ﬁxed time and then to return; something on sale has had its price lowered for a period from its previous, regular price; on view implies scheduled viewing. All the events in examples (62)–(69) have a deﬁning element of (temporal) linearity for which the meaning of on (which encompasses linear location) is suitable.

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7.3. The role of value relations Examples (54)–(69) can be dealt with in terms of the meanings of at and on without appeal to their membership in a system. For in, however, its value within the system posited in Figure 1 comes into play when it is used for non-spatial and non-temporal messages e.g., ‘fall in love’; ‘speak in anger’. Operative here is the value of in as the polar extreme in a four- point scale of spatial dimensions. Moving from at, to on to in adds parameters of permitted leeway within a designated location. A point offers no wiggle room within it; move in any direction and one’s location departs from the point. A linear location allows for movement along the line without departing from it. Add a second dimension and one can move in two directions without departing from the designated location. With the addition of a third dimension to the location the maximal freedom of movement is reached, and one can now move in all possible directions without departing from it. When the three-dimensional location has discrete boundaries, the distance in any direction is limited and the message is usually one of containment (e.g.‘the wallet in the drawer’). But if the location has no boundaries, one can move in any direction for any distance and still be ‘there’. Thus, when the location lacks discrete boundaries (as do abstractions like ‘love’ and ‘anger’) the meaning THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION implies complete immersion and total involvement in whatever follows in. This eﬀect can be illustrated by permuting the three members with a single word. (70) He was good at love. (‘love’ as discrete events) He spoke on love. (‘love’ as a topic of discourse) He fell in love. (‘love’ as a totally consuming experience) In can have this eﬀect of total involvement even when the ‘location’ is a discrete entity. (71) The teacher believed the student. (72) The teacher believed in the student. Example (71) describes a single event, say, a teacher’s reaction to a student who denies using a crib sheet. With the addition in (72) of (maximally-dimensional) in, the teacher’s belief becomes more comprehensive, not restricted to one occasion; and by the same token, somewhat lacking in speciﬁcity. This element of complete involvement suits instrumental relationships as well. (73) He wrote in pencil. She blew out the candles in a single breath. ‘Pencil’ and ‘a single breath’ are critically and completely involved in the respective events of ‘writing’ and ‘blowing out candles’. Elsewhere, complete involvement shades oﬀ into a generic adverbial relation of manner.

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(74) He spoke in German. We stayed in touch. He left in haste. The rationale for in is simply that of the three, in is the least inappropriate one for adding manner information. At and on each carry the more speciﬁc adverbial connotations of temporal restrictedness and schedule-following (see examples (55)– (69)) whereas in does not. Maximally dimensional in converts the following word into a ﬁgurative space that envelops and permeates the event. In is thus the default choice for many easily inferable adverbial relations that are not at-like and not on-like.¹⁷

7.4. The conceptual continuum In his monosemic analysis of the English verb break, Ruhl (2002: 171–190) argues that a polysemic analysis seems feasible and correct when the database is restricted. A handful of selected examples fall neatly into discrete conceptual categories, thus conﬁrming the dictionary picture of a word as having easily distinguishable senses. But, warns Ruhl, as the database grows, the conceptual space between the various putative senses ﬁlls in, producing a continuum that deﬁes a principled partitioning. For example, in my discussion of on I dealt with its use for messages of spatial linearity and temporal linearity in separate sections, thus leaving the impression of a discrete boundary between the two. But they often blend; being on vacation in Italy, combines both spatial and temporal linearity. Being in prison counts both as a physical three dimensional location like a wallet in a drawer, and as an all-encompassing involvement like someone being in love. Here we feel the prick of Ruhl’s warning that senses eventually blend together into a seamless continuum.

8. The place of conceptual metaphors in language The spatial metaphor for time has been a key part of my account of the use of in, at and on, but its theoretical status is diﬀerent from that of those three words. The forms in, at and on, together with their semantic values, constitute three units in the linguistic code of English. By contrast, the spatial metaphor for time is not really a thing at all; it is a way of thinking. As such, I have not accorded it the same theoretical status as in, at and on, by putting it within the code proper. At issue here is the deﬁnition of language: what is inside language and what is outside language. For many people, a very expansive and inclusive deﬁnition seems all to the good; it is a way to aﬃrm the importance and centrality of language in human aﬀairs. But for practicing linguists, the decision has serious consequences. Anything included within language becomes their analytical responsibility, so the linguist is inclined to

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resolve such questions on the more practical grounds of whether a particular decision advances or hinders analytical success. The conception of a language as a system has proved to be extremely fruitful in modern linguistics.¹⁸ Critical to the conception of a language as a discrete system is the distinction between the system itself and its creative deployment by speakers. Without distinguishing between system and use, a language risks becoming simply a never-ending list of the new things people say. One widely accepted linguistic principle for drawing the line between system and use is that of arbitrariness: arbitrary linguistic features must necessarily be built into the system whereas non-arbitrary features need not. For example, following Saussure’s dictum of the arbitrariness of the sign, the signiﬁants of a language are arbitrary, the signiﬁés are arbitrary, and their pairing is arbitrary, so these features must all be built into the system. Metaphors, on the other hand, are by deﬁnition iconic, springing from our natural ability to see similarities between diﬀerent ranges of experience. If no conceptual connection is perceived there is no metaphor. The fact that metaphors are cognitively non-arbitrary is why one can usually understand a brand new metaphor, why we ﬁnd them aesthetically appealing, why one ﬁnds the same metaphor used by speakers of widely divergent languages and cultures. To be sure, saying metaphors are non-arbitrary is not to say they are universal; there is an element of conventionality as to which ones happen to be invoked by speakers of a particular language. (For example, English operates on the spatial metaphor for time while Hopi does not.) But that is arbitrariness of quite a diﬀerent order.¹⁹ The advantage to the practicing linguist of using the principle of arbitrariness to draw the line between system and use is that it separates the problem of how speakers express their thoughts in some language from the larger problem of why those speakers have the particular thoughts they do. This allows the linguist to take the thoughts — messages — as givens and proceed directly to explaining why speakers use particular forms to express them, without concomitantly oﬀering a theory of cognitive structure that would account for the messages themselves. For example, I have taken the spatial metaphor for time as a given and proceeded to explicate how and why we use in, at and on to express it linguistically, without formalizing its relation to some larger family of conceptual metaphors structuring English speakers’ messages, nor determining to what extent it derives from innate cognitive predispositions, extra-linguistic culture or historical accident. While of undeniable interest, none of that is really necessary to solve the immediate problem of accounting for English speakers’ use of the forms in, at and on. To summarize, the spatial metaphor for time is a long-established and deeplyentrenched way of conceptualizing time shared by all English speakers. But its expression is still an instance of creative language use in the sense of being an eﬀective deployment of existing linguistic resources, namely, a subset of the vocabulary with spatial meanings (e.g. in, at, on, through, long, short, point, etc.) Once one says that English speakers conceptualize time as if it were space, the temporal use of in, at and on can be accounted for in a straightforward way in terms of their spatial

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meanings.²⁰ Treating the spatial metaphor for time as a (linguistically relevant) way of thinking rather than a feature of the linguistic system proper in no way marginalizes or diminishes its importance, in no way downplays the critical role it has in our understanding of how English works. It is simply recognition that metaphors have a diﬀerent ontological status from those things that are in the system, and that they play a diﬀerent role in linguistic explanation.

9. Polysemy revisited I return now to the issue with which this chapter began, the monosemic bias of Columbia School theory. Many linguists might say at this point: “Your analysis of at, on and in seems plausible enough; but why don’t you explicitly build into them their temporal values as well as their spatial values? Why not posit two spatial values for on: location in one dimension and location in two dimensions? Why not add a fourth and ﬁfth, that of following a spatial trajectory and that of following a temporal schedule? Why not posit ‘containment’ as an additional meaning for in? In short, why not make the posited semantic values of these words stand in a closer relation to their actual observed use?”

9.1. Meanings as Explanatory Constructs The most austere answer (already adumbrated in Section 8) is the one phrased in terms of the relatively modest objective of a Columbia School analysis. That objective is to explain the choice of certain linguistic forms by speakers. The explanation is in terms of the contribution of their hypothesized meanings to a speaker’s intended message. Note that this enterprise is avowedly explanatory, not descriptive. A comprehensive description of the use of at, on and in would, to be sure, give equal weight to, say, their spatial and temporal uses. This chapter has certainly given those uses equal weight if measured in terms of lines of text. But with respect to theoretical constructs, only spatial meanings have been posited. This is because a Columbia School meaning is an explanation of the use of a signal, not a description of its use. Those meanings are presented in Figure 1, and for each example I have articulated how each meaning ﬁts the messages for which its signal is employed. In short, the reason that I have not posited additional semantic values for at, on and in is that more are not needed to explain their use.²¹ This statement needs a caveat, for I certainly invoked more than the meanings in my explanations. I needed to point out that grass looks ﬂat when mown and three dimensional when unmown; that clothes cover our bodies; that buses follow schedules; that we conceptualize time in spatial terms. Yet none of that appears in Figure 1. Here, to repeat, Columbia School maintains a distinction between the ﬁnite linguistic code on the one hand — the linguistic system proper — and all the know-

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ledge, cultural values, ways of thinking, and individual life experience that shape the way people use that code. The latter is there to be appealed to by the analyst whenever relevant, but seems too vast and open-ended to be feasibly systematized. This distinction is made possible by adopting a particular conception of how language functions, a conception the Columbia School framework shares with Cognitive Grammar. Langacker (1991: 508) writes: Words are not containers for meaning but serve instead to elicit knowledge systems of indeﬁnite expanse, in a ﬂexible and open-ended manner. Moreover, the components of a complex expression should not be thought of as providing the material used to construct it — their function is rather to categorize and motivate facets of the composite structure, which often displays emergent or contextually induced properties that no individual component is capable of evoking.

The words at, on and in are perfect exemplars of what Langacker describes. Their meanings function as cues and prompts to “elicit knowledge systems of indeﬁnite expanse”. For example: • the suggestion of containment by 3 DIMENSIONAL LOCATION in ‘put your chairs in the circle’; • the evocation by 0<_<3 DIMENSIONAL LOCATION of addiction in ‘she is on drugs’; its evocation of movement through a pipe in ‘turn the water on’; • the evocation by 0 DIMENSIONAL LOCATION of contrastive location in ‘they played at Chicago’; its implication of causation in ‘he left at my request’. Of course these three meanings occasionally function as substantive components of a complex expression, as in ‘the letterbox at the corner’ and ‘the assignment on the blackboard’. But polysemic analysis makes this the rule rather than the exception. For example, positing a distinct ‘containment’ sense for in might seem justiﬁed by ‘put your chairs in the circle’; but when we compare it to ‘put your chairs in a circle’ we see the deﬁnite article must be contributing to that interpretation as well. The notion of containment is an emergent, contextually induced feature that cannot be attributed to any single component. An analysis that posits a distinct ‘containment’ sense for in would misrepresent the interpretive process as one of mechanically assembling systemic semantic components rather than one of creative construction. I suspect this Columbia School position of theoretical austerity will not win any hearts and minds it does not already have. The principle is that of Occam’s razor: don’t posit unnecessary constructs. This makes good sense in the hard sciences, but possibly less so in psychology because there is nothing to assure us that the mind operates on such strict principles of economy. Perhaps the mind operates on a series of discrete, concrete senses rather than a single abstract meaning of the kind Columbia School typically posits. In his thoughtful appraisal of the status of Columbia School linguistics in the ﬁeld, Kirsner (2002) makes a case for this possibility, calling it “de facto polysemy”, a set of established inferences for a form.

Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy Let us suppose that, at some initial stage, one has a single form F with a single meaning Mg, such that distinct messages Ms1, Ms2, and Ms3 are inferred from Mg. Given that speakers can use problem-solving shortcuts and can use memory as well as inference, nothing prevents the speaker (once he or she has learned to communicate and infer the distinct messages from the single form) from associating the messages with the form directly, without going through any inferential steps in the future. Rather than postulating an underlying sparse meaning and an arsenal of strategies for its use, one would then have a de facto polysemy, one which still could be reduced if one wanted — in linguistic analysis — to a single form-meaning unit, with appropriate appeals to inference and pragmatic knowledge. This seems to be a perfectly plausible situation, for we have no assurances that the sparse, austere, neat systems which the linguist likes to postulate have any bearing on what a speaker . . . [is] actually doing. We do not know what units the speaker himself or herself is operating with: whether he or she works at the level of the meaning or the level of the message, at some intermediate level, or at all possible levels at diﬀerent times. (Kirsner 2002: 351–353)

9.2. Interpretive protocols Kirsner’s proposal stems from a recognition that the linguist’s constructs may not, in fact, correspond to the operative units of cognition (if, indeed, such units exist). But if the justiﬁcation for polysemic analysis is to capture what people operate on psychologically, people clearly need more than a grab bag of possible interpretations for a form; they need an explicit protocol for determining which of its various senses applies on a given occasion. If this cannot be provided, then a polysemic analysis must invoke people’s inferential abilities every bit as much as a monosemic analysis. In no way does it bypass the inferential process. Let me develop this point a bit. Suppose, following Kirsner, separate spatial and temporal values are posited for at, on and in. This would, in eﬀect, build into the semantic structure of these words the conceptual distinction between spatial and temporal messages, something the present monosemic analysis does not do. Yet for the hearer the distinction between a spatial and a temporal message can never be coming from at, on or in alone because regardless of the intended interpretation, the signal is the same. The distinction is always due to something else in the context. So building greater semantic precision into these words without an accompanying interpretive protocol can be of no help to the hearer in the comprehension process. The speaker, on the other hand, already knows the intended message, so narrowing the gap between the message and the systemic values of these words via polysemic analysis doesn’t make his task any easier. What, then, might an interpretive protocol look like? A simple version might be (75):

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(75) at = ‘point in time’ / ___ noon midnight . . . . . . . o’clock etc. I think one could be fairly successful in listing all the point-like temporal expressions in English. But consider the diﬃculty of making a comparable formal statement about when on is interpreted as a one-dimensional and when as a two-dimensional location. To be sure, on any particular occasion there is no diﬃculty in identifying the operative contextual factor. For example: (76) There was no room in the driveway, so I told him to park on the road. (77) As a salesman, he was often on the road for weeks at a time. In (76) on the road is understood as a two dimensional location because the message is about parking a car, not traveling in it; while in (77) on the road is understood as a one dimensional path because the message is about the life of a salesman. Note, however, that now I am appealing to the message, not a morphological context as in (75).²² In truth, the conditioning contexts are so diverse, they are not amenable to explicit morphological statement. But if this cannot be provided, then (to repeat) a Kirsnerian polysemic analysis is as much dependent upon people’s inferential abilities as the present monosemic analysis. Both must appeal to people’s ability to make holistic judgments about what interpretation makes most sense in a unique context.

9.3. The disambiguation of homonyms The reader may ﬁnd my requirement that interpretive protocols accompany a polysemic analysis perverse. After all, interpretive protocols have never been required of a homonymic analysis, which creates essentially the same problem of disambiguation for the hearer. In response, we need to reﬂect for a moment upon why homonyms are communicatively viable from the standpoint of information yield. How, for example, can the two nouns seal1, the mammal, and seal2, the stamp, co-exist in English? The standard answer is that they occur in diﬀerent semantic contexts. But more needs to be said. Critical here is the notion of diﬀerentiation. Hearers need not deduce the speciﬁc meaning of seal from the context, merely which of the two seals happens to be present. Consider example (78): (78) Early that morning, the campers heard a seal barking. We understand that the campers heard an animal of the family Phocida, not a wax stamp. But the context didn’t tell us all that. The word bark implies an animal of some kind, but not the species. The word seal1 itself told us that it’s the ﬁsh-eating, arctic mammal with ﬂippers, and not, say, a dog, which also happens to bark. To summarize, in order to identify the seal in (78) as seal1, we had to derive from

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the context part of its meaning, namely that it’s an animal. But having done so, the meaning of seal1 still had something to tell us that we had not already derived from the context; namely, what kind of animal. More generally, the principle is that homonyms are communicatively viable so long as the contextual information usually required to diﬀerentiate them is less speciﬁc than the meaning of each. If this were not the case, neither would have any functional value as a bearer of information.

9.4. Testing the communicative value of a polysemic analysis In making his case for de facto polysemy, Kirsner speaks of the need for meanings with “enough substance, enough ‘oomph’ to them, to help the hearer actually arrive at or understand the message” (2002: 348). The principle above provides a quantitative handle on the “oomph” issue because it applies whenever multiple semantic values are posited for a form, be it homonymy or polysemy. Speciﬁcally, when an analytical choice exists between two competing analyses of a form, one positing a single imprecise meaning, and the other positing multiple precise meanings, the principle will tell us whether the latter actually increases the amount of useful semantic information for the hearer over the competing monosemic analysis. Let us see how this plays out with an example. To keep things simple, I will stick to a polysemic analysis of at which posits a spatial sense, “point-like location in space” and a temporal sense, “point-like location in time”. Consider, now, a typical use of each: (79) He arrived at the train station just in time to see me oﬀ. (80) He arrived at noon, just in time to see me oﬀ. How do we determine that the spatial sense of at is operative in (79) and the temporal sense of at is operative in (80)? Obviously it must be the referents of the words train station and noon; speciﬁcally, that a train station is a discrete physical object and noon is a temporal word. In terms of conceptual features, one could say that in order to determine that the spatial sense of at is operative in (79) one must recognize that a train station is (+space); and to determine that the temporal sense of at is operative in (80) one must recognize that noon is (+time). Let us now calculate the greater semantic precision of the polysemic analysis of at over the monosemic analysis of at. For this demonstration the semantic values in the two analyses will be characterized in the following fashion: Monosemic analysis of at: ‘+point-like location’ Polysemic analysis of at:

‘+point-like location; +space’ ‘+point-like location; +time’

We subtract the monosemic value of at from each polysemic value of at in turn:

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Polysemic values: +point-like location; +space Monosemic value: −point-like location

+point-like location; +time −point-like location

Diﬀerence:

+time

+space

Next, we sum the diﬀerences. The sum of the diﬀerences is: +space; +time. This represents the greater overall semantic substance built into at by the polysemic analysis compared to the monosemic analysis. So far, so good. The polysemic analysis clearly builds in more semantic substance at the systemic level than does the monosemic analysis. But the critical issue is whether this greater semantic substance is of practical value in language use. Does it make communication any easier? Does it decrease the inferential gap between meanings and message? This, to recall, is the intent of Kirsner’s proposal of ‘de facto polysemy’. To determine whether the inferential gap has actually been decreased, we must now compare this summed semantic substance (+space; +time) to the sum of the message features that must be arrived at inferentially in order to select the appropriate sense of at on a given occasion. In the discussion of examples (79) and (80) above, this was determined to be: +space; +time. The ﬁnal step is to subtract the inferred semantic substance from the encoded semantic substance: Systemically encoded substance: +space; +time Contextually inferred substance: − (+space; +time) Diﬀerence:

0

0

The upshot is that the greater semantic precision of polysemic at is illusory. Operationally the polysemic analysis oﬀers no more useful semantic substance to the language user than does the monosemic analysis. Its multiple semantic values do not, collectively, have any greater ‘oomph’; that is to say, they do not provide the hearer with any greater help in understanding the message than does the competing monosemic analysis once one subtracts the semantic substance of the message that must be inferred (from the linguistic and extra-linguistic context) in order to determine which sense of at is operative. My demonstration has not discredited a polysemic analysis of at in principle, merely the speciﬁc one under consideration. It could well be that other possible semantic values for at might pass this test of communicative eﬃcacy. But if so, there would be no reason to distinguish a multi-valued at from multi-valued seal, namely, a case of homonymy. To be sure, the two seals have diﬀerent etymologies, whereas multiple ats (or ons, or ins) would not. But separate etymology is not a hard and fast requirement for homonymic treatment (e.g. China the country, and china ceramic ware).²³

Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy

10. Resolution The linguist’s dilemma of stored senses (i.e. polysemic analysis) versus inference from abstract meanings (i.e. monosemic analysis) springs from the machine metaphor for the mind.²⁴ For a computer the distinction between memory and computation is clear; a computer performs a task by one means or the other. But for people a third factor can come into play: ‘how-to’ knowledge; skill based on experience. Consider the skilled pianist who can sight-read a complex musical score nearly at tempo. Is he reading the individual notes on the page? Or is he recognizing familiar visual patterns, plausible harmonic sequences, prefabricated digital routines and knowledge of stylistically similar music? Clearly the answer is both. He couldn’t sight-read without mind and hands structured by decades of performance experience and familiarity with stylistically similar music; but it is still the individual notes on the page that trigger that experience and specify the keys to be struck. I would answer Kirsner’s question about what level people are operating on — the meaning level, the message level, or all possible levels at diﬀerent times — in a similar way. We are operating on shared linguistic systems like the one in Figure 1, together with our decades-long experience using such systems, experience comprising strategies of use, heuristics of inference, memory of previous communications, and, often overlooked, stored solutions for frequent communicative tasks: Coﬀee, tea or milk? Hoe gaat het met U? ‘Where’s the bathroom? ¨Como se llama . . . ?, down the street, je le lui ai . . . ; Do you take Mastercard?; gleich um die Ecke; our specials today are . . . ; je voudrais bien . . . . That’s right, all those phrases in the tourist manuals and the dialogues we learned in elementary language classes. These roll oﬀ our tongue far faster than we could assemble them piece by piece. Clearly they are stored in memory. The problem with granting these implementation skills and packaged communications equal status with systemic knowledge is twofold. First, it blurs the distinction between the linguistic code and its regular, principle-governed deployment, thus obscuring the systemic nature of language proper and the role of linguistic theory as scientiﬁc explanation. Secondly, speakers’ interpretive strategies and packaged communications are likely to be idiosyncratic: “Where’d I put my glasses?” is surely a packaged communication for me while “Is there any meat in that?” is a packaged communication for my vegetarian son. If we really want to know what a given individual is operating on psychologically then the answer must come from experimental psychology, not linguistics, because the answer will be diﬀerent for each person.²⁵ Have I given away the farm in conceding that people operate on implementation skills and past experience? Does this amount to abandoning Columbia-style meanings as explanatory constructs in favor of Kirsner’s de facto polysemy? I don’t think so. If, following Kirsner, a language user begins to operate on a direct connection between a form and some message partial, that message partial is the form’s meaning by deﬁnition, and one has a new synchronic signal-meaning unit. The problem

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for the analyst is that of deciding when this has happened. To date, psychology has been unable to answer such questions, and the decision must be made on linguistic grounds. The traditional Columbia School principle has been to posit a new sign only when the old one can no longer account for its distribution. When a meaning cannot explain some new use of its associated signal, then either the old meaning has changed or a new linguistic sign has emerged, a homonym.²⁶ In the spirit of Kirsner’s proposal, I have oﬀered (in Section 9) a new principle for consideration: a new sign is posited when it functionally increases the useful information yield for the language user.²⁷ Note that the traditional principle is one of formal economy; nothing speciﬁcally linguistic justiﬁes it. By contrast, the principle I have oﬀered has functional motivation in the actual communicative process. Permit me to end on a note of whimsy. Some things in our human world are midlevel objects, like paintings. A painting is best observed, studied and evaluated from a distance of eight to ten feet. Under a magnifying glass one sees brush strokes and paint, but no painting. Before asking psychology to be the arbiter in matters of linguistic analysis, we should consider the possibility that language, too, might be a mid-level object, best delineated by the linguist, not the psychologist. The ultimate psychological reality of language — as linguists like to think of it at any rate — is perhaps nowhere to be found. Under psychological scrutiny it disappears like the Cheshire cat, leaving only its smile.

Notes * This chapter is a revised and expanded version of a paper originally presented at the Sixth International Columbia School Conference at Rutgers University, 9–11 Oct. 1999. 1. This statement holds for all Columbia School grammatical analyses. As for the analysis of lexical items, the situation is more complicated. In class lectures in the late 1960’s William Diver, the founder of the Columbia School, proposed that the grammar and the lexicon were structured diﬀerently, and that lexical items had a series of related senses that can be linked diachronically but that may have breaks synchronically: in other words, polysemy. This was still his position in the 1990s (Diver 1995: 98–99). However Diver never carried out an actual analysis of a lexical item that would show, for example, how one would distinguish the extension of an existing sense to a new message (i.e. linguistic creativity) from the emergence of a new sense (i.e. systemic change). His chief interest seemed to be in providing a rationale for indeﬁnitely postponing lexical analysis and maintaining analytical attention on grammar, rather than solving the analytical problems the lexicon presents. By contrast, Columbia School analysts who have attempted lexical analysis have oﬀered monosemic treatments. The major work is Tobin (1993), an analysis of the distinction between semantically close pairs of English verbs: do, make; look, see; listen, hear; say, tell; speak, talk; begin, start; end, ﬁnish; shut, close. See also Tobin’s (1990) treatment of if, whether, also and too; Tobin’s (1995) treatment of only and just; Otheguy’s (1995: 221–226) treatment of Spanish para and atras; Reid’s (1991: 56–66, 101–105) treatment of person and people. 2. A simple example of this point is provided by Tyler and Evans’ (2003: 187–188) polysemic analysis of in. On the basis of the fact that ‘She is in prison’ is understood to mean she is

Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy imprisoned rather than simply visiting, they posit a ‘state’ sense for in distinct from its sense in ‘the key in the lock’. “This tight correlation between being located within a bounded LM [location] and the state experienced motivates a distinct State Sense having become conventionally associated with in.” Note, however, that the interpretation of ‘She is in prison’ could also be accommodated by positing a distinct ‘state’ sense for the word prison, the one also found in ‘Prison is a time for soul-searching.’ Alternatively, it could be accommodated by one’s analysis of the zero article (0 prison), which regularly shifts the interpretation of a word for a bounded location to its associated dedicated activity e.g., ‘She went to the school’ (= went to the building) vs. ‘she went to 0 school’ (= was a student). Since these three analytical possibilities need not exclude each other, their permutation yields an additional three possibilities. Deciding among these six analytical possibilities cannot be done by observation or introspection. 3. This is simply a modern version of the traditional deﬁnition of the sentence as an expression of a complete thought; Reddy (1979) has called this ‘the conduit metaphor’ for language. 4. Langacker (1991: 508) dubs this the ‘building-block metaphor’ of how language works and warns: “This way of thinking and talking is so ingrained that there is no point trying to avoid it. We will be well advised, however, to remember that it represents a blatantly inaccurate folk model capable of leading us into serious error to the extent that we tacitly adopt it for theoretical purposes” See also Langacker 1987: 452–457. 5. This initial version of the semantic values of at, in and on is essentially the same as that proposed by Geoﬀrey Leech (1969: 161). However Leech labels them with misleading names, calling at one dimensional rather than zero dimensional and on two dimensional, despite noting that it also covers one dimensional locations. Herbert H. Clark (1973), whose work ﬁrst inspired this analysis, seems to have taken Leech’s inaccurate labels as the words’ actual semantic values. But unlike Leech, Clark overlooks the fact that on is regularly used for linear (one dimensional) locations as well as two dimensional locations. Clark’s version is often cited in the literature; for example, Levinson (2003: 100). Testing Clark’s values against usage eventually led me to revise them in favor of those in Figure 1. 6. Langacker (1987: 194) writes: “Meaning is not objectively given, but constructed, even for expressions pertaining to objective reality. We therefore cannot account for meaning by describing objective reality, but only by describing the cognitive routines that constitute a person’s understanding of it. The subject matter of semantic analysis is human conceptualization, and the structures of concern are those that a person imposes on his mental experiences through active cognitive processing.” 7. In and on are functioning adverbially in (14) and (15) whereas they function prepositionally in the previous examples. Since the meanings posited in Figure 1 hold for both, distinguishing between their prepositional and adverbial uses is not relevant to testing their proposed meanings. 8. ‘He got on the bus’ could also describe a person climbing up onto the roof of the bus, in which case the location is a surface rather than a line, and the bus is the actual location; this interpretation makes the use of on exactly parallel conceptually to the use of in in ‘he got in the car’. 9. Betsy Rodríguez-Bachiller reports (personal communication) that as a child her family owned a retired Greyhound bus which they used for vacation trips, and that they always spoke of traveling ‘in the bus’ never ‘on the bus’.

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Wallis Reid 10. If (24) is understood as describing a detective following an automobile, or a person lying on the roof of an automobile, then it does not contradict the rationale for the use of the meaning of on. 11. This is why “I waited in line” occurs as well as “I waited on line”. Geometrically, a line is one dimensional, thus calling for on. However in the case of people lined up at, say, a ticket window, the line of people is three dimensional. 12. Note however that the implication of ‘containment’ is dependent upon the deﬁnite article as well. With the indeﬁnite article it disappears: ‘Put your chairs in the circle’; ‘Put your chairs in a circle’. This is why the notion of ‘containment’ is being treated as a mere connotation of the basic meaning of in rather than a separate discrete sense. 13. Ellen Contini-Morava (personal communication) suggests the meaning SPACE HAVING AN INTERIOR for in with the proviso that from the mathematical standpoint a space can have an interior without necessarily having an exterior (i.e. boundaries). This meaning ﬁts in the breeze and in interstellar space, as well as ‘Make an X in the box on your answer sheet.” But it also predicts, wrongly, that in should be able to substitute for on whenever the location is two dimensional: e.g.,*‘ Make an X in your answer sheet;’ *‘a picture hanging in the wall.’ One would have to explain this failure as due to a strategic avoidance of the meaning SPACE HAVING AN INTERIOR because of its predominant use for — and hence implication of — a three-dimensional location. This rationale is the converse of the actual one I have proposed for using in for two dimensional locations to imply ‘containment’. The possibility of alternate analyses that are mirror-images of each other, where what is a meaning in one is an inference in the other, raises in turn the possibility that diﬀerent speakers may well be operating on diﬀerent meanings, and that ‘non-uniqueness’ of solution is not necessarily an analytical failure. 14. Lakoﬀ and Johnson’s insight about the role of metaphor in cognition and the notion of a family of metaphors was anticipated by Benjamin Lee Whorf a quarter of a century earlier. Since physical bodies and their outlines in PERCEIVED SPACE are denoted by size and shape terms and reckoned by cardinal numbers and plurals, these patterns of denotation and reckoning extend to the symbols of nonspatial meanings, and so suggest an IMAGINARY SPACE. Physical shapes ‘move, stop, rise, sink, approach,’ etc., in perceived space; why not these other referents in their imaginary space? This has gone so far that we can hardly refer to the simplest nonspatial situation without constant resort to physical metaphors. I “grasp” the “thread” of another’s arguments, but if its “level” is “over my head” my attention may “wander” and “lose touch” with the “drift” of it, so that when he ”comes” to his “point” we diﬀer “widely,” our “views” being indeed so “far apart” that the “things” he says “appear”“much” too arbitrary, or even “a lot” of nonsense! (Whorf 1956: 145–146) While Lakoﬀ and Johnson (1980) do not acknowledge Whorf ’s antecedent work, Lakoﬀ (1987: 304–337) oﬀers a detailed and insightful discussion that shows an appreciation of the complexity of Whorf ’s thought. 15. An alternative to claiming that in, on and at are being used metaphorically for temporal messages is to posit more abstract non-spatial meanings for them that would apply nonmetaphorically to messages of both space and time. (See Contini-Morava [1989: 96–101] for a discussion of this analytical alternative for the Swahili particle li.) But note, even if viable non-spatial meanings could be found, that would not eliminate the spatial metaphor for

Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy time, which, so far as I can see, is how English speakers conceptualize time (and hence temporal messages). The revision would simply allow the analyst to claim that abstract meanings are being applied in a straightforward fashion to express a conceptual metaphor. Yishai Tobin [personal communication] points to a discussion (reproduced below) of in in his 1990 book Semiotics and Linguistics which, he claims, involves a semantic substance more abstract than the one posited here. ‘Small words’ (such as the ‘preposition’ in) may often begin as ‘locatives’ (in the room), are extended metaphorically from concrete spatial messages to the more abstract realm of ‘temporal’ messages (in the morning), to the even more abstract realm of ‘existential’ messages (in trouble), (in pieces), to the point at which they may even be ‘nominalized’ (to be ‘in’) or made into adjectives (the ‘in-group’). Yet, it is possible to account for all the various spatio-temporal-existential messages, both literal and metaphoric, and the various syntactic and pragmatic functions such a word may obtain by discovering its invariant meaning (e.g. in = LIMITED BY BOUNDARIES) as it is exploited in diﬀerent linguistic and situational contexts. (Tobin 1990: 61) However, Tobin provides no validation of this meaning, or explanation of how it ﬁts such uses as in the breeze, and in interstellar space; or even how it ﬁts his own examples: in trouble; in pieces. (Indeed the “e.g.” suggests that LIMITED BY BOUNDARIES may be just a guess.) Moreover, it’s not clear how LIMITED BY BOUNDARIES is any less spatial in conception than the meaning proposed here. Finally, his “spatio-temporal-existential cline” seems to refer to a diachronic process of expanding use, not to a synchronic semantic substance. Whether such an analysis would be preferable to the present one could only be determined if it were worked out in suﬃcient detail so as to permit a point by point comparison. 16. The implication of a negative eﬀect is due to the contrast of on with for. For siphons oﬀ the messages of positive eﬀect (e.g. the joke was for him) leaving on with the negative ones (e.g. the joke was on him). To put it another way, the choice of on in such a context implies that the message is not a for-type one. 17. Accounting in detail for what adverbial relations in is and is not used for would require consideration of the available alternatives. For example, in is used with secret (‘he did it in secret’) but not stealth; instead, we use by (‘he did it by stealth’). Explaining this restriction would require a provisional analysis of by, which goes beyond the scope of this chapter. 18. Treating something as a system means it has a number of important features: it has a ﬁnite set of deﬁnable components; the components bear stable relationships to each other that constitute part of their identity; the components form, in turn, a larger describable structure; it is formalizable in some way. This harks back to Saussure’s distinction between langue and parole. Saussure was intent upon creating a discrete, ﬁnite and describable object of study for linguistics and had come to realize that this required distinguishing language as a socially constructed abstract system from the personal and unique psychology of individual speakers. 19. Treating such culture-speciﬁc conceptual metaphors as a part of the linguistic system itself might seem a reasonable analytical choice for a linguist who holds that a.) linguistic categories map directly onto cognitive structure, and that b.) cognitive structure is by and large universal. The conceptual metaphor would then be part of a small cognitive periphery to a universal cognitive core. Both these assumptions, however, are challenged by Steven Levinson’s (2003) study of spatial frames of reference employed by speakers of various

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Wallis Reid languages. In this basic area of human experience, Levinson ﬁnds that the cognitive structuring and linguistic encoding of spatial location is surprisingly diverse; and that “the imprint of language-speciﬁc categories run[s] deep in cognitive processes” (p. 301). In particular, he ﬁnds (p. xix) that 1. Diﬀerent human groups use diﬀerent spatial frameworks, often with distinctive sets of coordinate systems in both language and cognition; 2. There are robust correlations between frames of reference used in language and frames of reference used in non-linguistic memory and reasoning, suggesting a major ‘Whorﬁan’ eﬀect of language on cognition; 3. Consonant with selected frames of reference, diﬀerent human groups seem to use different types of ‘mental map’, with consequent diﬀerences in many aspects of behavior, communication and culture. Levinson argues that language-speciﬁc categories and frames of reference must be accompanied by culturally speciﬁc modes of perception and cognitive structuring if linguistic communication is to work.“[A]t the moment of linguistic coding, thoughts have to be regimented to ﬁt the lexical, grammatical and linear structure of the particular language — ‘thinking-forspeaking’ in Slobin’s (1996) memorable phrase” (p.303). In short, we are nudged into thinking in particular ways so as to make verbal expression easy. The upshot of Levinson’s work is that while the use of at, on and in for time reﬂects a culture-particular conceptualization of the message, so do their spatial uses, and so, in all likelihood, do all the other things English speakers say, no matter how mundane. Nothing could seem more cognitively universal and culture-neutral than the English sentence ‘I like ice cream’, until one learns that the Spanish equivalent is ‘me gusta el helado’. Thus Levinson’s research supports the position taken here that temporal messages expressed with at, on and in do not merit any special status distinguishing them cognitively from all the other messages we express in English. (See also n. 20.) 20. The position I am taking here on conceptual metaphor is the same as the one Donald Davidson (1979) takes on literary metaphor. He writes: “The central mistake against which I shall be inveighing is the idea that a metaphor has, in addition to its literal sense or meaning, another sense or meaning” (p. 30). “My disagreement is with the explanation of how metaphor works its wonders. To anticipate: I depend on the distinction between what words mean and what they are used to do. I think metaphor belongs exclusively to the domain of use. It is something brought oﬀ by the imaginative employment of words and sentences and depends entirely on the ordinary meanings of those words and hence on the ordinary meanings of the sentences they comprise” (p. 31). “No theory of metaphorical meaning or metaphorical truth can help explain how a metaphor works. Metaphor runs on the same familiar linguistic tracks that the plainest sentences do; this we saw from considering simile. What distinguishes metaphor is not meaning but use — in this it is like assertion, hinting, lying, promising, or criticizing. And the special use to which we put language in metaphor is not — cannot be — to ‘say something’ special, no matter how indirectly. For a metaphor says only what shows on its face — usually a patent falsehood or an absurd truth. And this plain truth or falsehood needs no paraphrase — it is given in the literal meaning of the words” (p. 41). Unlike the literary metaphor, the conceptual metaphor does not strike us as false or absurd. This is because it does not conﬂict with any alternative conceptualization. The conceptual metaphor simply expresses how we are thinking about something and, as Davidson argues for literary metaphor, does not diﬀer in this respect from any other utterance.

Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy 21. This holds for the orthographic representation of in but not its phonemic representation. The current analysis, which posits a sign whose signal is /In/ and whose meaning is THREE DIMENSIONAL LOCATION only accounts for the /In/ of “the keys in the drawer’; the /In/ of “no room at the inn” calls for a new construct. An example of the need for more than one meaning to account for the use of a grammatical form is provided by Diver’s analysis of the case morphology of Homeric Greek. Diver set up two meanings for the Greek Dative case: one was the meaning LOWER CONTROL OF THE EVENT which ﬁgured in a two member Control system and which was opposed to the Nominative; the other meaning for the Greek Dative was PLACE AT WHICH, that ﬁgured in a spatial system along with the Accusative and Genitive. Diver posited two meanings because he couldn’t posit a single meaning for the Greek Dative that accounted for its use across its entire range of contexts. On the other hand, he rejected the suggestion to set up a third meaning of POSSESSION for those uses that traditional grammars call a Dative of Possession, because he believed the meaning LOWER CONTROL OF THE EVENT already accounted for those uses satisfactorily. 22. The words park and salesman do occur in the context, but unless their various relevant syntactic positions conditioning the interpretation of on can be stated, one is still making an unformalized appeal to the message. 23. The usual rationale for making a distinction between homonymy and polysemy is that a homonymic analysis “ignores any systematic relationships among the distinct meanings associated with a single linguistic form” (Tyler & Evans 2003: 5). But this begs the issue of the theoretical status of these relationships: whether they should be built into the current linguistic system, or whether they should be part of a diachronic account of the development of the synchronically distinct meanings, whose etymology is often easy to discern. To my mind, unless such relationships play a role in actual language use, the relationships are more properly treated as meta-linguistic etymological knowledge. Tyler and Evans counter that unless the relationships are recognized as synchronic facts, “the homonymy approach makes the implicit claim that the process of meaning extension itself is arbitrary, leading to the unsatisfactory conclusion that language change is ad hoc, lacking motivation” (p. 5). But this is not so. The motivations for the extensions are general cognitive processes always at work in language use, not the particular product of those processes applied to a given linguistic unit over time. 24. See Langacker (1991: 509) for an insightful deconstruction of the machine metaphor underlying the conception of a grammar in the generative tradition. 25. Moreover, the psychologist’s discovery as to what an individual operates on linguistically might prove decidedly unappealing to the linguist. In a chapter entitled “Lexical Storage vs. Online Construction” Ray Jackendoﬀ (Jackendoﬀ, 2002: 152) observes that people’s linguistic memory is not restricted just to words and phrases. People store poems, song lyrics, the Pledge of Allegiance, prayers and proverbs. Jackendoﬀ ’s point is that not everything stored in linguistic memory must necessarily be treated as part of an individual’s linguistic system. In my youth I committed to memory the verbatim text of Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart”. Yet few linguists would want to accord it equal status with at, on and in as simply an additional unit in my personal linguistic system, despite the fact that I was clearly operating psychologically on that stored unit when I performed the story as a monologue. 26. See Reid [1991: 105–108] for the application of this principle in the analysis of the word dial. For an example in the grammar see n. 21.

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Wallis Reid 27. Note that the protocol is only operative in a situation where the analyst has a choice between a single meaning and a multiple meaning analysis. In cases where homonymic analysis is the only analytical option, there is no choice, and the issue of increased informational yield does not arise.

References Brown Corpus. (circa) 1960. Francis, N. and Kucera, H. (Compilers). Brown University. URL: http://www.ldc.upenn.edu/. Access LDC Online Corpora. Clark, Herbert H. 1973. “Space, time, semantics, and the child”. In Cognitive Development and the Acquisition of Language, T. E. Moore (ed.), 27–64. New York: Academic Press. Contini-Morava, Ellen. 1989. Discourse Pragmatics and Semantic Categorization: The Case of Negation and Tense-aspect with Special Reference to Swahili. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Contini-Morava, Ellen, and Barbara Sussman Goldberg (eds). 1995. Meaning as Explanation: Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Davidson, Donald. 1979. “What metaphors mean”. In On Metaphor, S. Sacks (ed.), 29–45. Chicago : University of Chicago Press. Diver, William. 1995. “Theory”. In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds.), 43–114. Grice, H. Paul. 1967.“Logic and conversation”. In Speech Acts (Syntax and Semantics 3), P. Cole and J. L. Morgan (eds.), 41–58. New York: Academic Press, 41–58. Huﬀman, Alan. 1997. The Categories of Grammar: French lui and le. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Jackendoﬀ, Ray. 2002. Foundations of Language: Brain, Meaning, Grammar, Evolution. New York: Oxford University Press Johnson, Mark. 1987. The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination, and Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kirsner, Robert S. 2002.“The Future of a minimalist linguistics in a maximalist world”. In Reid, Otheguy and Stern (eds), 339–371. Lakoﬀ, George. 1987. Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lakoﬀ, George and Mark Johnson. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Langacker, Ronald W. 1987. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar: Theoretical Prerequisites. Stanford: Stanford University Press Langacker, Ronald W. 1991. Foundations of Cognitive Grammar: Descriptive Application. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Leech, Geoﬀrey, 1969. Towards a Semantic Description of English. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Levinson, Stephen. 2003. Space in Language and Cognition: Explorations in Cognitive Diversity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Otheguy, Ricardo. “When contact speakers talk, linguistic theory listens.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds), 213–242. Reddy, Michael J. 1979. “The conduit metaphor — A case of frame conﬂict in our language about language.” In Metaphor and Thought, A.Ortony (ed.), 284–324. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reid, Wallis. 1991. Verb and Noun Number in English: A Functional Explanation. London: Longman.

Monosemy, homonymy and polysemy Reid, Wallis, Ricardo Otheguy and Nancy Stern (eds). 2002. Signal, Meaning, and Message: Perspectives on Sign-based Linguistics. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company Ruhl, Charles. 1989. On Monosemy: A Study in Linguistic Semantics. Albany: State University of New York Press. Ruhl, Charles. 2002. “Data, comprehensiveness, monosemy”. In Reid, Otheguy and Stern (eds.), 171–189. Slobin, Dan I. 1996. “From ‘thought and language’ to ‘thinking for speaking’.” In Rethinking Linguistic Relativity, J. Gumperz and S. Levinson (eds.), 70–96. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, John R. 1995. Linguistic Categorization: Prototypes in Linguistic Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tobin, Yishai. 1990. Semiotics and Linguistics. London: Longman. Tobin, Yishai. 1993. Aspect in the English Verb. London: Longman. Tobin, Yishai. 1995. “Only vs. just: Semantic integrality revisited.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds), 323–359. Tyler, Andrea & Evans,Vyvyan. 2003. The Semantics of English Prepositions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whorf, Benjamin Lee. 1956. “The Relation of habitual thought and behavior to language”. In Language, Thought and Reality, John Carroll (ed), 134–159. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

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CHAPTER 4

On the relationship between form and grammatical meaning in the linguistic sign Mark J. Elson University of Virginia

1. Introduction The Saussurean sign as an arbitrary composite of form and meaning is central to modern linguistics. Nevertheless, the details of the relationship between the components of the sign have remained largely uninvestigated. In particular, the representation of grammatical meaning in inﬂectional languages which are fusional, as opposed to agglutinative, is still inadequately understood. I am referring, specifically, to the relatively common absence in such languages of suﬃcient phonemic substance in the grammatical portion, or desinence,¹ of word-level units for the discrete representation of all relevant grammatical meanings. A form like Spanish ﬁrst person singular preterite past canté ‘I sang’, with desinential -e, is illustrative in this regard.² The desinence of this form comprises only a single phoneme, and, we can therefore be certain, a single morpheme. However, there are at least three grammatical meanings associated with the form:³ [ﬁrst person], [singular], and [preterite past]. Which of these meanings are represented desinentially? It is commonly assumed in such situations that all grammatical meanings are represented despite the impossibility of discrete representation. This view, in turn, necessitates the assumption of portmanteau representation,⁴ a one-to-many relationship in which one desinential morpheme expresses more than one grammatical meaning; e.g., -e in ﬁrst person singular canté, to which those adopting portmanteau representation assign all three of the grammatical meanings in question. The requirement of full grammatical representation, as I will henceforth refer to it, has, to the present, remained an assumption of desinential organization in fusional languages. It has been adopted by some and rejected by others, but never on the basis of evidence, either external (i.e. evidence based on general principles of cognition) or internal (i.e. evidence based on the distribution, and changes in distribution, of signs in speech).⁵ This chapter argues for its rejection on the basis of internal evidence. Several instances of morphological change from Slavic and Romance verbal systems will be cited which, I will claim, permit us to infer the existence of desinences in those systems that convey less than the total complement of grammatical meaning associated with the word-level units in which they occur.⁶ I

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will also consider in some detail the question of which grammatical meanings are represented desinentially, and the semiotic function they implement, when there is insuﬃcient phonemic substance to represent all of them. In its theoretical orientation, my analysis will proceed from two assumptions, the ﬁrst following Diver, the second following Saussure, each with a corollary:⁷ 1. Meaning is the explanans of distribution; i.e., the meaning of linguistic signs determines, and thereby explains, their distribution in speech. corollary: The distribution of linguistic signs, in both their synchronic and diachronic occurrence, is a source of evidence for their meaning. 2. The linguistic sign is a negative entity, taking its value, or meaning, from the systemic oppositions in which it participates. corollary: word-level units are organized into classiﬁcatory sets, or paradigms. These are the domains within which speakers evaluate and establish oppositional potential and assign meaning. Although I adopt Diver’ s assumption of meaning as the explanans of distribution, I do not accept the apparent implication that the distribution of form as such (i.e. the raw material available to speakers for the creation of signs) is without explanatory signiﬁcance for meaning. I will argue that it is signiﬁcant, for grammatical meaning at least, claiming that such meaning cannot be represented morphologically unless desinential form exists in a distribution compatible with it.⁸ This view will be evident throughout my discussion, which is concerned exclusively with grammatical meaning. Regarding the organization of paradigms, I make two assumptions, one speciﬁc to verbal forms in the languages from which I cite data, the other general, and both of which will be supported in the course of my discussion:⁹ 1. Verbal forms are organized into paradigms at least on the basis of the grammatical categories tense, aspect, and mood.¹⁰ 2. Paradigms may have internal paradigmatic structure (i.e. may comprise paradigms). Proceeding from these assumptions, I recognize three paradigmatic structures for analytic purposes: 1. formation paradigm, henceforth f-paradigm, deﬁned as a verbal paradigm based on tense, aspect, mood, or a combination thereof;¹¹ 2. sub-paradigm, henceforth s-paradigm, deﬁned as a paradigm internal to an f-paradigm (i.e. a paradigm based on a characteristic shared by a subset of forms within an f-paradigm, e.g., the grammatical category number); and 3. minimal sub-paradigm, henceforth ms-paradigm, deﬁned as a sub-paradigm with no internal paradigmatic organization (i.e. which does not itself comprise s-paradigms).

Form and grammatical meaning

2. The data 2.1. Macedonian We begin with data from Macedonian, a Slavic language of the South Slavic subgroup. The data comprise present and imperative f-paradigms, the forms of which are canonically {stem — desinence}, with the latter constituent instantiated as V(X), where X denotes C(V). The initial vowel of the desinence may be e, i, or a. We are concerned with e and i, which the standard language attests in the inherited (i.e. expected based on our knowledge of the history of the language) distribution, exempliﬁed in Table 1 by the present and imperative of bere (stem: ber-) ‘gather’ and nosi (stem: nos-) ‘carry.’¹² Generalizing on the basis of bere and nosi, we observe that although all of the verbs in question have both desinence-initial e and i in the imperative, some, like bere, have only e in the present, while others, like nosi, have only i. Dialectally, however, innovation has given rise to diﬀerent patterns, two of which are of interest to us.¹³ In each, there is now only a single present conjugation, exempliﬁed in Table 2 by bere, subsuming all of the verbs in question, and combining, in its desinential component, initial e with i. The imperative of these verbs has not changed, still combining, in all of the relevant dialects, desinence-initial i in the singular with e in the plural (e.g. 2s beri, 2p berete in the imperative of bere), which is the inherited pattern of realization. Our immediate task is to determine the systemic motivation for innovation in the present. Since the innovation gave rise to the occurrence of desinence-initial e Table 1. Macedonian: Standard present and imperative of bere and nosi MC:PRS 1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

beram bereš bere bereme berete berat

MC:IPS beri berete

MC:PRS nosam nosiš nosi nosime nosite nosat

MC:IPS nosi nosete

Table 2. Macedonian: Dialectal present of bere

1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

MC:PR1D

MC:PR2D

beram beriš beri bereme berete berat

beram beriš bere bereme berete berat

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and i internal to the present f-paradigm, we may assume involvement of the imperative, the f-paradigm of which, unlike that of the present, inherited both realizations of the segment in question. If we assume division of the present f-paradigm into two s-paradigms, one deﬁned by desinence-initial a (i.e. comprising the ﬁrst person singular and the third person plural), and the other by desinence-initial e or i (i.e. comprising the remaining forms), examination of the remade f-paradigms of the present suggests that speakers evaluated desinence-initial e and i in the imperative in either of two ways: 1. i [+singular]; e [−singular];¹⁴ or 2. i [+second person singular]; e [−second person singular]. Each of these formulations of the grammatical content of the segments in question is underspeciﬁed (i.e. expresses less than the full grammatical meaning conveyed by the relevant forms, omitting person and/or the meaning common to members of the f-paradigm) even though in the singular there is no other desinential segment, and, therefore, no possibility of representing additional grammatical meaning. We may assume, as indicated in Table 3 for bere, that each formulation was extended to the present yielding, within the s-paradigm comprising forms with desinence-initial e or i, one of the dialectal patterns (e.g. i with the meaning [+singular], and e with [−singular] yields MC:PR1D), and thus eliminating the inherited occurrence of e throughout the present of some verbs but i throughout that of others. The result was a simpliﬁcation in the grammar of these dialects because the inherited distribution of e versus i in the present had been lexically conditioned (i.e. the verbs which required e, like bere, had to be speciﬁed lexically in the absence of a shared characteristic of structure, as did the verbs which required i, like nosi). In the remade system, by contrast, lexical conditioning was unnecessary because the verbs in question were uniform in the present and the imperative, all attesting desinence-initial e and i. More generally, all nonpast verbal f-paradigms of these verbs were identical, and therefore united, not only in canonical structure, exhibiting {stem — V(X)} where X denotes C(V), but also in the occurrence of e versus i and, as a consequence, the expression of grammatical meaning associated with them. The appearance of both e and i within dialectal present f-paradigms is signiﬁcant because, in requiring for its systemic motivation a reference to the set of forms shar-

Table 3. Macedonian: Dialectal present and imperative of bere

2s 3s 1p 2p

MC:IP1D

MC:PR1D

MC:IP2D

MC:PR2D

beri

beriš beri bereme berete

beri

beriš bere bereme berete

berete

berete

Form and grammatical meaning

ing the meaning [present] and the set of forms sharing the meaning [imperative], it supports the psychological reality, and by implication the assumption, of f-paradigms, i.e., verbal paradigms deﬁned by the categories of tense, aspect, and mood. But it is also important for two additional reasons connected with the grammatical meaning assigned to desinential form: 1. It reveals that f-meaning, i.e., grammatical meaning shared by the members of an f-paradigm, in this instance [present] in one and [imperative] in the other, need not be represented desinentially, and 2. it reveals that the structure of a paradigm, in this instance, the imperative f-paradigm, which was reduced (i.e. comprised fewer than the usual six forms expressing person and number), may be relevant in determining the grammatical meaning assigned to desinential phonemes in word-level units, thus permitting us to conclude that something other than the total grammatical meaning compatible with their distribution in speech (e.g. [second person singular imperative] in the case of 2s beri) may play a role in the determination of the grammatical meaning to be represented in their desinential components. The ﬁrst inference follows from three facts: 1. Neither e nor i appears to be associated with modal (i.e. imperative) meaning in view of the extension of their imperative distribution to the present, an extension that would presumably have been impossible if either of the vowels in question had been associated with such meaning; 2. desinential strings following e and i cannot be associated with modal or temporal meaning because, in the case of 1p -me and 2p -te at least, they occur in all verbal f-paradigms, not just those of the present and imperative; and 3. the extent of the desinence in the singular imperative and third person singular of the present is one segment (i.e. -e or -i), and, as a result, there is no possibility of associating additional grammatical meaning with desinential form in them. The second inference follows from the fact that diﬀering analyses of the meaning assigned to desinence-initial e and i in the imperative f-paradigm can be explained as options resulting from its paradigmatic structure, i.e., from the fact that it is reduced, comprising only two members, both of the second person. This is possible if we generalize that, with regard to the grammatical meaning which is morphologically represented in f-paradigms, oppositional meaning (i.e. grammatical meaning which distinguishes word-level units in f-paradigms, either actually or potentially) is given preference to shared meaning (i.e. f-meaning, which has no oppositional function within f-paradigms). On this basis, we may assume, for the moment, that the realizations of the desinence-initial vowel in the imperative (i.e. e and i ) — if, as it seems, they are used to oppose imperative forms — need not be assigned any meaning other than number, since these forms diﬀer only in this meaning within the reduced imperative f-paradigm. However, they can, optionally, be assigned person as well since, in a fully instantiated f-paradigm, both number and person are necessary

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for oppositional purposes. Hence, this vowel was assigned [+ singular/ −singular] or [+second person singular/−second person singular]. It was not additionally assigned [imperative], which had no oppositional relevance, actually or potentially, within the imperative f-paradigm. Thus it seems likely that no grammatical meaning other than the meaning we have associated with the desinence-initial vowel and the meaning usually associated with segments following it (i.e. number or number and person) is expressed desinentially in either the present or the imperative. Extrapolating, we may infer that, contrary to the commonly held view, it is not true that all of the grammatical meaning conveyed by word-level forms need be represented desinentially. Only meaning oppositional within f-paradigms requires representation provided there is appropriately distributed phonemic substance to accommodate it.¹⁵ However, it is important to note in connection with these ﬁndings that grammatical meaning which is not conveyed morphologically may nevertheless be systemically incorporated by other means, perhaps the most common of which — in verbal systems — is syntax (i.e. periphrasis), for example, to express relative tense via an auxiliary, yielding the traditionally designated perfect f-paradigms in many languages. Grammatical meaning may also be conveyed, albeit less directly, by restrictions on the distribution of morphemes and/or allomorphs. Thus Macedonian -m as a morpheme conveying [ﬁrst person] (e.g. in 1s beram and 1s nosam) is restricted to the present (i.e. it did, and does, not occur in the ﬁrst person forms of the imperfect past and aorist past, the other verbal f-paradigms conveying tense), which means that, by implication, it conveys the f-meaning [present] although this meaning is not assigned to any desinential morpheme in present forms.¹⁶

2.2. Spanish The history of Spanish conjugation provides further evidence against the requirement of full grammatical representation in desinences, and permits us to make more precise the semiotic function of morphemes, the relevance of paradigmatic structure in the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form, and speaker strategies pertaining thereto. Consider the f-paradigms in Table 4, one displaying the standard preterite past of ﬁrst conjugation verbs exempliﬁed by that of cantar (stem: cant-) ‘sing’ representing, but for the second person plural, to which we return later, the inherited pattern, and the other a dialectal pattern.¹⁷ We note that the dialectal pattern reﬂects extension of e, originally comprising and restricted to the desinence of the ﬁrst person singular, to the second person singular and to the personal forms of the plural (e.g. SP:PTS 2s cantaste > SP:PTD 2s canteste, etc.). This innovation suggests that, as a morpheme, it was assigned the underspeciﬁed meaning [personal], not [ﬁrst person singular preterite past], which the requirement of full grammatical representation necessitates in view of the fact that e is the only desinential segment of the ﬁrst person singular. The latter, fully speciﬁed meaning would presumably have made the morpheme in question incompatible with any form other

Form and grammatical meaning Table 4. Spanish: Standard and dialectal preterite of cantar

1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

SP:PTS

SP:PTD

canté cantaste cantó cantamos cantasteis cantaron

canté canteste cantó cantemos cantesteis cantaron

than the ﬁrst person singular, i.e., the form which inherited it, and extension would have been impossible. Here a motivation for underspeciﬁcation is less obvious than in the Macedonian data we have considered, but is nevertheless available if we assume not only that paradigmatic structure may be relevant in the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form, and that oppositional meaning is given preference to shared within f-paradigms, but also that: 1. paradigms may be deﬁned formally (i.e. they need not be deﬁned grammatically, as traditionally assumed);¹⁸ and 2. the opposition of word-level units within ms-paradigms is the primary semiotic function of desinential form, taking precedence over the opposition of larger units (i.e. f-paradigms and s-paradigms) and the opposition of word-level units within such units. With these additional assumptions, we organize the preterite past f-paradigm of the dialects in question, as in Table 5, into two s-paradigms, each minimal, based not on the grammatical opposition singular versus plural, which is usually assumed, but on the formal, desinential opposition -V versus -VX, where X denotes segments beyond the initial vowel in the desinential component of its members. Within the -V ms-paradigm, person instantiated as [+personal/–personal] was suﬃcient to oppose the two word-level members (i.e. the ﬁrst person singular and the third person singular, which diﬀered only in this meaning),¹⁹ although it would not have been in Table 5. Spanish: Dialectal organization of the preterite SP:PTD -V 1s 3s

canté cantaste

-VX 2s 1p 2p 3p

cantaste cantamos cantasteis cantaron

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a three-member ms-paradigm including the second person, which is also personal, nor was it in the four member -VX paradigm. Hence 1s -e was assigned the underspeciﬁed meaning [+personal], and 3s -o the meaning [−personal]. The former was subsequently extended to other personal forms, those in the -VX ms-paradigm, with which it was compatible. Since the monophonemic desinences of the -V forms can include no other morpheme, their fate vis-à-vis the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form supports our conclusion that the requirement of full grammatical representation is without foundation, and our assumption that the opposition of word-level units within ms-paradigms is the primary semiotic function of morphemes. Support for the latter follows from our conclusion that the segments in question express only the meaning which opposes word-level units within the -V ms-paradigm, i.e., only [+personal/−personal]. It does not express other meaning, which we extrapolate from the fact that the expression of number would have made extension to plural forms of the -VX ms-paradigm impossible. It should be noted, however, that although desinential -e and -o do not express f-meaning (i.e. tense and/or aspect), they nevertheless convey it by virtue of their distribution, which, when stressed, is restricted to the preterite past. The Spanish data also conﬁrm what may be seen as the secondary semiotic function of desinential morphemes: to unite paradigms via the extension of such morphemes and, concomitantly, of the oppositions within which they participate, to paradigms with which they are grammatically compatible, thereby diagramming the status of the paradigms as subdivisions of a larger paradigmatic unity. Although we left it unmentioned, this function was evident in the Macedonian extension of imperative desinential-initial morphemes and associated oppositions to the present, uniting the present and imperative f-paradigms in a desinence-initial opposition of number or number and person. In Spanish, the extension of desinenceinitial e with the meaning [+personal] to other personal forms, i.e., to the second person singular and the personal forms of the plural, with all of which it was semantically compatible, yielded a desinence-initial opposition of [+personal] to [−personal] in both ms-paradigms of the preterite past f-paradigm (i.e. e/o in the -V msparadigm, and e/a in the -VX ms-paradigm), and thus a formal link between them. Extensions like these are probably best understood as the reﬂection of a preference for iconicity, which may be formulated as follows: The unmarked, or optimal, distribution of a grammatical morpheme M with meaning G is all word-level units characterized by G. Hence, all such word-level units not already including M will tend to acquire it via its extension to them.²⁰ As a result of such extensions, we note, a category may be represented more than once; e.g., the -VX ms-paradigm in the dialectal Spanish preterite past, which expresses person twice, once in the desinence-initial portion as [+personal/−personal], and again in the portion following as [ﬁrst person/second person/third person] (e.g. SP:PTD 1p cantemos, with desinence initial e expressing person as [+personal] and mos, the remaining segments, expressing it as [ﬁrst person]).

Form and grammatical meaning

2.3. Interlude: Opposition of, and within, nonminimal paradigms I have so far argued that there is evidence to undermine the requirement of full grammatical representation, and that, with regard to meaning which is morphologically represented, that which opposes word-level units within ms-paradigms is given priority to shared meaning (i.e. meaning opposing larger paradigmatic units). It is important to emphasize that I have not argued against the morphological opposition of larger units (i.e. sets of word-level units with shared oppositional meaning; e.g., s-paradigms and f-paradigms), or of word-level units within them rather than in ms-paradigms, but only relegated such opposition to the status of a secondary concern in the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form. In fact, with respect to verbal paradigms at least, there is no doubt that such opposition is possible in the following circumstance: Word-level opposition has been accommodated to the extent possible, and desinential substance remains which is compatible with the opposition of larger units, or of word-level forms within such units. We may take the English past as a ﬁrst example. The f-paradigm of the past is maximally reduced, comprising only a single form with desinential ed in most instances (e.g. walked). This string can accommodate nothing but the meaning [past], which is presumably assigned to it yielding a morpheme which opposes the past, an f-paradigm, to other verbal f-paradigms (e.g. the present). As a second example, we may take the imperfect past in Spanish, the f-paradigm of which is illustrated in Table 6 by cantar (stem: cant-) ‘sing.’ Based on our ﬁndings to this point, and assuming two ms-paradigms based on the grammatical opposition singular versus plural, we assign person to desinential s in the singular as well as mos, is, and n in the plural, thus opposing word-level units within ms-paradigms. The ﬁrst person singular and third person singular remain unopposed because there is insuﬃcient phonemic substance to accommodate them. Having treated word-level opposition within msparadigms to the extent possible, we are left with aba, which is compatible only with the f-meaning [past] or [imperfect past], opposing the imperfect past to other verbal f-paradigms. There can be little doubt that speakers assign it this meaning.

Table 6. Spanish: Standard imperfect of cantar SP:IFS 1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

cantaba cantabas cantaba cantábamos cantabais cantaban

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The disposition of desinential substance after the accommodation of word-level units within ms-paradigms is also relevant to the Macedonian data with which we began. In using these data to introduce the general relevance of opposition within f-paradigms in the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form, and thus arguing against the requirement of full grammatical representation, I proceeded without considering the possibility of paradigmatic structure internal to the imperative f-paradigm. Instead, I inferred the meaning assigned to desinenceinitial e and i by examining their distribution in the remade present f-paradigm, and extrapolated on that basis. However, if we assume ms-paradigms in the imperative on the basis of singular versus plural, each formulation of the grammatical meaning assigned to desinence-initial e and i in the imperative, and in the present through extension, can be seen as the result of the principles so far established and, in addition, a general principle operative in the absence of opposition within minimal s-paradigms (i.e. within maximally reduced ms-paradigms). Let us therefore assume, for the imperative f-paradigm, the structure in Table 7 exempliﬁed by the imperative of bere (stem: ber-) ‘gather.’ Within this framework, neither imperative form is opposed within its ms-paradigm, i.e., both ms-paradigms, singular and plural, are maximally reduced. Speakers therefore were free to exploit the oppositional potential of desinence-initial vowels in other domains. Speakers in some dialects opposed the ms-paradigms themselves, assigning the desinence-initial vowel the meaning [+singular/–singular]. That is, in the absence of any need to use desinential phonemes within ms-paradigms, they proceeded to use the desinence-initial opposition to oppose larger paradigmatic units thus providing further evidence for our assumption relating to the opposition of units larger than words. By contrast, speakers in other dialects opposed the word-level units of the imperative in the one domain which did comprise both: the imperative f-paradigm. Within this domain, both person and number were necessary for oppositional purposes; hence, [+second person singular/–second person singular]. Thus we conclude that when ms-paradigms are maximally reduced, and the opposition of word-level units in them is therefore moot, speakers may opt, provided phonemic substance is available, to oppose ms-paradigms as such, thereby opposing their word-level units, or to oppose word-level units within the immediately superordinate domain, here, the f-paradigm. The choice determines how much grammatical meaning must be assigned to word-level forms, but neither choice includes assignment of f-meanTable 7. Macedonian: Standard organization of the imperative

singular 2s beri

plural 2p berete

Form and grammatical meaning

ing because such meaning is shared by, and therefore nonoppositional among, the members of f-paradigms.

2.4. Polish Polish conjugation provides additional support for the conclusions we have reached regarding the oppositional and uniﬁcational functions of morphemes in the dialectal evolution of the present, where desinence-initial ę, historically conﬁned to the ﬁrst person singular, was extended to the ﬁrst person plural.²¹ Thus, illustrating with nosić (stem: nosz-/nos-) ‘carry’, we ﬁnd the Old Polish and contemporary dialectal Polish present f-paradigms in Table 8.²² For these data, unlike the Spanish, the innovation in question is motivated by assuming, for Old Polish at least, the traditional division of the present f-paradigm, as in Table 9, into two ms-paradigms deﬁned by the grammatical opposition singular versus plural. Within each of the msparadigms, person was adequate for oppositional purposes. We therefore assume for the singular ms-paradigm: ę [ﬁrst person], sz [second person], and zero [third person], noting that the distribution of desinential phonemes in this paradigm requires what may be termed a-parallel representation, i.e., morphemes in diﬀerent relative positions of the desinence, here initial and noninitial, participating in the representation of a single opposition. No meaning other than person (i.e. [singular] or [present]) required desinential representation. The underspeciﬁcation of ę rendered it compatible with the ﬁrst person plural, which, although in a diﬀerent msparadigm, shared the meaning [ﬁrst person]. It was therefore extended (e.g. PL:PRO 1p nosimy > PL:PTD 1p noszęmy), thus functioning oppositionally within the desinence-initial segment of the singular and of the plural, but uniﬁcationally within that of the present f-paradigm as such by linking the ﬁrst person singular to the ﬁrst person plural, which, within its ms-paradigm, the plural, was opposed by my. As a result, the plural of the Polish dialectal present, like that of the Spanish preterite past, expresses person twice, in the desinence-initial segment as well as in the strings following (e.g. PL:PRD 1p noszęmy, with desinence-initial ę expressing [ﬁrst person] and my expressing [ﬁrst person]).²³ It bears reiteration that, in the singular, Polish Table 8. Polish: Old and dialectal present of nosić

1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

PL:PRO

PL:PRD

noszę nosisz nosi nosimy nosicie nosią

noszę nosisz nosi noszęmy nosicie noszą

Table 9. Polish: Old organization of the present

singular 1s noszę 2s nosisz 3s nosi

plural 1p nosimy 2p nosicie 3p nosią

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uses both the desinence-initial segment (i.e. ę of the ﬁrst person singular) as well as the string following (i.e. sz of the second person singular) for oppositional purposes, thus suggesting that the opposition of word-level units within ms-paradigms is so central a concern that more than one desinential position may be allocated to it.²⁴ In conjunction with the extension of ę, we note that, although desinential sz of the second person singular is undoubtedly analogous in meaning and function to ę, i.e., sz means [second person] and opposes the second person singular to other forms of the singular as ę, meaning [ﬁrst person], opposes the ﬁrst person singular to other forms of the singular, it has not been extended to the second person plural as ę has to the ﬁrst. We may accommodate the diﬀerent development by stipulating that the extension of a morpheme to forms sharing its meaning is possible only if the realization of the morpheme is compatible with the canonical structure of the forms. Since present forms in Polish are canonically {stem — V(X)}, ę could be extended to the ﬁrst person plural, where it replaced desinence initial i but, phonologically, did not create an impermissible string. Extension of sz to the second person plural, however, would have created a sequence canonically incompatible with the desinence of present forms (i.e. -VCCV, realized as -Vszcie, phonetically [−Všće]).

2.5. Romanian The primacy of word-level opposition in ms-paradigms is particularly evident in the evolution of the Romanian imperfect past, the f-paradigm of which is exempliﬁed in Table 10 by vedea (stem: vedea-) ‘see’ in Old and Standard Romanian. There have been two innovations in this paradigm: desinence-ﬁnal m has appeared in the ﬁrst person singular (e.g. RM:IFO 1s vedea > RM:IFS 1s vedeam), and desinenceﬁnal u has appeared in the third person plural (e.g. RM:IFO 3p vedea > RM:IFS 3p vedeau). The ﬁrst of these is signiﬁcant. Although the origin of m in the ﬁrst person singular is not entirely clear,²⁵ the result of its appearance in this form is obvious: segmental identity with the ﬁrst person plural (e.g. RM:IFS vedeam, instantiating ﬁrst person singular and ﬁrst person plural). The innovation is therefore noteworthy because, in view of the occurrence of ﬁnal m in the ﬁrst person plural of other f-paradigms (e.g. the present f-paradigm, where the ﬁrst person plural of vedea is Table 10. Romanian: Old and standard imperfect of vedea

1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

RM:IFO

RM:IFS

vedea vedeai vedea vedeam vedeaţi vedea

vedeam vedeai vedea vedeam vedeaţi vedeau

Form and grammatical meaning

vedem) and its compatibility with both singular and plural as evidenced by the innovation we are considering, we can infer that m carries no meaning other than [ﬁrst person], and that, in the absence of additional desinential segments opposing it to other forms, RM:IFS 1s/1p vedeam conveys no other grammatical meaning. However, it is equally noteworthy in permitting us to infer that the formal distinction between the ﬁrst person singular and the ﬁrst person plural was less important than that between the ﬁrst person singular and the third person singular. We may assume that the need for word-level opposition within ms-paradigms, here singular and plural, was the reason. Inherited ﬁrst person singular vedea was identical to the inherited third person singular, and thus was not desinentially opposed within the singular ms-paradigm. The addition of m corrected this, yet did not destabilize the plural since vedeam, although now functioning as ﬁrst person singular and ﬁrst person plural, was desinentially opposed to the remaining forms within each msparadigm. That is, opposition within the singular was accomplished at the expense of opposition between the ﬁrst person singular and ﬁrst person plural, but the latter opposition, and, more generally, the opposition singular versus plural, was systemically less important than the opposition of word-level units in ms-paradigms because it spanned minimal paradigmatic domains, opposing s-paradigms.

2.6. Spanish revisited As further evidence of the explanatory potential of opposition in the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form, we now return to the Spanish preterite past as it occurs in the standard language, re-exempliﬁed in Table 11 by cantar (stem: cant-) ‘sing.’ We have noted that, but for the second person plural, the forms are expected. The relevant facts are as follows: 1. Although terminal s is expected in it, the second person plural now attests terminal is like the second person plural of other formations (e.g. SP:PTS 2p cantasteis for expected 2p cantastes from Latin 2p canta(vi)stis; cp 2p cantáis of the present and 2p cantábais of the imperfect past, also with terminal is, which is expected in them). Table 11. Spanish: Standard preterite of cantar SP:PTS 1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

canté cantaste cantó cantamos cantasteis cantaron

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2. The remaining forms of the preterite past are unchanged. In particular, the second person singular continues to lack terminal s although all other verbal f-paradigms attest it in this form (e.g. SP:PTS 2s cantaste, expected from Latin 2s canta(vi)sti; cp 2s cantas of the present and 2s cantabas of the imperfect past, both with terminal s, which is expected in them). The issue, then, is the replacement of -s by -is in the second person plural, rendering it identical to the second person plural of other f-paradigms in its terminal component, while the remaining forms of the preterite past underwent no morphological change. If we assume division of the preterite past f-paradigm into minimal singular and plural s-paradigms, the evolutionary diﬀerence can be understood as a reﬂection of the primacy of word-level opposition in determining the stability (i.e. resistance to change) of word-level units. From this perspective, we note that the second person singular was opposed to other forms of the singular ms-paradigm by -aste meaning [second person], a string which also served to unite it with the second person plural.²⁶ Since the second person singular was adequately opposed via desinential -aste within its ms-paradigm, the absence of terminal s in it was insigniﬁcant semiotically, i.e., the second person singular was stable as a sign although it lacked the terminal suﬃx characteristic of it in other verbal f-paradigms.²⁷ The second person plural, however, was anomalous. It was desinentially opposed to the other members of its ms-paradigm by -s, and, other things being equal, should have been stable. That is, we assume the more usual use of -s to oppose the second person singular within its ms-paradigm (e.g. in the present) should not, in principle, have interfered with its occurrence in the plural since the Romanian data we considered attest terminal -m in the meaning [ﬁrst person] in both the singular and plural msparadigms without systemic disruption. We may speculate that the diﬃculty in the Spanish preterite arose because there was an allomorph of -s, i.e., -is, which apparently was understood by speakers as regular in the second person plural. Thus, although terminal -s opposed the second person to other forms of the plural, it was deemed irregular in that function, and replaced by -is.²⁸

2.7. Serbian As a ﬁnal example of the relevance of word-level opposition in ms-paradigms, we will consider certain heretofore unexplained innovations in the past f-paradigms, aorist and imperfect, of Serbian, another language of the South Slavic group.²⁹ Historically, these f-paradigms included a morpheme with the meaning [past], which was a reﬂex of Indo-European *-s-. This morpheme evolved a second realization, -x-, by sound change in late Indo-European, so that, in its reconstructed proto-slavic instantiation, it occurs as -s- and -x-. Within the Common Slavic period, it evolved a third realization, -š-, by the sound change known traditionally as the ﬁrst regressive palatalization of velars. In addition, it was lost in word-ﬁnal position. Thus, we ﬁnd the representative aorist and imperfect past f-paradigms of pitati (stem: pita-) ‘ask’

Form and grammatical meaning Table 12. Serbian: Old and standard aorist and imperfect of pitati

1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

SR:ARO

SR:ARS

SR:IFO

SR:IFS

pitah pita pita pitahmo pitaste pitaše

pitah pita pita pitasmo pitaste pitaše

pitah pitaše pitaše pitahmo pitaste pitahu

pitah pitaše pitaše pitasmo pitaste pitahu

in Table 12 as they occurred in Old Serbian and as they occur in the contemporary standard language, with orthographic h for x. The old paradigms attest the reﬂexes of *-s- where we expect them, i.e., h in the ﬁrst person singular (e.g. SR:ARO 1s pitah), ﬁrst person plural (e.g. SR:ARO 1p pitahmo), and in the third person plural of the imperfect past (e.g. SR:IFO 3p pitahu); s in the second person plural (e.g. SR:ARO 2p pitaste); and š in the second and third persons singular of the imperfect past (e.g. SR:IFO 2s/3s pitaše) as well as the third person plural of the aorist past (e.g. SR:ARO 3p pitaše). The contemporary paradigms reveal that s and h have interacted in the plural, with the former having replaced the latter in the ﬁrst person plural (e.g. SR: ARO 1p pitahmo > SR:ARS 1p pitasmo), but h remains in the ﬁrst person singular of both paradigms, and in the third person plural of the imperfect past. Our generalizations concerning the use of desinential form in fusional languages help to explain the extension of s to the ﬁrst person in the plural, but to no other form, systemically. According to these generalizations, there is no requirement of full grammatical representation in the desinential portion of word-level forms. Rather, word-level opposition within ms-paradigms is paramount. With this in mind and assuming minimal singular and plural s-paradigms, we note that h in the ﬁrst person singular (e.g. SR:AO O 1s pitah) was needed for oppositional purposes within the singular, where it was the only desinential segment available to oppose the ﬁrst person to other forms. In the plural, however, mo in the ﬁrst person and te in the second were available to function oppositionally, so the segments immediately preceding them, i.e., the reﬂexes of *-s-, were not needed for word-level opposition. The reﬂexes of *-s- in the plural, therefore, were morphologically dissociated from its reﬂex in the singular, with s of the second person eventually extended to the ﬁrst person, replacing h (e.g. SR:AOO 1p pitahmo > SR:AOS 1p pitasmo). This suggests that h of the ﬁrst person plural and s of the second were analyzed as allomorphs of a morpheme with the meaning [+personal], and that s was eventually generalized because it was better suited to this meaning since it was restricted to a personal form while h occurred not only in a personal form, i.e., the ﬁrst person plural, but in the nonpersonal third person plural as well. We therefore conclude that, after oppositional meaning distinguishing word-level forms as such has been accommodated within minimal ms-paradigms, some or all of the remaining desinential phonemes may be used to

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oppose subsets of word-level forms within this domain — in this instance, the personal forms of the plural, now with s, to the nonpersonal, with h. It is of interest to note not only that, in the contemporary language, desinential h of the ﬁrst person singular is morphologically unconnected with the same segment of the ﬁrst person singular and the third person plural, although it is connected etymologically, but also that there is no longer a morpheme with the meaning [past] in the desinence of either past tense f-paradigm, aorist or imperfect. However, this apparently creates no diﬃculty because tense is shared meaning, and, according to our ﬁndings contradicting the requirement of full grammatical representation, need not be represented. Thus, these Slavic paradigms provide a good example of desinential segments originally associated with one grammatical meaning, [past], being synchronically dissociated from it and each other by virtue of their intraparadigmatic distribution and by paradigmatic needs relating to the representation of oppositional meaning. Finally, we note that the meaning [past], although not incorporated morphologically, is in fact contributed by the occurrence of desinential morphemes expressing person which are restricted to the past. That is, although desinential s (e.g. in SR:AOS 1p pitasmo), h (e.g. in SR:AOS 1s pitah), and -še (e.g. in SR:AOS 3p pitaše) do not represent tense (i.e. they are associated only with person), they are restricted in their occurrence to past f-paradigms (i.e. they do not occur in the present and imperative f-paradigms), and convey tense by virtue of this fact.

3. Concluding remarks In summary, the Slavic and Romance data we have considered support the following claims: 1. There is no requirement that all of the grammatical meaning associated with word-level forms be represented desinentially. 2. The grammatical meaning that is represented is determined by paradigmatic organization subject to the availability of appropriately distributed desinential substance. 3. At least three paradigmatic structures are relevant: f-paradigm, s-paradigm, and ms-paradigm in descending order of size. 4. Within f-paradigms, oppositional meaning (i.e. meaning opposing word-level forms) is given preference to shared meaning (i.e. meaning opposing subsets of forms) in the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form. 5. The assignment of grammatical meaning opposing word-level forms within msparadigms is given priority. 6. Following the accommodation of word-level units within ms-paradigms, speakers may, as a function of the availability of remaining desinential substance, assign meaning opposing s-paradigms (e.g. in the Macedonian imperative); assign f-meaning, thereby opposing f-paradigms (e.g. in the Spanish imperfect past);

Form and grammatical meaning

or assign other meaning relevant in ms-paradigms, thereby opposing subsets of forms within them (e.g. in the Serbian aorist and imperfect pasts). 7. Morphemes in one paradigm expressing a meaning compatible with forms in another may be extended, thereby providing a synchronic link between the paradigms and, in some instances, resulting in the expression of a single category more than once (e.g. in the Spanish dialectal preterite past). 8. Pormanteau representation is an option only when word-level units are evaluated within a paradigmatic unit larger than the ms-paradigm, which is possible only when ms-paradigms are maximally reduced (i.e. comprise only a single form, e.g., in the Macedonian imperative, the forms of which may be evaluated in the imperative f-paradigm). These claims suggest that criticism of the morpheme as a defensible linguistic unit (i.e. a unit with psychological reality; see, for example, Aronoﬀ 1994), which frequently takes as its point of departure the diﬃculty of assigning grammatical meaning to desinential form and the ensuing need for portmanteau representation, may be more the result of our inadequate understanding of the semiotic properties of this unit than anything else. In connection with this, it should be emphasized that although, according to the ﬁndings of this chapter, the full complement of grammatical meaning associated with word-level forms, which may be termed their designation (e.g. beri in Macedonian, the designation of which is second person singular imperative, but the meaning of which, with respect to its desinence, is [+singular] or [+second person singular]), does not determine the meaning incorporated desinentially, it is nevertheless systemically relevant because it is the basis, in large part, on which the paradigmatic organization of word-level forms proceeds (e.g. paradigmatic organization on the basis of tense and mood yielding, for example, the present and imperative f-paradigms in Macedonian). Such organization, which is a prerequisite for the creation of morphemes, presumes the systemic association by speakers of all relevant grammatical meaning with word-level forms whether or not it is represented desinentially. The designations of word-level forms, however, must be distinguished from the meaning they express desinentially, which is determined by oppositional needs in paradigmatic domains. Despite the established status and widespread acceptance of the requirement of full grammatical representation among morphologists, the existence of evidence undermining it is not surprising because we have always recognized that grammatical meaning need not be morphologically represented at all in fusional languages (i.e. we have recognized the existence of words which are, morphologically, lexical in their entirety; e.g., singular nouns in English). In addition, we know that sound change which results in the loss of desinential segments is normally tolerated; e.g., the Russian loss of l in ﬁnal position, which eliminated the morpheme meaning [past] in masculine forms of the past f-paradigm of unsuﬃxed verbs (e.g. nes < nesl in the past tense of nesti ‘carry’), or the Latin loss of v(i) which eliminated the morpheme meaning [perfect] in the perfect f-paradigm of all Latin verbs of the ﬁrst and

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fourth conjugations (e.g. 1s cantai < cantavi, etc. in the Late Latin perfect of canto ‘sing’).³⁰ The latter is particularly instructive because it eliminated the string in question throughout the perfect, thus leaving no expression of [perfect], but with no apparent disruption to the system. In view of this, it makes little sense to assume that, simply because there is desinential substance, all grammatical meaning must be represented. Finally, it bears mention that there has never been any assumption by morphologists of full lexical representation. On the contrary, a great deal of attention has been given to the distinction message versus meaning in the investigation of lexis, especially by those adopting a sign-based approach (e.g. the Columbia School; see Reid, Otheguy, and Stern 2002: passim), with meaning a part of the system, and typically underspeciﬁed (i.e. conveying less lexical content than the communication, or message, itself). There is no reason in principle to think that grammatical representation is diﬀerent, and the evidence we have considered supports the view that it is not; hence, the distinction proposed above between designation and meaning in grammar corresponding to the distinction message versus meaning in lexis. Nevertheless, we must recognize that full and discrete morphological representation of grammatical meaning is probably optimal. We may infer this from our knowledge of the evolution of f-paradigms in fusional languages. These paradigms typically have an agglutinative desinential structure in their reconstructed form. Thus, for example, the desinence of the Slavic present is consistently {V–C(V)} in the f-paradigms reconstructed for Common Slavic, although the C(V) component is absent in some of the contemporary forms as the result of certain auslaut changes (e.g. in Macedonian, where ﬁnal -t in the third person singular of the present was lost; e.g., 3s nosi < nosit). How, therefore, do we reconcile our claim that the representation of grammatical meaning in fusional languages is not a matter of paramount importance while knowing that, in the evolution of f-paradigms, such meaning is important enough to merit representation in agglutinative-like structures? The answer may be a diﬀerence in inﬂecting languages with regard to what may be termed the primary grammatical unit, for which there are at least two candidates: morpheme and word. All inﬂectional languages, agglutinative and fusional, make use of both, but agglutinative, let us assume, give preference to the former while fusional give preference to the latter. Hence fusional languages have a nonminimal primary grammatical unit, a unit which has internal constituent structure reﬂecting the hypothesis that speakers understand word-level forms in such languages not merely as a linear sequence of morphemes, but as successive bondings of morphemes, each Table 13. Hypothetical phrase structure rules N N1 V A

→ → → →

N1 V A N2

IM DMN DMV DMA

Form and grammatical meaning

giving rise to an intermediate construction. An English word like conceptualizers would therefore have the structure [[[[[concept]N-ual]A-ize]V -er]N-s]N, generated by phrase structure rules like those in Table 13.³¹ We may assume that although such languages prefer, if possible, an iconic relationship between grammatical meaning and desinential representation (i.e. one meaning, one morpheme), this relationship is not necessary, and, in fact, is undermined by the tightness inherent in the layered bonding created by generative rules. In contrast, agglutinative languages, using the morpheme as primary grammatical unit, have words with no internal constituent structure, but only with linear (i.e. additive) structure in which the order of morphemes is speciﬁed yielding, if English were agglutinative, [[concept]N [-ual]A[ize]V[-er]N[-s]N]N for conceptualizers. This may result, cognitively, in a looser concatenation of morphemes, reinforced, if at all, via vowel harmony, and rendering the word-level unit less vulnerable to the eﬀect of sound change. Thus although both types of inﬂecting language make use of morpheme and word, the latter in the agglutinative subtype is grammatically derivative, the result of accretion reﬂecting the operation of rules specifying the linear order of morphemes. In the fusional subtype, however, the word is grammatically primary, with the occurrence and order of morphemes a derivative of its layered constituent structure.

Notes 1. I use the term desinence throughout my discussion to refer to the entire grammatical portion of word-level forms, not just the terminal component, which is its more frequent reference. 2. All forms are cited in the orthography of the relevant language, or in transliteration if the orthography uses an alphabet other than Roman. Following standard procedure in the citation of verbs as lexical items, I cite Polish, Romanian, Russian, Serbian, and Spanish verbs in the inﬁnitive, Latin verbs in the ﬁrst person singular present active indicative, and Macedonian verbs in the third person singular present. 3. I use the notation [X] to denote a grammatical meaning X (e.g. [past]) which is morphologically expressed. This notation conveys no additional information; i.e., it makes no reference to the position of X within the grammatical hierarchy of the language and/or its relation to other grammatical meanings within the context of grammatical oppositions. 4. See Hockett (1947) for early discussion of portmanteau representation as a response to the problem in question. The Columbia School refers to portmanteau representation as interlock; for discussion, see Diver (1995: 93–94). 5. Those who reject it frequently also reject the assumption responsible for it: morphemebased analysis, which is predicated on the morpheme as the minimal linguistic sign. See Robins (1959) and Matthews (1972) for discussion of the word-paradigm model as an alternative to morpheme-based analysis. For more contemporary responses, see Aronoﬀ (1994), Anderson (1992), and Beard (1995). 6. The use of change as a source of evidence for synchronic structure — and, by extrapolation, for generalization relating to the organization of linguistic systems — is a matter of

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Mark J. Elson necessity, not choice, since we are not directly privy to the strategies used by learners in the assignment of meaning to form via any presently available method. Without the evidence of change, therefore, we have only our assumptions on which to proceed concerning how the relationship between meaning and form is established. In diachronic phenomena, which Kiparsky (1968: 174) refers to as “a window on the form of linguistic competence”, we have, at least, the result of learners’ decisions regarding the analysis of word-level units, instantiated as innovations reﬂecting, in the established jargon, analogy. The morphologist’s need to make assumptions is not eliminated, but there is a behavioral basis for them in data, a basis absent in synchronic corpora, which are characterized by morphemes occurring in ﬁxed concatenations (i.e. word-level units). In this connection, it should be noted that diachronic evidence does give rise to circularity (i.e. we use the result of change to infer and justify systemic structure, which we then claim gave rise to, and therefore explains, the change). Such circularity is unavoidable, but does not invalidate the approach. The acceptability of the structure posited becomes a function of its plausibility, explanatory potential, and the extent to which alternative interpretations of the data fail to exist. 7. The ﬁrst assumption characterizes the approach of the Columbia School. For discussion, see Reid, Otheguy, and Stern (2002: ix–xxi). Note Contini-Morava’ s comment (2000: 11) regarding the Columbia School’s attitude toward the Saussurean sign as a negative (i.e. oppositional) unit. 8. Thus, the restriction of desinential phonemes to the third person singular of the English present means that [ﬁrst person] and [second person] cannot be represented morphologically. The absence of desinential phonemes in these instances therefore explains the nonrepresentation of certain grammatical meaning. Failure to appreciate the relevance of the distribution of desinential phonemes in the assignment of grammatical meaning undoubtedly reﬂects a priori acceptance of portmanteau representation. If all grammatical meaning is morphologically represented (i.e. if the requirement of full grammatical representation is adopted) and implemented via portmanteau representation, there is no need to be concerned with the phonemic make-up of desinences. 9. The support I oﬀer for paradigmatic organization is also historical. That is the paradigmatic structures I posit are those inferable from the innovations I discuss, and are therefore systemically justiﬁed by them. It is important to recognize that we have little general knowledge of the paradigmatic organization of word-level units. It is true that morphologists regularly assume the organization of word-level units into paradigms, but the regularity with which paradigms are posited in analytic discussions must not obscure the fact that they are assumed. In addition, even when assumed, they rarely play a role in the assignment of grammatical meaning to desinential form. The usual analytic procedure is to associate with desinential form the grammatical meanings that word-level units appear to convey in their use. Thus, since Spanish ﬁrst person singular canté is used in contexts where the speaker wishes to convey [ﬁrst person], [singular], and [preterite past], it is usually assumed that desinential -e is assigned this meaning, as we have noted, in its entirety. The data treated in this chapter suggest a weaker assumption: The use of a form must be compatible with the grammatical meaning morphologically represented in its desinence, but paradigmatic organization, not use, determines the meaning which is represented. 10. I have formulated this assumption with speciﬁc reference to verbal forms since they are the only word-level units with which I am concerned. However, the assumption can be generalized to accommodate verbs, nouns, and pronouns as follows:

Form and grammatical meaning Word-level units are organized into paradigms at least on the basis of grammatical categories which are unique to their part of speech, or, in the absence of such categories, on the basis of those which are not a function of agreement. This formulation associates tense, aspect, and mood with verbal forms; case, gender, and number with nominal; and person with pronominal. It does not accommodate adjectives, which have no uniquely associated categories, or non-uniquely associated categories which are not a function of agreement. 11. This classiﬁcation yields the familiar paradigmatic designations present, past, preterite past, imperfect past, etc., which I use in my discussion, and refer to as f-paradigms. 12. The following abbreviations are used: s = singular, p = plural, cp = compare, AR = aorist, DM = derivational morpheme, IF= imperfect past, IM = inﬂectional morpheme, IP = imperative, MC = Macedonian, PL = Polish, PR = present tense, PT = preterite, RM = Romanian, SP = Spanish, SR = Serbian, subscript A = adjective, subscript D = dialectal, subscript N = noun, subscript O = old, subscript S = standard, and subscript V = verb. Paradigms are labeled in the format X:YZ , where X speciﬁes the language, Y speciﬁes the name of the paradigm, and subscript Z speciﬁes the status of the paradigm, i.e., old, (modern) standard, or (modern) dialectal. Thus, MC:PRD denotes a (modern) dialectal present tense paradigm of Macedonian. Diﬀering dialectal present tense patterns in Macedonian are distinguished by subscript numbers (i.e. as MC:PR1D and MC:PR2D). Note that the vowel a of the ﬁrst person singular and third person plural of the Macedonian present does not concern us. Historically, it did not occur in the third person plural of verbs with desinence-initial i, where e is expected (e.g. 3p noset, which was replaced by nosat). The innovation responsible for the replacement of e by a in the third person plural is not relevant to the argument of this chapter. 13. For more comprehensive discussion of dialectal patterns of desinence-initial e versus i in the present tense, see Elson (1983). 14. I use the notations [+X] and [−X] to denote grammatical meanings systemically related as the terms of a privative grammatical opposition which is morphologically expressed. Forms with a morpheme expressing [+X] are marked for X, and therefore restricted to contexts compatible with the presence of X. Forms with a morpheme expressing [−X] are unmarked for X, and therefore normally occur in contexts compatible with the absence of X, but may occur in contexts compatible with its presence as well. Thus, Macedonian imperative forms with desinence-initial i [+singular] are marked, occurring only in singular contexts, while forms with desinence-initial e [−singular] are unmarked, normally occurring in plural contexts, but in singular contexts as well to convey politeness. 15. By appropriately distributed, I mean phonemes which, by virtue of their realization and position within the desinence, can accommodate speciﬁc grammatical meanings (e.g. e and i, diﬀering realizations of the desinence-initial segment in the Macedonian imperative, with one realization restricted to the singular, and the other to the plural, and each therefore capable of representing a speciﬁcation of the category of number). The relationship between the distribution and realization of desinential phonemes and their morphological potential vis-à-vis the relevant grammatical meanings has been investigated by Bybee (1985), but, despite the substantial nature of her contribution, remains an area requiring the attention of morphologists. 16. It should be clear that context is always available to assist in conveying grammatical

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Mark J. Elson meaning; e.g., temporal adverbs in the conveyance of tense, personal pronouns in the conveyance of person. 17. The source of the dialectal Spanish data I cite is Bybee and Brewer (1980: 230). For general discussion of the history of the preterite past as well as that of other aspects of Spanish verbal morphology, see Penny (1991: 137–194). 18. In fact, this assumption was implicit in my claim above that present f-paradigms in Macedonian are organized into two ms-paradigms on the basis of the realization of the desinence-initial segment. 19. By [+personal], I mean the ﬁrst or second person, both of which must make reference to a person (i.e. are marked for person), as opposed to the third person, which may refer to a thing or a person (i.e. is unmarked for person), and therefore can be understood as [−personal]. 20. Although desinence-initial e of the ﬁrst person singular has been extended to other personal forms in the dialect under consideration, desinence-initial o of the third person singular has not been extended to the other nonpersonal form, i.e., we do not ﬁnd 3p *cantoron in this dialect despite the compatibility of desinence-initial o with it. However, extension of desinence-initial o can be found in other dialects (see Bybee and Brewer 1980: 230) in conjunction with the extension of e. We may therefore speculate that there is a greater tendency to extend morphemes associated with the positive, i.e., marked, term of privative grammatical oppositions than those associated with the negative, i.e., unmarked, term. 21. For mention of this dialectal phenomenon, see Urbańczyk (1968: 50–51). 22. Although it is not relevant to my discussion, we note that there has been innovation in the third person plural as well. This form now attests the alternant of the stem expected in the ﬁrst person singular (e.g. 3p noszą for earlier nosią). It seems clear that the motivating factor was the desinence-initial nasal vowel, i.e., the alternant of the ﬁrst person singular was associated with a following desinence-initial nasal vowel, and was extended to the third person plural, which also attests this structural trait. 23. My conclusions in this chapter, if sustainable, will require a re-examination not only of the unit morpheme, but also of the unit allomorph. In this connection, I note that my analysis of Polish dialectal present forms claims that there are two allomorphs of the morpheme [ﬁrst person] (i.e. ę and my) occurring, as a result of extension, in the same form (i.e. the ﬁrst person plural). Heretofore, the allomorphs of a morpheme, by deﬁnition, always occurred in diﬀerent forms unless they were in free variation. 24. This situation is to be distinguished from the one we have already noted: occurrence of related oppositions in two desinential positions as the result of extension (e.g. in the dialectal Spanish preterite past, which, in the -VX ms-paradigm, uses the desinence-initial position to oppose [+personal] to [−personal] as a result of extension). 25. For the possibilities relating to the origin of -m in the ﬁrst person singular imperfect past, see Densusianu (1932: 213–215). 26. This was an instance in which uniﬁcation was inherited, not the result of extension. 27. This is not to say that -s is not extendible to the second person singular of the preterite past. In fact, it has been extended in some dialects (see Bybee and Brewer 1980: 230). My claim is only that the singular without terminal -s was, and is, semiotically stable (i.e. stable as a sign in its opposition to other paradigmatically related signs). This does not invalidate the tendency we have noted for a morpheme M with grammatical meaning G to be extended to

Form and grammatical meaning all word-level units expressing G. In some dialects, this tendency was apparently operative with respect to -s, resulting in its extension to the preterite past. 28. This change is also attested in the dialect which extended desinence-initial e, treated above. The change can be understood there in the same way, by assuming that the -VX subparadigm was — contrary to my assumption in the discussion of this dialect — not minimal, but itself divided into singular and plural subparadigms, each minimal, the former comprising the second person singular, the latter comprising the remaining forms. Within this framework, the argument proceeds as I have outlined it: the inherited second person singular preterite (e.g. 2s cantaste) was stable, but the inherited second person plural (e.g. 2p cantastes) was not, and so was remade. 29. For discussion of the history of the past tenses in Serbian, see Belić (1965: 59–64). For discussion of the past tenses in Slavic, see Vaillant (1966: 45–73). 30. For discussion of these phenomena, see Borkovskij and Kuznecov (1965: 121) on Russian, and Ernout (1953: 209–212) as well as Grandgent (1927: 177–179) on Latin. 31. I have formulated these rules solely for purposes of illustration. They are not oﬀered as those which might be posited and defended within a speciﬁc theoretical framework (e.g. X-Bar Theory, i.e., the framework which is part of the Theory of Principles and Parameters).

References Anderson, S. 1992. A-Morphous Morphology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Aronoﬀ, M. 1994. Morphology by Itself. Cambridge: The MIT Press. Beard, R. 1995. Lexeme-Morpheme Base Morphology. Albany: State University of New York Press. Belić, A. 1965 (2nd ed.). Istorija srpskohrvatskog jezika (Reči sa konjugacijom). Beograd: Naučna knjiga. Borkovskij, V. and Kuznecov, P. S. 1965 (2nd ed.). Istoričeskaja grammatika russkogo jazyka. Moskva: Nauka. Bybee, J. and Brewer, M. 1980.“Explanation in Morphophonemics: Changes in Provençal and Spanish Preterite Forms.” Lingua 52 (3/4): 201–242. Bybee, J. 1985. Morphology: A Study of the Relation Between Meaning and Form. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Contini-Morava, E. 2002. “(What) do noun class markers mean?” In Signal, Meaning, and Message: Perspectives on Sign-Based Linguistics, W. Reid, R. Otheguy, and N. Stern (eds), 3–64. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Densusianu, O. 1901–1932. Histoire de la langue roumaine. Paris: Ernest Leroux. Diver, W. 1995. “Theory.” In Meaning as Explanation: Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory, E. Contini-Morava and B. Goldberg (eds), 43–114. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Elson, M. 1983. “The Evolution of the Present Tense in Macedonian Dialects.” Die Welt der Slaven 28 (1): 131–140. Ernout, A. 1953 (3rd ed.). Morphologie historique du latin. Paris: C. Klincksieck. Grandgent, C. H. 1927. An Introduction to Vulgar Latin. Boston: D. C. Heath & Co. Hockett, C. 1947. “Problems of Morphemic Analysis.” Language 23:321–343. Kiparsky, P. 1968. “Linguistic Universals and Linguistic Change.” In Universals in Linguistic Theory, E. Bach and R. Harms (eds), 170–202. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston.

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Mark J. Elson Matthews, P. 1972. Inﬂectional Morphology: A Theoretical Study Based on Aspects of Latin Verb Conjugation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Penny, R. 1991. A History of the Spanish Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reid, W., Otheguy, R., and Stern, N. (eds). 2002. Signal, Meaning, and Message: Perspectives on Sign-Based Linguistics. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Robins, R. H. 1959. “In Defence of WP.” Transactions of the Philological Society: 116–144. Urbańczyk, S. 1968 (3rd ed.). Zarys dialektologii polskiej.Warszawa: Państwowe wydawnictwo naukova. Vaillant, A. 1966. Grammaire comparée des langues slaves: Tom III. Paris: Klincksieck.

CHAPTER 5

Revisiting the gap between meaning and message Joseph Davis City College of New York

1. The meaning–message gap Possibly the fundamental insight of Columbia School grammar is that a gap exists between the spare linguistic meanings encoded by linguistic signals and the rich communicative messages than can be inferred from those meanings. To illustrate: Traditionally, English would have three tenses, past, present, and future. Columbia School, by contrast, following an analysis that hews closely to the actual forms found in the language rather than to a priori philosophical notions, would consider those three time segments to be possible inferences, not categories of English grammar. Consider the following example: Pitt Island and the Chatham Islands are the ﬁrst legitimately inhabited lands to welcome the dawn of the new millennium. If, with Diver (cf. Huﬀman 2001: 32–33), we posit that are is a signal bearing the meaning Time NON-PAST, then we are left to explain how a hearer or reader determines from such an imprecise bit of information whether the time reference — a message — is present, future, or eternal. In this case, the extra-sentential context makes it clear that the reference is to a future time; the speaker is quoted in a news article published on December 8 1999, titled “A Millennial Free-for-All: Who’s on First?” concerning the debate over which country could most legitimately claim to be ﬁrst to enter the year 2000.¹ The term strategy has been applied within Columbia School to refer, in at least two potentially distinct ways, to the relation between signaled meaning and inferred message (such as above, between NON-PAST and future). Diver, in an unpublished work (1990), used the term strategy as a sort of façon de parler: We have found it useful to group the uses of meanings into what we call “strategies,” “strategies of communication”. The term is not inappropriate, since what is involved is the various methods that are used to exploit this device of communication. It is a truism of the study of language that we get inﬁnite output from a limited input. In the line of analysis being pursued here, this multiplication of messages comes from taking a particular meaning and combining it with a variety of other meanings. The message is then a resultant of the interaction in the combination. (Diver 1990)

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In his last and most authoritative work, Diver (1995: 78) alluded only to a “loose collection of strategies of communication,” “techniques for combining [meanings] in ways that will eﬀectively promote communication.” Diver, then, thought in somewhat holistic terms of inferable communicative eﬀects of a given combination of meanings in a text. For Reid, by contrast, A communicative strategy is a principle of choice between meanings in a grammatical system as their semantic opposition applies to a speciﬁc notional parameter of the message. (Reid 1995: 142)

Reid appears to hold that messages are strictly analyzable, and that linguistic meanings relate to these notional parameters in principled, presumably systematic ways, giving speakers a more or less algorithmic basis upon which to choose among opposing meanings in a grammatical system. For Diver, a strategy is a way of putting unrelated meanings together to achieve an eﬀect: NON-PAST plus welcome, dawn, new, etc. → possible inference of future reference. For Reid, a strategy is a rationale for choosing among related meanings: Notion ‘future’ → choice of NON-PAST over PAST. This chapter concerns the proper status of the concept of strategy within CS theory. The answer to the question of theoretical status will, in keeping with CS practice, depend upon analytical considerations, including quantitative counts. The position taken here can be summarized as follows: 1. Speakers choose a meaning that will, in combination with other meanings in the context, contribute to an intended message. 2. The choice may be complex, depending upon multiple considerations. 3. The inferential process is essentially ad hoc. 4. The inferential process per se is not a theoretical construct within CS. 5. A typical CS four-celled count (measuring patterns of co-occurrence of linguistic forms in texts, e.g.) is a test of a meaning hypothesis. This position can be diametrically opposed with that whose development and rationale is traced in Reid (1995) and which can be summarized: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Speakers choose a meaning on the basis of a strategy. At least sometimes on the basis of a single strategy. Strategies are psychologically real. Strategy is a theoretical construct on a par with meaning. A CS four-celled count is a test of a strategy.

Reid (1995) carefully lays out the intellectual history of that understanding of the meaning–message relation; it will be necessary here to follow Reid point by point. In outline, Reid’s points are: 1. The original motivation for quantitative predictions in CS was ﬂawed in that it required an assumption that the co-occurrence of incompatible meanings will be rare.

The gap between meaning and message

2. Subsequent CS analysis provided a sounder motivation: that speakers choose meanings on the basis of psychologically real communicative “strategies,” and so counts actually test strategies, not meanings directly. 3. The various strategies associated with a given meaning may on a given occasion compete, in which case one of them will emerge as the exclusive causative agent in the speaker’s choice of meaning. 4. A CS four-celled table reveals exactly how many tokens in the data are attributable to the strategy being tested. This chapter will argue each point in turn: 1. The original motivation for counts was not ﬂawed; discourse coherence is a theoretically sound principle on which to operate. 2. Subsequent analysis provided no evidence that inferential pathways are categorical. 3. Analysis cannot determine whether the motivation for the choice of a given meaning was simple or complex. 4. A four-celled table reveals nothing more than the existence of a skewing in the corpus being examined. The conclusion to be drawn out of this re-examination of CS history and practice is that meanings are explanatory hypotheses, and counts are tests that support those hypotheses.

2. Compatible meanings and coherent messages Reid (1995) sees the root of the meaning-to-message problem in the seminal CS analysis, Diver (1969). That work does not use the term strategy, but it does use quantitative validation, and, as we shall see, the concept of strategy would eventually become inextricably bound up with quantitative validation, so Reid begins there. Reid (1995: 117–128) attributes to Diver (1969) two supposedly ﬂawed rationales for quantitative predictions. One he calls the “meaning compatibility rationale.” This rationale, says Reid, would predict that logically incompatible meanings should never co-occur. So a signal that means Time PAST, e.g., should never co-occur with a signal that means future. Yet such oddities can be found; Reid cites the example Reagan was re-elected next week.² Linguistic meanings, evidently, do not combine purely in accordance with their “intrinsic nature,” the way chemical elements do. The collocation of linguistic meanings, then, is a goal-directed event, whereas a chemical reaction is not. And it stands to reason that speakers will feel free to combine meanings guided by the goal at which they are aiming, unconstrained by any semantic calculus operating on meanings in the abstract. (Reid 1995: 125)

Alternatively, says Reid, one might adopt a “coherent message rationale” for predictions, one in which allowance is made for occasional combinations of incompatible

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meanings by recognizing that there is a certain probability that two given meanings will readily combine to produce a coherent, non-contradictory, message. The phrase a certain probability in the preceding sentence can illustrate. The indeﬁnite a combines with the deﬁnite certain to create a tension in the message, a sense that though there may well be a deﬁnite probability, the writer is not going to reveal it here.³ According to Reid, CS analysts in the 1970s employed both rationales in justifying their counts. Moreover, both rationales made it appear that analysts could deduce statistical predictions from meanings. This direct link between meanings and predictions, in turn, made counts appear to be direct tests of meanings, a seductive picture for any linguist grappling with intangible semantics. But both rationales are ﬂawed, says Reid, because both assume that “forced marriages” between seemingly incompatible meanings will always be rare. But, Reid wonders, could it not occasionally happen that a writer will have an unusual communicative goal, in which forced marriages outnumber “harmonious marriages” in a text? Would that falsify the hypothesis? Indeed such texts exist. One thinks of the formerly routine occurrences in The New Yorker magazine of the form ourself. Though possibly viewed as an aﬀectation, the form did accomplish a certain kind of communicative goal: the simultaneous depersonalization of the writer, with our, and the avoidance of outright miscounting, with self. Now suppose one had a hypothesis that our was a signal of, among possibly other meanings, Discourse Referent SPEAKER INCLUDED and Number MORE THAN ONE. And suppose one happened to pick up a New Yorker of that era to test a prediction that our should tend to co-occur with other plurals while my, e.g., should co-occur with other singulars (our noses, my nose; ourselves, myself). The prediction might well fail. Such an outcome, however, would not necessarily falsify the hypothesis. At least two alternatives to a failed hypothesis should be considered: either the prediction was incorrectly motivated (i.e., has some logical ﬂaw), or the text chosen is somehow idiosyncratic (i.e., the meaning is being used with a twist we did not foresee). The hypothesis might well be sound. In this case, a close examination of the text, compared with other texts, would identify the peculiar message. The end result, ironically, would be an even deeper understanding of the hypothesis: that the interlock of meanings MORE THAN ONE, SPEAKER INCLUDED can be used to create an eﬀect of diﬀusing focus on the speaker, as if others were included. This might then help us understand even other puzzling examples, such as a mother asking her toddler, “Have we ﬁnished all our peas yet?” The question suggests empathy and cooperation.⁴ It is a truism in the sciences that quantitative data must be interpreted. No count is a foolproof, mechanical test of a hypothesis. A count can only lend support to a hypothesis or not. To perform a Columbia School count, one does not need to assume, after all, that forced marriages between apparently incompatible meanings will always be rare. One needs only to check the suitability of one’s prediction against the characteristics of the texts being used to test it.⁵

The gap between meaning and message

The point being made here, ultimately, is that compatible meanings contribute to coherence in a text. But how can a school found itself on so slippery a notion as “coherence”? Over the years, Columbia School has discovered a great many correlations in texts, skewings that were predicted on a semantic basis. It seems likely that it is these correlations, at least in part, which constitute coherence. Verb Number correlates with noun Number (Reid 1991: 190); Control correlates with animacy (Huﬀman 1997: 163); Focus correlates with thematic importance (Davis 1995: 80– 81 and others); and so forth. A text in which these things did not correlate, a text in which these variables exhibited no pattern at all, would be an incoherent text. Possibly the most famous incoherent sentence, at least in our ﬁeld, is Chomsky’s (1957: 15) Colorless green ideas sleep furiously. Chomsky used the sentence to try to demonstrate the autonomy of grammar from meaning, but in fact the sentence strikes us as “grammatical” precisely because grammar has meaning. The interesting thing about the sentence is that its grammatical meanings are all concordant⁶ while its lexical content is perfectly contradictory. For instance, the verb accords in grammatical number with the subject, but colorless contradicts its co-modiﬁer green. The lack of lexical ﬁt is so pervasive that the reader ﬁnds it impossible to relate the sentence to any kind of real-world or even imagined experience. Yet the grammatical ﬁt is perfect, and so we feel intuitively that the sentence could make sense in some unimaginable universe. If an instance of language is an instance of communication, then it must by and large be coherent; otherwise, it is gibberish. There must be something compatible about the arrangement of meanings in a text. If the linguistic forms are arranged in some way other than semantically, say alphabetically, communication will effectively fail. Columbia School’s communicative orientation is no a priori. When people are not communicating in the ordinary sense (e.g., in crossword puzzles), then communicative principles will not explain the observations. When communication is successful, meanings will be compatible, if not necessarily in ways the analyst has foreseen. It should be clear that CS quantitative analysis did not need to be rescued by any elevation of inferential pathways to the status of theoretical constructs; meanings as theoretical constructs are suﬃcient, in conjunction with principles of the communicative orientation. Nevertheless, belief in the reality of categorical “strategies” has been widespread in CS history; the basis for the belief must be challenged.

3. No evidence for categorical “strategies” Reid’s reiﬁcation of strategy hinges crucially on a landmark CS analysis of the Spanish verbal clitic se (García 1975).⁷ Speciﬁcally, two related observations made by Reid concerning the Spanish analysis are relevant here. The notion of communicative strategy assumes a role of crucial importance in García’s analysis. Whereas the term could be passed oﬀ as an informal façon de

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García’s hypothesis was that se, in opposition with other third-person clitics, signals the meaning LOW Deixis, or Attention. Garcia identiﬁed several communicative “strategies,” of which three are relevant here (Reid 1995: 131–135): In one strategy, LOW Deixis se tells the hearer that the referent is the most obvious one, the one placed IN Focus by the verb ending. This corresponds to the traditional “reﬂexive” use (1). (1) Pedro se bañó Pedro self bathed ‘Pedro bathed himself ’ ⁸ In the second strategy, LOW Deixis se is used when reference is being made to no one in particular, no one worth bothering to identify. This corresponds to the traditional “impersonal” use (2). (2) en Francia se come un pan muy rico in France one eats a bread very tasty ‘in France one eats a very tasty bread’ In the third strategy, which García called “double mention,” the use of se contrasts with the use of nothing. The extra dose of attention with se, relative to none, “indirectly implies that its referent performs the activity with greater than normal thoroughness, or exercises a greater than normal control.” This use, too, was traditionally called “reﬂexive”; García called it “Romance reﬂexive.” So far, García (1975) seems to have been using the concept of strategy still as a façon de parler, approximately identifying her strategies with the traditionally recognized uses of the form. But in what Reid (1995: 135) calls “a brilliant analytical insight,” García reuniﬁed the strategies she had previously labeled reﬂexive and Romance reﬂexive, recognizing that, in both cases, the entity in focus is “involved in the activity to a greater than normal degree, and controls it to a greater than normal degree.” Reid (1995: 136) sees coming out of this “reanalysis” a tremendous bonus with deep theoretical implications. If the impersonal and greater-involvement strategies should both come to be used on the same verb, the result ought to be something like (3): (3) *se se lavó one self washed ‘one washed oneself ’ But in fact se se never occurs at all. García’s explanation for this fact is that the two strategies for the use of se in the nonoccurring [se se lavó] conﬂict conceptually [emphasis added; JD]. The ﬁrst se would be saying that the entity in focus merits diminished attention because its referen-

The gap between meaning and message tial identity is not important; whereas the second se would be saying that the entity in focus merits extra attention by virtue of its total involvement in the activity. The two se’s are, in eﬀect, telling us to do contradictory things: both decrease and increase our attention on the same referent. . . . The contradiction lies . . . in the criss-crossed inferential paths hearers would have to follow to reach the message ‘one washed oneself ’. (Reid 1995: 136–137)

The conﬂict, notes Reid, has nothing to do with either semantic compatibility or coherent message. Instead: García is saying that se se lavó never occurs because it is unnecessarily diﬃcult to process, the diﬃculty being the conﬂicting ways LOW DEIXIS relates to the message. But that explanation requires that those ways be reiﬁed [emphasis added; JD] suﬃciently so they can conﬂict; they can no longer simply be the analyst’s typology of examples. (Reid 1995: 138)

The theoretical implication was that strategies came to be seen not just as expository conveniences but as psychological realities deserving of theoretical status.⁹ This giant theoretical leap was not justiﬁed. There is a much simpler and more general explanation for the non-occurrence of se se, one that García, in fact, touched upon and dismissed too lightly. It is that no clitic in Spanish — or, for that matter, in Italian, French, or Serbo-Croatian (Gorup 1992: 26) — can appear twice on the same verb. This is the appropriate deﬁnition of the problem, the proper level of explanation, not the particular case of se se.¹⁰ García’s failure to explore this more general question is curious. Here is how she justiﬁed it: But note that though the [general] observation is correct, its application to the nonoccurrence of *se se is unsatisfactory. In the ﬁrst place, no Spanish grammarian has ever seriously claimed that there are two diﬀerent me’s, te’s, etc., yet the literature is full of claims to the eﬀect that se is not the same se in all its uses. (García 1975: 254)

Despite the phrase “In the ﬁrst place,” García did not then go on to oﬀer other reasons. Evidently, she failed, at this juncture, to explore the general problem merely because of the way traditional grammar had dealt with the situation.¹¹ The real reason for the general absence of repeated clitics does have to do with processing, as García had it for se se, but not with any conﬂict of strategies. As Gorup (1992: 27) says, “the avoidance of complexity in the inferential process is the motivating force behind . . . the placement of clitics within a clause.” Clitics are quick, and they are largely devoid of notional content. The hearer has only a brief moment to put everything in its place as concerns identity and role in the event named by the verb. With clitics, the speaker does what the hearer expects with what the hearer already knows. Italian is like Spanish in that it does not permit its traditionally reﬂexive/ impersonal clitic s(i) to appear twice on the same verb. Italian is a bit more instructive, however, as it eliminates one potential explanation: that there is no slot, as it were, for the second clitic. Italian in fact has two slots for s(i): in position before the

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accusative (e)l+, it is traditionally dative; in position after the accusative, it is traditionally impersonal.¹² (4) s elo dic-e self it tell-3SG.PRES ‘he/she tells himself/herself it’

lo si ved-e 3SG.MASC one see-3SG.PRES ‘one sees it/him’

Despite two slots, si si does not occur: (5) *si si lav-ò self one wash-3sG.PRET ‘one washed oneself ’ The restriction on repetition is not limited to impersonals and reﬂexives. French has a traditionally locative clitic, y, for which one can easily construct plausible messages that ought to require a repetition, but in fact y y is impossible. (6) “Dans votre chambre, pensez à votre avenir.” in your room think to your future ‘In your room, think to your future.’ *“J’ y y pens-erai.” I to.it there think-1SG.FUT ‘I’ll think to it there.’ The restriction is not even limited the repetition of a given meaning in association with a given verb. Italian appears to have two homophonous clitics ci and two homophonous clitics vi. One pair ci/vi participates in the system of Discourse Referent, in which ci means MORE THAN ONE INCLUDING SPEAKER while vi means MORE THAN ONE INCLUDING HEARER EXCLUDING SPEAKER. The other pair ci/vi constitutes the system of Attention to a Circumstance, in which ci means HIGH and vi means LOW (7).¹³ ci veng-ono (7) ci ved-ono us see-3PL.PRES here come-3PL.PRES ‘they see us ‘they come here’ vi ved-ono vi van-no you.PL see-3PL.PRES there go-3PL.PRES ‘they see you ‘they go there’ *ci ci ved-ono *vi vi ved-ono here us see-3PL.PRES there you.PL see-3PL.PRES ‘they see us here’ ‘they see you there’ vi ci ved-ono you.pl here see-3PL.PRES there us see-3PL.PRES ‘they see us there’ ‘they see you here’

The gap between meaning and message

Even though the two ci’s and the two vi’s would presumably be signaling two distinct meanings from two distinct semantic substances, they cannot co-occur. Evidently, meaning per se is not responsible for the restriction. In certain dialects of Serbo-Croatian (Gorup 1992: 26 and 1997 personal communication), the third-person feminine singular accusative/genitive clitic je is phonologically identical to the third-person singular verbal auxiliary je. So when you have a third-person singular subject and a third-person singular feminine object, you should expect je je, which does not occur. Instead, speakers borrow, as it were, the third singular feminine clitic from other dialects, which is ju, and so is unambiguous (8). (8) on je video Veru he is seen Vera ‘he saw Vera’

on ju/*je je video he her is seen ‘he saw her’

The most accurate statement of the observations in Spanish, Italian, French, and Serbo–Croatian is this: No two clitics to the same verb can be phonologically identical. The reason for the restriction has to do not with grammatical meaning but with the processing of the stream of speech.¹⁴ Consider what instructions the speaker would be giving the hearer in the asterisked juxtapositions: With *se se, *si si, *y y, *me me, etc. Instructions for processing: As you expected, some familiar entity is playing two distinct yet peripheral (i.e., relatively unimportant) roles in this event, and not only am I not going to tell you just what they are, I am even going to mislead you by using the same meaning to correspond to the two diﬀerent roles. These are the diﬃculties: clitics do the expected, yet the mere fact of having one entity play two roles is itself a bit unexpected.¹⁵ Granted, this in itself must not be prohibitive, since in the case of traditional reﬂexives a single entity plays two roles, but then the roles are diﬀerentiated by one being IN Focus and one being OUT. With repeated clitics, the roles are not diﬀerentiated by Focus. Moreover, the roles are relatively unimportant (compared to the one IN Focus), yet the hearer is expected to take the trouble to ﬁgure them out, unaided by the speaker. Finally, the inference of two roles is hardly encouraged by the presence of only one meaning. The situation with homphonous clitics is hardly better. With *ci ci (instructions would be analogous for *vi vi and *je je): Instructions for processing: Process either (A) as above for the message ‘us us,’ or (B) as follows for the message ‘us here’: As you expected, two separate, familiar entities are playing two distinct yet peripheral (relatively unimportant) roles in this event, and I am not going to tell you just what they are. Moreover, I am not going to tell you which option, A or B, is the correct one. Spanish *se se is merely an instance of a general avoidance of phonologically identical clitics. It is a problem having to do with the even more general problem of infer-

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ential complexity and the provision of adequately clear signaling to move the hearer along the right inferential path. The intense focus on *se se in García (1975), to the exclusion of the more general problem, led Reid (1995) to construct an entire theoretical ediﬁce that should have been forestalled.¹⁶

4. Correlation does not equal causation Another truism in the sciences is that correlation does not equal causation. It is true that, if factor X causes (>) outcome Z, then X will correlate (~) with Z. But given X~Z there are other possibilities besides X>Z, such as the existence of mediating factors (Y), multiple eﬀects (Z1 & Z2), multiple independent factors (X1 & X 2, either present), and interactive causation (X1 + X2, both present) (see Table 1). Table 1. Relations of causation to correlation

Causation

Correlations

X>Z X >Y > Z X > Z1 & Z2 X1 & X2 > Z X1 + X2 > Z

X~Z X ~ Y, X ~ Z, Y ~ Z X ~ Z1, X ~ Z2 , Z1 ~ Z2 X1 ~ Z, X2 ~ Z X1 ~ Z, X2 ~ Z

Columbia School, by speaking in terms of the choice of a meaning being made on the basis of a strategy (García and Otheguy 1983: 111, 112; Reid 1995: 142), and in terms of a count testing a strategy (Reid 1995: 141), has fallen into the temptation to equate correlation with causation. It is a mistake to believe that when we show a skewing of our signals with some other ingredient in the context, that ingredient must have been responsible for our signals’ being there. Here is how the error arose (Reid 1995: 138–145). García and Otheguy (1983) studied the Spanish Activity system (already posited by García 1975), in which the clitics la/lo signal that the referent exercises relatively LEAST Activity over the event named by the verb, while le signals LESS Activity (The referent of the verb ending may be inferred as most active). The meanings may be employed, in straightforward fashion, “to indicate the actual degree of activity of a participant in a particuTable 2. Sex and activity correlated

le (less active) la/lo (least active)

Male

Female

282 (55%, +30) 132 (40%, −30) 414

232 (45%, −30) 197 (60%, +30) 429

514 (100%) 329 (100%) 843

The gap between meaning and message

lar event.” But beyond this straightforward use, García and Otheguy demonstrate a sex bias in the use of the meanings, as shown in Table 2, summarizing the results of a questionnaire (cf. Reid 1995: 140): respondents tended to choose le, LESS Active, for males and la, LEAST Active, for female referents. Reid interprets the ﬁnding: What García and Otheguy have done here is introduce competing rationales for the choice between LESS and LEAST ACTIVE — competing communicative strategies . . . . The strategies compete because each selects a diﬀerent semantic parameter of the message, and diﬀerent parameters may mandate diﬀerent choices. For example, a referent may merit categorization as LEAST ACTIVE by virtue of being female, yet merit LESS ACTIVE by virtue of her actual role in the event. In this case, a speaker may choose on the basis of sex, or actual role, but not both. The role of García and Otheguy’s quantitative data is now clear. Each count tests whether or not speakers are operating on a particular communicative strategy in choosing between the meanings LESS and LEAST ACTIVE. A count tests a strategy because that is what is directly open to falsiﬁcation. If a predicted skewing is conﬁrmed, then speakers are choosing between meanings on the basis of the message characteristic in question (some percentage of the time). (Reid 1995: 141–142 [all emphases added; JD])

Clearly, one error here is the equating of correlation with causation. Nothing in the table demonstrates that any respondent chose le because of a referent’s maleness. Indeed it might not be outrageous to suggest that the choice actually had to do with the height of the referent, an intervening factor, tall people being attributed more power than short people, and men tending to be taller than women. Let us look at a diﬀerent correlation that would clearly not be interpreted as causative. Italian has two male pronouns (egli, lui) that can function as grammatical subject. Egli signals CENTRAL Focus on a participant in an event, while lui bears no Focus meaning at all and can have other grammatical functions besides subject. One quantitative consequence (see Table 3) is that egli tends to appear physically close to its verb in a text, while lui tends to appear farther away from its verb (Davis 1992: 292). Surely we would not imagine that a writer chose egli in a particular instance because it is next to its verb, or lui because it is separated from its verb. What is really Table 3. Subject pronoun and distance from verb Distance between egli/lui and verbal cluster Distance in terms of number of words

egli

lui

0 1 or more

328 (68%) 52 (47%) 380

153 (32%) 58 (53%) 211

481 (100%) 110 (100%) 591 Odds ratio 2.4

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happening is that both the pronoun chosen and the distance are consequences of some other factor: event-relevance. If a writer wishes to limit the relevance of the pronominal reference to just one event, then two things are likely to happen jointly: the writer will choose egli because egli means Focus on a participant in an event, and the writer will place egli next to the verb because the verb will be the only thing in the context that really relates conceptually to the referent of the pronoun. On the other hand, if a writer wishes to imply a wider relevance, not limited to any particular event, then two diﬀerent things will happen jointly: the speaker will choose lui because lui does not signal anything about event Focus, and the speaker will place lui apart from the verb in proximity to other elements with which the referent of the pronoun is to be associated conceptually. The count thus supports the hypothesis (egli Focus, lui non-Focus), but the margins of the table — distance and choice of pronoun — do not represent cause and eﬀect but rather two eﬀects of the same cause. Kirsner (1989) provides a demonstration of the principle that correlation does not equal causation. He shows that the correlation between Dutch demonstratives and their position within the sentence is completely accounted for (i.e., subsumed) by another correlation, demonstratives and extra- vs. intra-sentential anaphor. Unfortunately, Kirsner uses the result to argue for a greater attention by analysts to strategies. He does so because he believes he has demonstrated that, of two “plausible” strategies that might be deduced from a meaning hypothesis, only one actually operates. It seems more likely, however, that the one prediction which is shown to be subsumed under the other prediction was in fact improperly motivated in the ﬁrst place.¹⁷ The foregoing quotation and other passages in Reid (1995: 142–149) not only equate correlation with causation but also ignore the possibility of complex causation. Reid argues concerning Table 1 that, if the communicative strategy is the psychologically real, operative principle of choice between meanings, then the fact that the skewing is less than one hundred percent merely reﬂects the lumping together in the table of examples that represent various strategies. In any individual example, he says, the relation between strategy and observed signal is categorical, not just a tendency. For example, if a speaker chooses between le and la/lo solely on the basis of the contrast between male and female, then males will always rate le and females will always rate la. Not only, as we shall see presently, is there no logical basis for the premise; the conclusion is a recipe for analytical error. Suppose that a speaker at some point, for some unusual reason, actually were to use le for a female because of her sex, not because of her actual degree of activity. Then the analyst reasoning in Reid’s way would systematically fail to recognize the fact; i.e., le for a female must ipso facto be due to some factor other than sex. In other words, the reasoning precludes a priori the existence of contexts in which — or speakers for whom — femaleness per se implies power. Complex causation may be a reality in communication just as much as in, say, epidemiology. Take the example of a traﬃc cop, who uses gestures as a means of com-

The gap between meaning and message

munication to motorists whether they should proceed or stop at a busy intersection. One line of traﬃc may be longer, but the other line may contain an ambulance with lights and siren going full blast. One line may contain a squad car driven by a fellow oﬃcer, but the other may contain a car driven by our traﬃc cop’s local softball buddy. Which line will the oﬃcer allow to move ﬁrst? Even ex post facto, we will not be able to identify his motivation, since there were several for each alternative. In fact, it seems reasonable to suppose that he in fact considers all the relevant factors simultaneously, weighing them, disregarding none. The decision is complex. Reid (1995) never explicitly requires that speakers must always operate on just one strategy at a time, and in fact Otheguy (1993: 50) explicitly allows that they may not. But wording like “competing” strategies encourages the erroneous idea that communicative considerations are mutually exclusive. It is probably more accurate to think in terms of multiple communicative considerations, any of which may come into play in a given instance. And keep in mind that the variables in a table may not include causative factors at all. Whatever considerations led a speaker to choose a meaning at a given point may not be the same as whatever other meanings are present in the context, nor the same as whatever inferences a hearer might draw from those meanings.

5. Textual elements are not independent A ﬁnal mistake is the assumption that causal factors are independent of one another. Referring to Table 1, Reid says; The population [sic] is distributed among the four cells in response to a multiplicity of factors. One of these factors . . . is the sex of the referent. A calculation of what a symmetrical distribution of the tokens would be if sex played no role in their choice tells us that there are thirty more tokens in the upper left and lower right cells. These thirty male le’s and thirty female la’s were presumably chosen on the basis of the sex of the referent, thus conﬁrming the existence of the hypothesized strategy. The calculation also tells us that the plus cells consist, for the most part, of male le’s and female la’s that were not chosen on the basis of the sex of the referent . . . . The minus cells are comprised entirely of signals whose choice was not made on the basis of sex, but on some other basis. (Reid 1995: 144)

Reid is saying that we can know, from the ±deviations, exactly how many tokens in a table are due to the strategy being tested.¹⁸ But that would be true only if every other communicative consideration were statistically independent of the one at play in the table. Yet quite often — possibly routinely — these multiple considerations are themselves correlated.¹⁹ An illustration of this point from English. Huﬀman (2002) hypothesizes that, in one-participant verbs, the sequence “participant-event” (PE: Then a shout arose) signals MORE Focus on the participant-event package, while the sequence “event-

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Joseph Davis Table 4. Distribution of Focus, by article and verb

the, SbV the, be a, SbV a, be

PE

EP

proportion EP

95 49 30 13

8 6 9 13

.08 .11 .23 .50

participant” (EP: Then arose a shout) signals LESS Focus. Huﬀman validates this hypothesis, in part, with two counts. One shows that MORE Focus PE correlates with presence on the noun of the article the, while LESS Focus correlates with a.²⁰ A separate count shows that MORE Focus PE also correlates with the presence of what we might call a substantive verb (SbV), such as arise, while LESS Focus EP correlates with the copula be (am, is, etc.).²¹ It turns out that these two variables, article and verb type, are themselves correlated. Table 4 gives the combined results of a count by the present writer on all occurrences in four short stories by one writer.²² It is clear from the proportions that the eﬀect is cumulative. The more factors present which favor EP, the higher the probability of observing EP. In fact, it can easily be shown that all three variables — article, verb, and word order — are correlated. The probability of observing any combination of two or three of them is higher than the expected probability if they were independent.²³ Such multi-dimensional correlation is the stuﬀ of textual coherence.

6. Conclusion Diver’s original motivations for quantitative predictions were well grounded in what we now call the communicative orientation. Where context is coherent, meanings will in some way be largely compatible, suitably working together to create a message. Because our predictions are motivated by a meaning hypothesis (and a communicative orientation), a count is a test of a meaning hypothesis. We have no basis upon which to speculate about the psychological reality of the innumerable communicative factors that might aﬀect a speaker’s use of the meanings. And, because of the interrelatedness of communicative factors, we cannot say, on the basis of a count, just how many examples, if any, represent the action of a given communicative factor. And if counts do not conﬁrm the operation of “strategies,” then there is hardly any support for the speculation that they are real and deserving of theoretical status. Quite possibly, Columbia School would be better oﬀ altogether without the ill deﬁned and now compromised term strategy. In an early version of his analysis of the French Control system, Huﬀman (1985: 119 ﬀ.) organized his data largely in

The gap between meaning and message

terms of traditional strategies (e.g., “beneﬁciary” was a strategy of the dative). In a more mature treatment (Huﬀman 1997: 84 ﬀ.), the data are reorganized into heuristic message categories (e.g., “causer”) that more directly reﬂect the Control meanings themselves, free from the irrelevant categories of traditional grammar. The result is a greatly clariﬁed presentation, so that one can more easily see the direct role of grammatical meaning in constructing messages. Columbia School analysis can be done — and can be done better — without the distracting intrusion of extraneous categories (strategies) into the picture.²⁴ It would be well to retire the oft-repeated statement that “meanings relate to messages via communicative strategies” (Reid 1995: 36); i.e.: meaning → strategy → message The statement is too formulaic to describe accurately the myriad relationships among a given meaning, other elements in the linguistic context, possible motivating factors in the choice of the meaning, and possible inferences drawn from the meaning. This is particularly true if, as has happened, these diﬀerent things are going to get confused. For instance, concerning the Spanish system of Activity, García and Otheguy (1983) identiﬁed sex of the male referent as a strategy for the choice of LESS Active le (as opposed to LEAST Active lo), while Reid (1995: 143) labels “male referent” as an instance of “message parameter.” To clarify the matter, consider an example from García and Otheguy’s questionnaire (cf. Reid 1995: 139, 143): ¿Por qué no continuó Frederico en la forma que había planeado? Porque el padre le hizo cambiar de manera de pensar. Why did not Fred continue as he had planned? Because his father made him think otherwise. It seems highly unlikely that maleness is the message intended by respondents who chose le and for whom le means LESS Active. Indeed, had any respondent wished to signify maleness, the choice lo would have been better, since it signals a grammatical gender that routinely suggests maleness. Maleness is part of what CS terms the scene, not a “message parameter” related to the meaning LESS Active. The message communicated by le is actually probably something closer to the meaning, in concert with other meanings in the context. Let us grant that maleness of the referent is a plausible contributing factor in the respondent’s choice of le. Then the chain of logic connecting the (imagined) scene to a holistic message might be something like Table 5. The proper question is not how a meaning relates to a message parameter, but how a group of meanings jointly create a message. In practice, a CS analysis assumes the contribution of certain elements not being analyzed (padre, hizo, cambiar) in order to isolate the contribution of one element (le) being analyzed. (It does this over a collection of many, many examples, so the precise semantic contents of the other elements in a given example do not need to be determined at this point.) The

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Joseph Davis Table 5. A possible route from scene to message Scene father son paternal inﬂuence ﬁlial change

Respondent’s assessment of scene >

male is inherently > powerful

Meaning chosen

Message communicated

(padre) LESS active (le) (hizo) (cambiar)

Son allows himself to be inﬂuenced by, i.e., cooperates with, father in a change.

predictions that we then make, as part of the task of validation, may take several forms. They may make reference to other linguistic elements in the context (English a and be favoring EP); they may call upon some characteristic of the referent on the scene (males favoring Spanish le); they may make use of non-semantic aspects of the context (Dutch demonstratives within or across sentences); or they may even exploit diﬀerent types of discourse.²⁵ Columbia School must resist the siren call of the foolproof discovery procedure, the validation algorithm. Our analytical procedures cannot be formalized; each analysis will call for slightly diﬀerent techniques, will motivate unforeseen predictions that suggest any variety of tests. As far as counts go, if a count is well motivated by a hypothesis and our orientations, then it oﬀers some support for the hypothesis. But that is all; on its own, a count proves nothing. It certainly does not demonstrate the psychological reality of a categorical causal or inferential pathway to or from a linguistic meaning. To address an issue raised by Kirsner (1989: 161–162): What would it take, if not an unconﬁrmed quantitative prediction, to falsify a Columbia School hypothesis? The question is malapropos. A CS hypothesis is not, like a geometric theorem, a statement participating in a closed system of statements that is completely internally consistent, based on a ﬁnite number of postulates, and subject to a formal logic. Nor does it, like a chemical equation, describe the behavior of independently identiﬁable elements. A CS signal-meaning hypothesis can be neither proved nor disproved; it can be only accepted or rejected. If accepted, it is accepted provisionally, pending the devising of a better hypothesis. (It cannot be accepted by someone who operates with incompatible primitives, such as the sentence.) A better hypothesis will typically be one that accounts for a wider range of data or that provides a deeper understanding of existing data. Such is the history of Diver’s revision (forthcoming²⁶) of his own analysis of the Latin systems involving traditional case and voice. His eventual coming to grips with, inter alia, the deponent verbs led him to a deeper understanding of the meaning of passive verb morphology, which in turn revolutionized his treatment of the case system. He rejected his own hypothesis. The notion of communicative strategy will not furnish Columbia School with a quick and easy, sureﬁre technique for validating our hypotheses. We shall simply have to do the hard work of studying examples, interpreting quantitative data, and

The gap between meaning and message

writing up our results in a way that causes us to believe we are making progress.

Acknowledgement I wish to express my deepest gratitude and respect for Wallis Reid, who labored intensively and at length with me and other colleagues on the question of the status of strategy in Columbia School. As this article goes to press, I must point out that Reid (1995) did not speak of “inferential process,” as used here (see p. 156). In using this term, I have essentially, and perhaps recklessly, conﬂated the activities of speaker and hearer as each bridges the meaning– message gap. Reid (1995), as nevertheless accurately characterized here, considered only the speaker’s perspective. My thanks to Wallis Reid for bringing this to my attention.

Notes 1. The New York Times, Dec. 8, 1999, pp. A1, A15. 2. Diver was well aware of such examples. One of his favorite examples of semantic incompatibility was a crossroads, juxtaposing singular with plural. 3. Diver often spoke of the phrase a certain person in this light. 4. See Davis (2002) for further discussion of texts that go against predictions. 5. Reid (1995: 117–128) identiﬁes a third rationale for Diver’s counts, the “meaning suitability rationale.” Reid says this rationale, not requiring the “forced marriage” assumption, would have been acceptable, but it did not catch on in the development of Columbia School. This rationale would require that the analyst know in advance which messages are more and less frequently expressed. It is not clear how the analyst should come to possess such knowledge. Moreover, if one did possess it, then a count would be superﬂuous. 6. I notice, by the way, that the grammar check on my word processor does not highlight the sentence as being problematic. 7. One might well question whether it is wise in the ﬁrst place to base the establishment of a fundamental theoretical construct solely upon one person’s analysis of one non-occurring construction (as we shall see) in one language. 8. Current research being conducted by the present writer on the Italian cognate si suggests that it may be a mistake to equate the Spanish message with the English Pedro bathed himself; closer to the Spanish would be Pedro bathed. 9. Reid (1995: 149–150) rightly foresees unhappy consequences of the elevation of strategy to an equal status with meaning, chieﬂy a loss of unity in analysis. 10. See Menn and MacWhinney (1984) for a treatment of the general problem, including *se se among many others cross-linguistically; theirs, too, is a treatment that appeals to “inconvenience for language processing.” See also Grimshaw (1977). 11. In 1975, CS theory as we know it was all of six years old and still very much trying to ﬁght its way out of the cradle of traditional grammar. Traditional and neo-traditional generative grammar was as much García’s target as was Spanish se, as is evident both from the text and from the title. Later, García (2002) would explore the general phenomenon of nonoccurring combinations of clitics, and would do so without employing the (reiﬁed) construct of strategy.

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Joseph Davis 12. See Davis (1995) for justiﬁcation of these morphemic analyses. 13. This analysis is tentative. The Referent-Number interlock is independently justiﬁed by other clitics (mi, ti, lo/la/li/le). The adverbial uses here attributed to the system of Attention to a Circumstance are not likely to be successfully ascribable to Discourse Referent, since ‘us’ and ‘you’ are often not applicable in messages of ‘here’ and ‘there.’ 14. Phonology per se must not be the problem but rather the processing of phonologically identical, closely satellite signals; witness the Latin reduplicated perfects such as pepigi ‘I ﬁxed.’ 15. In English, we have to insist, with the -self forms, that we really do mean two roles (Stern 2001). 16. Garcia (1975) did treat *le lo in terms of inferential complexity and processing overload (cf. pp. 414, 463), so her treatment of *se se, even at this stage, must be seen in that context. Garcia (2002) explicitly integrates *se se into the general phenomenon. 17. Kirsner’s (1989: 165) ﬁrst prediction rests upon “the plausible assumption that the beginning of the sentence acts as a point of ‘natural discourse focus’ where [writers] would put noun phrases whose referents are especially deserving of attention.” The assumption may be unfounded. In a short text analyzed by the present writer (“Hercules” in Thomas Bulﬁnch, Bulﬁnch’s Mythology, New York: Avenel, 1979, 143–150), the median position of the ﬁrst reference to the hero in a sentence is 3, not 0, words away from the beginning of the sentence. A more useful understanding of sentence may be that it is a unit of text; this view is consonant, moreover, with Kirsner’s competing, subsuming prediction. In this case, initial position would be a point of re-orientation of the reader. Two common ways to re-orient are to provide transitions (but, so, another) and to re-introduce something familiar. Of course, the most familiar element in the story will be the hero (Hercules claims initial position in 21 of 64 sentences). 18. Note too, in passing, that for Reid, a strategy is a hypothesis. 19. Certainly we should be suspicious when we see that the number of excess tokens in the two “+” cells will always be equal. Why should there always be exactly the same number of instances when the speaker chooses on the basis of maleness and on the basis of femaleness? Reid fails to see that the ±30 merely reﬂects the strength of the skewing, nothing more. 20. The rationale would be that something known is easier to focus on, while the hearer will be unprepared to focus on something unfamiliar; and we know independently that the correlates with discourse-familiar entities and a with unfamiliar. 21. The rationale is that activity is more likely than stasis to draw attention. This count appears in an earlier, unpublished version of the study. 22. “A Horseman in the Sky,” “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” “Chickamauga,” and “A Son of the Gods” in Ambrose Bierce, The Best of Ambrose Bierce, 1946, Secaucus: Castle. 23. The data: PE EP TOTAL the 144 14 158 a 43 22 65 TOTAL 187

36

223

PE SbV 125 be 62 187

EP TOTAL 17 142 19 81 36

223

P(a) = 65/223 = .291; P(EP) = 36/223 = .161. Calculated joint probability is then P(a)P(EP) = .047. Observed P(a, EP) = 22/223 = .099 > .047.

The gap between meaning and message P(be) = 81/223 = .363; P(EP) = .161. Calculated joint probability is P(be)P(EP) = .059. Observed P(be, EP) = 19/223 = .085 > .059. Calculated joint probability P(a)P(be)P(EP) = .017. Observed P(a, be, EP) = 13/223 = .058 > .017. 24. An analysis of Italian si, forthcoming from the present writer, was originally motivated (Davis 1999) in part by the goal of demonstrating how a CS analysis might be accomplished without an appeal to strategies. 25. As is well known, French passé composé tends towards speech, passé simple towards literature (Reid 1979: 265–276). Also well known, Italian lui tends towards speech, egli towards literature (Davis 1992: Chapter VI). 26. The relevant unpublished manuscripts are “The Focus-Control Interlock in Latin,”“Latin Is a Language,” and “Latin-T and Latin-TUR.”

References Chomsky, N. 1957. Syntactic Structures. The Hague: Mouton. Contini-Morava, E., and Goldberg, B. S. (eds). 1995. Meaning as Explanation: Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Davis, J. 1992. Italian egli and lui: Grammatical Meaning and Inference. Diss. Columbia U, New York. UMI 9313892. Davis, J. 1995. “The linguistic sign as unifying principle behind syntactic peculiarities: The Italian clitic ne.” In CLS 31: Papers from the 31st Regional Meeting of the Chicago Linguistic Society. Vol. 2: The Parasession on Clitics, Dainora, Audra, Rachel Hemphill, Barbara Luka, Barbara Need, Sheri Pargman (eds), 79–90. Davis, J. 1999. “On abstinence and abdication: Italian si.” Presented at the Sixth International Columbia School Conference on Linguistics, Rutgers U, New Brunswick, N. J. Davis, J. 2002. “Rethinking the place of statistics in Columbia School analysis.” In Otheguy, Reid, and Stern (eds), 65–90. Diver, W. 1969. “The system of Relevance of the Homeric verb.” Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 12: 45–68. Diver, W. 1990. “And now for something completely diﬀerent.” Unpublished MS. Diver, W. 1995. “Theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds), 43–114. Diver, W. Forthcoming. Language as Human Behavior: The Linguistic Writings of William Diver. A. Huﬀman, R. Otheguy, and J. Davis (eds.) García, E. 1975. The Role of Theory in Linguistic Analysis: The Spanish Pronoun System. Amsterdam: North-Holland. García, E. 2002. “Deconstructed morphology vs. con-structive syntax.” Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 1 (103): 73–102. García, E., and Otheguy, R. 1983. “Being polite in Ecuador.” Lingua 61: 103–132. Gorup, R. 1992. “The motivation for the ﬁxed order of clitics in Serbo-Croatian.” Juznoslovenski Filolog XLVIII: 25–34. Grimshaw, J. 1977. “The best clitic: Constraint conﬂict in morphosyntax.” Elements of Grammar, L. Haegeman (ed.), 169–196. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Huﬀman, A. 1985. The Semantic Organization of the French Clitic Pronouns: lui and le. Diss. Columbia U, New York. UMI 8511512.

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Joseph Davis Huﬀman, A. 1997. The Categories of Grammar: French lui and le. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Huﬀman, A. 2001. “The linguistics of William Diver and the Columbia School.” Word 52 (1): 29–68. Huﬀman, A. 2002. “Cognitive and semiotic modes of explanation in functional grammar.” In Otheguy, Reid, and Stern (eds), 311–337. Kirsner, R. 1989. “Does sign-oriented linguistics have a future?: On sign, text, and the falsiﬁability of theoretical constructs.” From Sign to Text: A Semiotic View of Communication, Y. Tobin (ed.), 161–178. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Menn, L., and MacWhinney, B. 1984. “The repeated morph constraint: Toward an explanation.” Language 60 (3): 519–541. Otheguy, R. 1993. “The role of prediction in sign-based grammatical analysis.” Unpublished MS. Otheguy, R., Reid, W., and Stern, N. (eds.). 2002. Signal Meaning and Message: Perspectives on Sign-Based Linguistics. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Reid, W. 1979. The Human Factor in Linguistic Analysis: The Passé Simple and the Imparfait. Diss. Columbia U, New York. UMI 7924964. Reid, W. 1991. Verb and Noun Number in English: A Functional Explanation. London: Longman. Reid, W. 1995. “Quantitative analysis in Columbia School theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds), 115–152. Stern, N. 2001. The Meaning and Use of English -self. Diss. City University of New York. UMI 3024839.

PART III

Analyses on the level of the classic linguistic sign

CHAPTER 6

The givenness of background A semantic–pragmatic study of two modern German subordinating conjunctions Zhuo Jing University of California, Los Angeles and Universität zu Köln

Most grammars of German conceive of the contrast between the conjunctions wenn and als in mixed terms, whereby the two items are considered as having a variety of discrete meanings that are related to grammatical tense, conditionality, habituality, etc. This conception is confusing on the descriptive level and non-explanatory on the analytic level. It fails to account for the actual uses of the two items in a unitary manner. This chapter proposes a semantic-pragmatic model and suggests that the two conjunctions are linguistic signs the speaker employs not to provide objective descriptive detail but rather to give instructions to the hearer about how to interpret information in the ongoing communication. This model enables us to show that the diﬀerent distributional patterns of the two subordinating conjunctions in texts can be attributed to their respective instructional meanings. One invariant meaning is postulated for each conjunction. The unitary postulation at the semantic level allows a wider range of semantic-pragmatic interpretations in varying contextual situations, a problem traditional grammars are unable to cope with. This chapter shows that descriptions as they exist in German grammars can be improved on the basis of principles of “Columbia School linguistics”, formerly known as form-content analysis.*

1. Introduction This chapter focuses on two subordinating conjunctions in modern german, wenn and als, with respect to the meanings they contribute to the sentence in which they occur, as in (1)–(5). (1) Was erfahren wir, wenn wir dies genügend bedenken? ‘What will we learn if/when we consider this suﬃciently?’ (Heidegger 1959: 175)

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(2) Ich hätte es auch nicht getan, wenn du dich nicht geweigert hättest, mir nur ein einziges Glas Wein auszuschenken. ‘I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t refused to give me but one glass of wine.’ (Ende 1973: 19) (3) Wenn man zwischen vier und sechs hinkam, war man sicher, die Mutter zu ﬁnden, und fast nie ohne Gesellschaft. ‘Whenever one got there between four and six, one would certainly ﬁnd the mother, and almost never out of company.’ (Hofmannsthal 1910: 39) (4) In alten, alten Zeiten, als die Menschen noch in ganz anderen Sprachen redeten, gab es in den warmen Ländern schon große und prächtige Städte. ‘In old, old times, when humans still talked in very diﬀerent languages, there were already big and glorious towns in the warm countries.’ (Ende 1973: 7) (5) Als die Kaiserin Strapazia schließlich von der Sache erfuhr, rief sie die bekannten Worte . . . ‘When the Queen Strapazia ﬁnally learned about the matter, she shouted the famous words . . .’ (Ende 1973: 47) The subordinating clauses introduced by wenn and als are known as “adverbial clauses”, which “are employed to provided the situational context for the event or state that is described in a main clause” (Whaley 1997: 247). Both pedagogic and traditional grammars of German contrast the two conjunctions in mixed terms: als is described as indicating single events in the past whereas wenn is described as denoting habitual and repeated actions in the present or the past. In addition, wenn is said to have a conditional meaning. The major aim of this study is to seek a unitary semantic-pragmatic explanation for the actual uses of the two items in texts. Attention is paid to the invariant meanings that motivate the concrete messages in varying communicational contexts. This study draws on the “Columbia School” approach to linguistic analysis, which treats linguistic units (morphemes and constructions) as signs of one-formone-meaning iconicity in a somewhat Saussurean sense. Each sign has an invariant meaning that motivates varying messages in varying communicational contexts. Contrastively related meanings form the cognitive basis of a certain semantic substance and are organized into a certain grammatical system (in the sense of Diver 1969: 47) that serves a certain pragmatic function. For example, Kirsner (1979a) argues that the Dutch demonstrative adjectives deze and die, rather than denoting proximity and distance, form a system of deixis, which serves the pragmatic function of urging the hearer to locate the referent. Within this system, deze signals high deixis and die signals low deixis such that the choice between them is made according to the level of urging as judged by the speaker. The present study oﬀers a data-driven analysis. Textual data are examined in support for the hypothesis. It will be manifest that the descriptive account given

The givenness of background

by traditional grammars cannot explain why certain linguistic phenomena present themselves exactly the way they do in actual communication. It will also be shown that textbooks of German as a foreign language have unduly complicated the issue.

2. A review of the explanations found in pedagogical and traditional grammars I shall begin by considering Terell at al. Kontakte (3rd Edition, 1996), one of the textbooks currently used in college elementary German courses in the United States and which I myself used in teaching German to UCLA undergraduates. With regard to the two conjunctions in question, Kontakte tries to exhaust all possible cases in which the conjunctions occur by describing the events which the conjunctions used in individual cases communicate. “Als refers to a circumstance (time period) in the past or to a single event (point in time) in the past or present, but never in the future” (p. 297). Three examples are given to illustrate the idea of temporality denoted by als : Als ich 15 Jahre alt war, sind meine Eltern nach Texas gezogen. ‘When I was 15 years old, my parents moved to Texas.’ b. Als wir in Texas angekommen sind, war es sehr heiß. ‘When we arrived in Texas, it was very hot.’ c. Als Veronika ins Zimmer kommt, klingelt das Telefon. ‘When (As) Veronica comes into the room, the phone rings.’

(6) a.

No explicit explanation is given as to why als can be used in the past or present but never in the future. Nor is any suggestion provided as to what pragmatic function als serves when it “refers to a circumstance in the past or a single event in the past”. If language is used to communicate information for social purposes, merely referring to things is certainly less than suﬃcient to keep communication going. Note that in all three sentences in (6), the speaker relates the events being communicated from an oﬀstage viewpoint, such that he is detached from the events, whether these occur in the past or in the present. Naturally, one cannot detach oneself from something that has not happened, something that is not happening, and something that may or may not happen. That is, one cannot detach oneself from a non-existent, i.e. future, event. In the present study, we will pursue the semantic cause that enables such narrative detachment as observed above. Turning now to wenn, Kontakte proceeds as follows: “Wenn has three distinct meanings: a conditional meaning and two temporal meanings. In conditional sentences, wenn means if. In the temporal sense, wenn may be used to describe events that happen or happened one or more times (when[ever]) or to describe events that will happen in the future (when)” (p. 298, emphasis in original). This claim is followed by four examples:

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Zhuo Jing

Wenn man auf diesen Knopf drückt, öﬀnet sich die Tür. ‘If you press this button, the door will open.’ b. Wenn Herr Wagner nach Hause kam, freuten sich die Kinder. ‘When(ever) Mr. Wagner came home, the children would be happy.’ c. Wenn Herr Wagner nach Hause kommt, freuen sich die Kinder. ‘When(ever) Mr. Wagner comes home, the children are happy.’ d. Wenn ich in Frankfurt ankomme, rufe ich dich an. ‘When I arrive in Frankfurt, I’ll call you.’

(7) a.

By treating wenn as polysemous, with three discrete meanings, the grammar ignores the semantic interrelation between the so-called “meanings” (which are actually messages inferred from one single meaning in terms of the present study) and rips the individual “meanings” out of the semantic perspective where they belong. As one can sense by comparing what the textbook has to say regarding als with how it describes wenn, there seems to be some murky zone of possible overlap in the usage of the two. In other words, the description of wenn referring to “events that happen or happened one or more times” is too loose to exclude the suggestion that wenn and als may be somewhere interchangeable, which is absolutely untrue of any of the examples without change of message in the given sentence. The many unfortunate ors employed in the statements to juxtapose the diﬀerent possible occurrences of each conjunction allow too much leaking for the grammar to hold. The textbook further singles out the usage of wenn versus als in the simple past tense. It points to the distinction that “wenn refers to a habit or an action or event that happened repeatedly or customarily; als refers to a speciﬁc action or event that happened once, over a particular time period or at a particular point in time in the past”. Two examples are given: Wenn ich nicht zur Schule gehen wollte, habe ich gesagt, ich bin krank. ‘When(ever) I didn’t want to go to school, I said that I was sick.’ b. Als ich mein erstes F bekommen habe, habe ich geweint. ‘When I got my ﬁrst F, I cried.’

(8) a.

However, continually trapped in the clouds of temporality, the grammar is not able to come up with a unitary explanation of all possibilities beyond any one tense. The tendency to chop up the two signals into multiple meanings seen here is not restricted to textbooks for foreign language acquisition. Many monolingual German grammars for native German speakers exhibit the same symptom. The most reputable and authoritative German grammar, Duden Grammatik (1995, 5th edition) describes wenn as having three semantic “connections” (drei semantische Anschlüsse): 1) the conditional, 2) the temporal, and 3) the hypothetical. The temporal meaning has three sub-meanings: simultaneity (Gleichzeitigkeit), anteriority (Vorzeitigkeit) and subsequency (Nachzeitigkeit). The distinction of the three sub-meanings is made according to the temporal relation between the subordinate clause and the main clause. Apart from the temporal meaning,

The givenness of background

Duden attempts mightily to diﬀerentiate the hypothetical meaning from the conditional meaning; but its wording is deliberately and elaborately murky, as though it were striving to avoid the concept ‘conditional’ by using the less conspicuous word bedingend ‘conditioning’. But this attempt to make a qualitative distinction between what it calls ‘hypothetical’ and what it calls ‘conditional’ must be judged a failure: “Dieser [hypothetische] Anschluss ist nicht zu verwechseln mit konditionalem Anschluss bei den Verhältnissätzen, mit dem er allerdings die bedingende Grundprägung gemeinsam hat. (p. 745)” This [hypothetical] connection should not be confused with a conditional connection as in relative clauses, although it shares the basic conditioning factor with the latter. [Translation mine; Z. J.]

According to Duden, the hypothetical connection is solely associated with the subjunctive context in which the wenn-clause can be replaced by a complement clause, the dass-clause. The substitute dass-clause, however, must be in indicative mood. The same kind of substitution is in no way possible in conditional sentences with wenn. For example, the hypothetical sentence (9a) can be restructured in the form of (9a′): Es würde mich sehr freuen, wenn ich ihn sehen würde. ‘I would be very much pleased, if I would see him.’ a′. Dass ich ihn sehen werde, wird mich sehr freuen. ‘That I would see him would please me very much.’

(9) a.

But the conditional sentence (9b) is unable to undergo the same kind of paraphrase relationship: b. Wenn das wahr ist, dann müssen wir uns beeilen. ‘If this is true, then we have to rush.’ b′. *Dass das wahr ist, dann müssen wir uns beeilen. Apparently, Duden justiﬁes its labeling by appealing to syntactic paraphrase. This justiﬁcation is based on the assumption that the notion of “syntactic paraphrase relationship” is valid in semantic analyses and that the transformed sentence is identical in message to the original. Furthermore, Duden fails to address the question whether the inhibited paraphrase relationship in (9b’) determines the conditional meaning of wenn or the other way round and the same question regarding the hypothetical sentence (9a). If meaning rules over form, the question arises: how does hypothetical diﬀer semantically from conditional? In fact, the distinction between hypothetical and conditional cannot be made in terms of mutual exclusion, because the two concepts do not occupy the same logical level. Although something hypothetical does not necessarily bear a consequence as conditional statements do, a condition is always expressed in the form of a hypothesis. In short, hypothetical includes conditional. On the other hand, suppose that syntactic paraphrase relationships were relevant

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to the distinction between hypothetical meaning and conditional meaning. Then we would need to decide whether it could be used to validate the distinction. In fact, the description by Duden might make sense if one ignores not only the reality of word order and its relation to other morphological realities, but also the reality of mood. Diﬀerent arrangements of word order convey diﬀerent messages. What appears in the initial position of a sentence carries more weight in terms of salience or emphasis than what comes later in the sentence (cf. Chafe 1976 and Lambrecht 1994 on information structure). Sentence (9a) emphasizes the content of the main clause (‘I would be very much pleased’) while (9a’) emphasizes that of the subordinate clause (‘That I would see him’). On the other hand, the compatibility between a certain mood and a certain subordinating conjunction must be taken seriously as well. The trouble with any syntactic paraphrase relationship that is claimed legitimate lies in the unfortunate fact that the message necessarily changes once any change in word order and/or mood is involved in the paraphrase relationship. Thus even though both alternatives are possible, they are not semantically equivalent. Since they are two diﬀerent morphological sets, they necessarily bear diﬀerent presuppositions to serve diﬀerent pragmatic functions in communication. It is crucial to take into consideration all the formal cues in the input to reach an explanation as why the input is designed the way it is. In the current case, the interactions between the meaning of the subordinating conjunction, the meaning of the word order, and the meaning of the modality representation must be examined. Isolation of any one factor from the others will lead to a wrong interpretation. As far as als is concerned, the Duden Grammatik suggests two meanings: 1) temporal and 2) factual. Again the temporal meaning is divided into three sub-meanings as with wenn. Two other important German grammars, Buscha (1989) and Hentschel & Weydt (1990) share this tripartite approach to temporality in their account of wenn and als in addition to their common tendency to distinguish conditional and temporal meanings of wenn. The tripartite description of both wenn and als in terms of temporality causes the same sort of murkiness as the American textbook. Examples by Duden: (10) Temporal a. Tress L. hat nur gelacht, als sie die Geschichte hörte. ‘Tress L. just laughed when she heard the story.’ b. Als er geendet hatte, brach der Beifall los. ‘When he had ﬁnished, (the) applause broke out.’ c. Als ich nach Hause kam, hatte der Vertreter meine Frau bereits überzeugt. ‘When I came home, the sales representative had already convinced my wife.’ Factual:¹ d. Als er plötzlich auftauchte, freute mich das ungemein. ‘When he suddenly appeared, I was tremendously pleased about it.’

The givenness of background

It will be demonstrated later in this chapter that the separation of the temporal from the factual meaning is superﬂuous because the temporal meaning is in no case nonfactual, whether it is about simultaneity, anteriority or subsequency. Genzmer (1995), in his Deutsche Grammatik [German Grammar], treats the difference between als and wenn in terms of temporality and repetitiveness. He states the contrast between als and wenn in the following terms: Als drückt eine Vorzeitigkeit aus und bezieht sich auf ein einmaliges Ereignis in der Vergangenheit. Im Gegensatz dazu steht wenn, das Wiederholungen in der Gegenwart oder Vergangenheit bezeichnet und oft mit immer kombiniert wird. (p. 303) Als expresses anteriority and refers to a single event in the past. Unlike als, wenn denotes repetitions in the present or in the past and is often used in combination with immer ‘always’. [Translation mine, Z.J.]

Genzmer’s approach, though appearing unitary as far as temporality is concerned (conditionality is a separate meaning assigned to wenn), poses the following problems. First, anteriority does not describe occurrences in which als denotes non-anteriority (simultaneity, subsequency, or worse yet, an unspeciﬁed temporal relation), as in the following examples (examples are taken from Genzmer 1995: 303–304, translations mine; Z.J.): Zu dem Zwischenfall kam es, als der Angeklagte den Richter ohrfeigte. ‘Up came the incident as the defendant slapped the judge in the face.’ b. Als Gala nach Cadaques kam, rasierte sich Dalí die Achselhöhlen aus, um sie zu beeindrucken. ‘When Gala came to Cadaques, Dalí shaved his armpits to impress her.’

(11) a.

Sentences (11a–b) are cases where als cannot be taken to indicate temporal anteriority. One may argue that (11a) is about simultaneity because the slapping is the incident itself, yet even this argument is beside the point. The ﬁrst clause of (11a) is structured deictically such that the hearer anticipates its referent, which is introduced later by als. In this sense, the situation in the ﬁrst clause does not precede the situation in the second in terms of truth-conditional temporality, but in terms of the speaker’s viewing arrangement, to use Langacker’s words.² This special “viewing arrangement” is entirely at the speaker’s disposal. As such, it has the eﬀect that the situation being described is introduced as a distinct episode of narrative tension whereas the narrator/speaker himself remains oﬀstage the whole time. Here, the truth-conditional temporal relationship between the two clauses is irrelevant because there isn’t such a thing as far as this situation is concerned. When Wolf Schneider, the celebrated provider of good style of German, judged (11a) as ill-formed (Unfug ‘mischief ’, in his wording) and rewrote it as . . . kam es zu einem Zwischenfall: Der Angeklagte ohrfeigte den Richter (Genzmer1995: 304), he certainly did not approve of narrative tension at the expenses of truth-conditionally oriented

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style. By erasing the instructional conjunction als, the improvement he made virtually disjoins the two propositions and thereby renders the special viewing arrangement undone. As for sentence (11b), it is hard to determine the sequential order of the two events in strict temporal terms. Gala’s actual coming may just as well coincide with or follow Dalí’s shaving instead of preceding it. What als does here is to oﬀer background information such that the main line event to be introduced is anchored and will not appear abruptly. In other words, the speaker sets up the stage, a background against which the zooming-in on the main event takes place. Again, the truth-conditional temporal sequence is uninteresting. Another problem with Genzmer’ s analysis concerns the viability of the notion of “repetition” with regard to the temporal wenn. The key point is that wenn indicates the potential to repeat an action rather than entailing the actual repetitions. In this respect, Genzmer’ s analysis shares the same weakness exhibited by Kontakte, which I discussed in the earlier part of this section.

3. An alternative approach to wenn versus als As an alternative to the treatments considered above, the present study postulates one single instructional meaning for each of the two subordinating conjunctions and places the two signs in a system where they contrast with each other ACROSS TENSES. In other words, their semantic contrast is real regardless of the tense because their meanings contrast with each other in all tenses. Moreover, the two conjunctions exhibit signiﬁcantly diﬀerent degrees of compatibility with diﬀerent moods. It will be demonstrated how the single meaning that is relatively imprecise is able to form a community of semantic relatedness among the seemingly disparate messages in diﬀerent contexts. And it will be shown how the gap between the super-ordinate meaning and the messages in concrete situations is ﬁlled by inferences based on all syntactical, morphological, semantic, lexical and supra-linguistic cues that are present in the input and the hearer’s general knowledge of the world.

3.1. Hypothesis We hypothesize that wenn and als form the cognitive basis of a semantic substance that I call the GIVENNESS OF BACKGROUND. The word “background” is a relational notion and in the present context it pertains to the status of the subordinate clause introduced by the respective conjunctions in relation to the main clause in terms of discourse focus (in Reid’ s sense, 1976). In contrast to the background, or “shunted” situation, denoted by the subordinate clause, the situation denoted by the main clause is in the foreground of the discourse and is also known as the “main line” situation, to use Hopper’ s (1979) terms. The meanings of wenn and als are organized into what could be called a system of the speaker’s instruction to the hearer

The givenness of background

GIVENNESS OF BACKGROUND

als = BACKGROUND GIVEN wenn = BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN

Figure 1. Invariant meaning for wenn versus als

with respect to the givenness of the background. The conjunction als has the instructional meaning BACKGROUND GIVEN while wenn has the instructional meaning BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN, as illustrated by Figure 1. Given the hypothesis, it is obvious that whenever als is used in a sentence containing two clauses, an instruction is provided to the hearer that the background is given and can be taken for granted. Whenever wenn is used in a sentence, it is meant to instruct the hearer that the background is not given and that the speaker is providing an imaginary or hypothetical situation as background against which the main line situation is introduced. In general, we anticipate that the speaker will employ the meaning BACKGROUND GIVEN most appropriately when he possesses suﬃcient evidence to provide a factual account of the background that can be taken for granted. A given background that can be taken for granted is likely to be factual. In contrast, the speaker will employ the meaning BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN most appropriately either because he (a) does not possess suﬃcient evidence to provide more than a tentative or hypothetical statement about the situation that he chooses as the background; or because he (b) assumes that the hearer is unaware of the background he chooses. For an illustration of the use of wenn, consider (9), reproduced here as (12): Es würde mich sehr freuen, wenn ich ihn sehen würde. ‘I would be very much pleased, if I would see him.’ a′. Dass ich ihn sehen werde, wird mich sehr freuen. ‘That I will see him will please me very much.’

(12) a.

In (12a), the speaker is not certain whether or not he will see the other person. He uses wenn to signal that he recognizes this lack of certainty and draws the hearer’s attention to the contingency of the discourse situation. That is, he recognizes that the circumstance of seeing the person is unpredictable and makes the hypothesis: given the circumstance of seeing the person, his being pleased would be true. (12a’), on the other hand, states that seeing the person is predictable and this prediction makes being pleased predictable. The contrast between (12a) and (12a’) demonstrates the untrustworthiness of syntactic paraphrasing (typically invoked in traditional grammars) as any sort of semantic explanation. Sentences in (6), reproduced here as (13), illustrate the use of als: (13) a.

Als ich 15 Jahre alt war, sind meine Eltern nach Texas gezogen. ‘When I was 15 years old, my parents moved to Texas.’

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b. Als wir in Texas angekommen sind, war es sehr heiß. ‘When we arrived in Texas, it was very hot.’ c. Als Veronika ins Zimmer kommt, klingelt das Telefon. ‘When (As) Veronica comes into the room, the phone rings.’ In all the sentences in (13), als introduces a background situation (subordinate clause), via which the main line situation (main clause) is approached. The actual temporal sequentiality is irrelevant here; it is rather the structuring of the background-foreground distinction which makes the narration possible. Furthermore, since a given background must be something that has reality in the speaker’s experience, the low probability of co-occurrence of als with future is unsurprising. The examples in (13) below reveal the semantic contrast between wenn and als in terms of givenness as signaled by the givenness of the subject of the backgrounded clause. Both wenn and als are compatible with a deﬁnite personal pronoun. But only wenn is compatible with the indeﬁnite personal pronoun man ‘one’ (not Mann ‘man, husband’), which signals that although the referent is not “pinned down”, it is nevertheless to be taken for granted. Wenn man krank ist, isst man keine Wurst. ‘When one is ill, one doesn’t eat sausage.’ b. Wenn ich krank bin, esse ich keine Wurst. ‘When I’m ill, I don’t eat sausage.’ c. *Als man krank war, hat man keine Wurst gegessen. ‘When one was ill, one didn’t eat sausage.’ d. Als ich krank war, habe ich keine Wurst gegessen. ‘When I was ill, I didn’t eat sausage.’

(13) a.

The use of wenn matches closely with the use of man because the nongivenness signaled by wenn is compatible with the non-diﬀerentiation of the referent as signaled by man. The eﬀect here is a general applicability of the hypothetical background. The reason why als is incompatible with man is obvious: als claims that the speaker possesses suﬃcient knowledge of the situation and his account of the situation can be taken for granted. Yet the use of man makes it impossible for this account to be taken for granted because the hearer cannot identify the exact referent of man. According to one informant, (13c) is odd because man can refer to anyone, which undoes the eﬀort made by als to relate to an speciﬁc episode in the past, which presumably involves a speciﬁc subject. Here, the role played by tense is indicated. We assume that the past tense is a marked paradigmatic variation of the unmarked present tense within the grammatical category of tense (cf. Croft 1990 on the criteria for markedness) and as such it claims that the situation being communicated is speciﬁc in time and therefore already part of the reality. Thus the contrast between (13a–b) and (13d) in tense correlates to the contrast between wenn and als in the givenness of background. (14) below further illustrates this point:

The givenness of background

Wenn man krank ist, isst man nicht viel. ‘When one is ill, one doesn’t eat much.’ b. *Wenn man krank war, aß man nicht viel. ‘When one was ill, one didn’t eat much.’ c. *Wenn ich krank war, aß ich nicht viel. ‘When(ever) I was ill, I didn’t eat much.’ d. Immer, wenn ich krank war, aß ich nicht viel. ‘Whenever I was ill, I didn’t eat much.’ e. Als ich krank war, aß ich nicht viel. ‘When I was ill, I didn’t eat much.’

(14) a.

The infelicity of (14b–c) lies in the semantic incompatibility between the ungiven but hypothetical background signaled by wenn and the speciﬁcation and givenness of time marked by the past tense morphology. The givenness of time collides with the hypothesis claimed by wenn. The acceptability of (14d), however, shows that the addition of an explicit hint in the sentence, namely the use of immer ‘always’, denoting universality and timelessness, serves to neutralize the potential infelicity caused by the mismatch between wenn and the marked time morphology. It makes possible the inference that a concrete instance of being ill is not given as the background. This function of restoring contingency explains the correlation between immer and wenn. (14e), in turn, is well formed because a semantic balance, a kind of pragmatic coherence, holds among all the three signs involved. All point, as it were, in the same direction: Als denotes that the background is given and can be taken for granted, the subject referent is pinned down by the “situationally evoked” (Prince 1982) referent of ich ‘I’, and the time is given by the specifying past tense. These examples show that the speaker can bring into play extra grammatical devices such as the indeﬁnite personal pronoun man, the extremity word immer, and marked tense morphology to accentuate the givenness or ungivenness of the background. A further example is the use of mood and modality in this function. Let us look at sentence (2), reproduced as (15) below, and sentence (16): (15) Ich hätte es auch nicht getan, wenn/*als du dich nicht geweigert hättest, mir nur ein einziges Glas Wein auszuschenken. ‘I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t refused to give me but one glass of wine.’ (16) Wie sollen wir dem Wesen nachfragen, wenn/*als sogleich strittig werden kann, was Wesen heißt? ‘How should we inquire of the essence, if it can immediately become controversial as to what essence means?’ (H, p.174) Sentence (15) is produced in the subjunctive mood as marked by the umlaut on the vowel of the ﬁnite verb in both the main clause and the subordinate clause. Subjunctive, by deﬁnition, relates to or constitutes “a verb form or sets of verb forms that

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represents a denoted act or state not as fact but as contingent or possible or viewed emotionally (as with doubt or desire)”, according to Webster’s Third New International Dictionary (1986). The use of wenn, a signal of BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN, exactly matches the counterfactual situation denoted by the subjunctive. The foreground situation is also in subjunctive — a counterfactual background supports nothing more than a counterfactual scenario. The use of als in place of wenn, however, would be illicit, as declared by the asterisk. This is because the meaning BACKGROUND GIVEN signaled by als claims that the speaker is certain about the situation being communicated and that the certainty is to be taken for granted by the hearer, which is exactly opposite to the meaning of the subjunctive. Sentence (16) illustrates the same strategy of using more than one means of signaling the tentativeness of the situation considered as background: The use of wenn as a sign of hypothetical background is coupled with the use of the modal verb kann, a signal of possibility according to the speaker’s evaluation on the basis of insuﬃcient evidence or certainty. Note also that the foreground clause with another modal verb sollen ‘should’ is in an interrogative mood, i.e. uncertainty par excellence. It is by means of this joined eﬀort that the ungivenness is reinforced. In general, our hypothesis predicts the following strategies in making choices between wenn and als: 1. Framing discourse. The speaker will use the two conjunctions to form diﬀerent discourse frames:³ The speaker will use als to frame the discourse as a story, or an episode within a story, of which the speaker claims exclusive knowledge; the speaker will use wenn to form a hypothesis frame in which he makes contingent statements that are open to the hearer’s questioning. 2. Givenness vs.ungivenness. As for a given background, the speaker will specify its time and its subject. As for a hypothetical background, its location in time is more likely to be unmarked than marked and the subject may not be speciﬁc. 3. Reinforcing. The speaker will use more than one grammatical means of claiming the state of the givenness of the background being introduced. Givenness will be coupled with devices for reinforcing the speaker’s certainty about the situation and ungivenness will be coupled with devices for recognizing contingency or tentativeness.

3.2. Validation of the hypothesis Our task for the following part of the study is to explain the diﬀerent occurrences of the two conjunctions based on the above hypothesis and strategies. Two questions need to be answered: (1) In what contexts does one occur instead of the other? (2) Why does the occurrence take the shape it does? To show the validity of our hypothesis that als signals BACKGROUND GIVEN and wenn signals BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN, we provide quantitative evidence to show that the two items are used in accordance with their respective instructional mean-

The givenness of background

ings. Quantitative data are especially important where the exact pattern of correlation between the use of a conjunction and other linguistic mechanisms is under investigation. Let us take the grammatical category of tense as an example and look at the compatibility between a conjunction and the tense in which the conjunction is used. As described by textbooks, wenn can be used in both the past tense and the non-past tense. The non-past tense includes the present tense, the present perfect tense⁴ and the future tense.⁵ In short, wenn is compatible with all tenses in German. It is understandable that something hypothetical can be related to the past, the present or the future, because hypotheticalness is essentially orthogonal to time, on a diﬀerent level than time. The “null hypothesis” would be that wenn, being equally compatible with all tenses, would occur with roughly the same frequency in each tense. However, when we perform frequency counts on the use of the conjunctions in texts, we confront the fact that wenn and als are not equally compatible with all diﬀerent tenses in German. The frequency counts that follow are taken from two corpora. Corpus E consists of the ﬁrst eight chapters of Ende (1973), a novel about a little girl named Momo and the world viewed from the perspective of Momo and her friends. Corpus H consists of three essays from Heidegger (1959), all of which are philosophical discussions of language interspersed with literary analyses of poetry as illustrations. Poetic examples are not included in the counting. As predicted, als does not occur at all in H, the philosophical analyses of poetic language. We argue that the absence of als in H reﬂects the lack of compatibility between the meaning of als, BACKGROUND GIVEN, and the communicational goal of the philosophical writing being surveyed. In other words, if everything were factual and to be taken for granted, there would be no room for thinking and analyzing, whereby ideas and arguments generate from hypotheses. Since wenn occurs in both E and H, and als occurs only in E, we need more evidence to determine the exact discourse frame they each favor. We consider it crucial to examine the particular contexts in which they occur in a text with potential sub-discourse frames. Corpus E is of advantage in this respect because it is richly ﬁlled with constructed conversations in the form of ﬁrst-person dialogues (henceforth FD), which clearly diﬀer from the writer’s narration in terms of discourse frame. Table 2 provides data on the distribution of wenn vs. als across discourse frames in the corpus E. Table 2 shows that 65.9% of wenn’s occurrences in E are found in constructed ﬁrst-person dialogues instead of the writer’s narration. All occurrences of als, on Table 1. Total numNber of occurrences of wenn and als in the two corpora

Corpus

wenn

als

E H

85 57

24 0

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90

Zhuo Jing Table 2. Choice of conjunction versus discourse frame in Corpus E Conjunction

FD

Narration

Total

wenn

54 65.9%

28 34.1%

82 100%

als

0 0%

24 100%

24 100%

the other hand, are part of the writer’s narration. The prediction about als as introducing a narrative background is conﬁrmed. The question now is what does it mean that wenn is favored more by ﬁrst-person dialogues than by the writer’s narration? Or, more precisely, within one and the same narrative text, other things being equal, in what way do constructed ﬁrst-person dialogues diﬀer from the writer’s narration? We argue that constructed conversations are verbal exchanges in mock interactions and therefore show the interactive quality and illocutionary force of real face-to-face speech communications (cf. Searle1969). In Tannen’ s (1988) words, it is about “the creation of voices” that “ﬁres the individual imagination”. Tannen argues: . . . [The activation of the individual imagination is what makes it possible to understand another’s speech. This understanding — communication — simultaneously establishes the sense of rapport, of individual involvement with other individuals, that makes communication a social activity. As a culturally familiar ﬁgure, constructed dialogue in conversation and in ﬁction is a means by which experience surpasses story to become drama — a drama staged in the speech of one individual and enacted in the mind of another. The creation of drama from personal experience and hearsay contributes to the emotional involvement that is crucial for understanding and becomes the basis of human interaction”. (Tannen 1988: 91).

Clearly, the wonder of constructed dialogue is the dramatic emotional involvement, or subjectivity, to use Langacker’ s words, it presents. Compared to constructed dialogue, which is subjectively charged, narration is less so. Having recognized this diﬀerence between the two discourse frames, we can now explain the greater utilization of wenn in FD than in narration in terms of the compatibility between the meaning of wenn and the subjective nature of FD. If what wenn introduces into the discourse is a hypothetical background, then the nature of this piece of discourse is nonfactual and therefore open to individual evaluations, imaginations, and attitudes shaped by individual experience. In short, wenn enables subjective discourse that is above the level of facts. Because of this, wenn ﬁts perfectly into the dramatic discourse in ﬁrst-person dialogues. FD disfavors als because it is factually oriented and speaker-oriented: Such an orientation is motivated by the invariant meaning BACKGROUND GIVEN. The factual background it provides serves the speaker’s structuring of discourse while contrib-

The givenness of background

uting little to the exchange of ideas in communication that is also hearer-oriented. The factual orientation exhibited by als explains its aptness as a zoom-in device used for the introducing of an episode. Actually, on 12 out of a total of 24 occasions in the corpus E als is used to begin a new paragraph in text. On another note, the fact-oriented use of als in introducing episodes and stories in the past may create the impression that als is used to refer to single events, as observed by the pedagogic and traditional grammars. The second strategy, GIVENNESS VS UNGIVENNESS, is measured in two ways. First, we examine the types of the grammatical subject NP of the background clause introduced by the respective conjunctions in search for cues that indicate the givenness or ungivenness of the subject. The criterion here is the assumption that when the speaker introduces a given background, the referent of the grammatical subject is already diﬀerentiated or “pinned down”.⁶ That is, the subject is given as definite, or DIFFERENTIATION REQUIRED AND MADE, according to Kirsner (1972), rather than indeﬁnite (where the diﬀerentiation of an intended referent from other, potential referents is either not achieved, as in “DIFFERENTIATION REQUIRED AND NOT MADE” or is irrelevant to the speaker’s purpose, as in “DIFFERENTIATION NOT REQUIRED”). In the present study, a subject NP is considered deﬁnite when it is any of the following: (1) an NP with a deﬁnite article (henceforth D-NP); (2) a proper name; (3) a deﬁnite personal pronoun (henceforth D-PP); (4) deixis such as dies (e/ er/es) ‘this/these’, solch (e/er/e) ‘such’. A subject NP is considered indeﬁnite when it is marked by any of the following: (1) an NP with an indeﬁnite article (ein/einer/eine ‘a’) or an indeﬁnite adjective (manch ‘some’); (2) an indeﬁnite pronoun (man ‘one’, jemand ‘somebody’, es ‘it’); (3) an NP with no determiner, neither article nor attribution. Now look at Table 3. All occurrences of als are found with a deﬁnite subject NP and no indeﬁnite subject NPs are found in the als-clauses. By contrast, wenn is more versatile and exhibits high compatibility with indeﬁnite referents. The prediction is thus conﬁrmed. The high tolerance for indeﬁnite subject NP exhibited by wenn is also conﬁrmed by a survey of corpus H (see table 4). Another way of measuring deﬁniteness is based on the assumption that marked tenses (non-present) are linguistic devices for marking a situation given by specifying its location in time. We counted the number of occurrences of wenn versus als in the present tense and in the past tense in the indicative mood. Subjunctives are not

Table 3. Choice of conjunction versus type of subject NP in Corpus E ConjunctionD-NP

D-PP

Deixis

Proper N

Indeﬁnite

Total

wenn

6 7.3%

46 56.1%

2 2.4%

2 2.4%

26 31.7%

82 100%

als

10 41.7%

10 41.7%

3 12.5%

1 4.1%

0 0%

24 100%

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Zhuo Jing Table 4. Use of wenn versus deﬁniteness of subject NP in Corpus H Deﬁnite

Indeﬁnite

Total

27 47.4%

30 52.6%

57 100%

included. The present tense includes present (inferably future) and present perfect and the past tense includes simple past and past perfect. Consider Table 5. The data on als demonstrate an absolute correlation between the meaning BACKGROUND GIVEN and the deﬁniteness of temporal reference — past tense. The data on wenn show that wenn is not evenly distributed across the two tenses it matches theoretically. Wenn is used two and a quarter times as frequently in the present tense as in the past tense. This fact is clearly a direct consequence of wenn’s meaning BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN. When wenn is present in a piece of discourse, it hints that the situation is tentative and hypothetical and therefore may not be elaborated upon with regard to its temporal location. To discourse on something hypothetical in the past is by nature of the term and by default less common than to do so in a non-past environment. Because the unknown is hypothetical in nature, it is probably not beyond common sense that people tend to associate the unknown with hypothesis more than they do the known. The distinction between the unknown and the known is a function of time. The same survey is done with wenn in corpus H (where no als occurs). Here all the occurrences of wenn in the indicative mood are found in the present tense, which suggests that given facts associated with the past are uninteresting for the analytic purpose of philosophy. Thus the prediction that marked tense morphology is a correlate of the givenness of the background is conﬁrmed. In the third strategy, REINFORCING, we assume that the speaker will employ additional linguistic means of representing the state of givenness of the background introduced by the respective conjunctions. Here we explore the following two linguistic mechanisms: (1) the use of mood and modality in expressing the degree of the speaker’s certainty about the situation. We assume that the degree of certainty marked by mood and modality immediately reﬂects the state of givenness as judged by the speaker. (2) The use of lexical means in reinforcing the state of givenness. As Table 5. Choice of conjunction versus grammatical tense in Corpus E Conjunction

Present

Past

Total in indicative

wenn

47 69.1%

21 30.9%

68 100%

als

0 0%

24 100%

24 100%

The givenness of background Table 6. Choice of conjunction versus mood and modality in Corpus E Conjunction

Subjunctive

Modal verb

Total

wenn

16 19.5%

14 17%

82 100%

als

0 0%

1 4.2%

24 100%

for the ﬁrst mechanism, we measure the degree of certainty by counting the number of occurrences of wenn versus als in the subjunctive mood and in cases where the predicate is a modal verb. Here, subjunctives and modal verbs in both the subordinate clause and the main clause are counted on account of the grammatical agreement between ﬁnite verbs in the two clauses. As for the second mechanism, the criterion is that degree words (in Bolinger’ s sense 1972) and modal particles are further investments made by the speaker in reinforcing the claim of givenness or ungivenness. Observe the data in Table 6. Table 6 shows that while the occurrences of wenn in subjunctive make up 19.5% of its total number of occurrences, als does not occur at all in this mood. The correlation between the subjunctive and wenn provides sound evidence that wenn has a meaning that is compatible with more than just one single grammatical facet. The compatibility cannot be accounted for in terms of either temporality or conditionality alone. The wenn-subjunctive is a case that most of the time does not fall into either category. Consider the following example: (16) Sie hatten niemand, der ihnen so zuhören konnte, dass sie davon gescheit, versöhnlich, oder gar froh geworden wären. Aber selbst, wenn es dort so jemand gegeben hätte, es wäre doch höchst zweifelhaft gewesen, ob sie je zu ihm hingegangen wären — es sei denn, man hätte die Sache in fünf Minuten erledigen können. ‘They had no one who could listen to them like that such that they would have become smart, conciliatory, or even happy. But even if there had been some such person, it hwould be very doubtful whether he would have ever gone to him — unless they could get the matter done within ﬁve minutes.’ (E, pp. 70–71) The use of wenn in (16) cannot be accurately described in terms of tense, nor in terms of conditionality. Note that the circumstance stated by the wenn-clause does not provide a condition, suﬃcient or necessary, for the situation stated in the following main clause to hold. In fact, wenn introduces a hypothetical, or, to be precise, counterfactual, situation the potential eﬀect of which is immediately rejected through the proposition stated in the main clause. Such a sentence is known as the concessive sentence, the function of which is to contradict the eﬀect of a madeup instance as the potential alternative to reality. The notion conditional, a notion

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traditional grammars — including the Duden Grammatik — adopt to describe the meaning of wenn, proves useless in this case. This example makes the notion of ungiven background more conceivable in terms of hypotheticality. Moreover, because something made-up rather than real cannot be referred to as given, the logical subject of the wenn-clause can only be as fuzzy as so jemand ‘some such person’, a blurred image in a hypothesis. It is interesting to note that the subjunctive is not just used in one sentence; it is all over the place in the entire discourse. The dense use of the subjunctive in the discourse environment surrounding wenn makes the meaning of this conjunction even more obvious. The fact that als ﬁnds itself in the position of being completely disfavored by the subjunctive reﬂects the high degree of factuality associated with the meaning of als. The subjunctive form as one morpheme serves a semantic function that is the opposite of the conjunction als as another. Thus the two morphemes will not coexist within the span of one meaningful sentence. The quantitative observation made with wenn versus als with regard to their respective relationships with modal verbs raises further analytic interest: The combination of wenn with modal verbs achieves a percentage roughly four times as high as that of als. The explanation can be found in the semantic interaction between the two grammatical components in question, the conjunctions and the modal verbs. Let us now explore the semantic nature of modal verbs. These verbs normally distinguish themselves from non-modal verbs by their “modal markedness” among other qualities. This is a term used by Joos (1968) in describing the unique characteristic of modal verbs. Joos diﬀerentiates between “relative assertion” and “factual assertion”. The former refers to a clause with a modal and the latter refers to one without a modal. As opposed to factual assertion that has truth-value, relative assertion assumes no such truth-value with respect to the event. It rather suggests “the relation of that event in terms of its potential for realization or fulﬁllment (relationship to reality)”.⁷ Halliday (1970) elucidates the non-factual and subjective nature of modal verbs with his straightforward deﬁnition of modality: “modality, then, is the speaker’s assessment of probability and predictability. It is external to the content, being a part of the attitude taken up by the speaker: his attitude, in this case, towards his own speech role as ‘declarer’” (Halliday 1970: 349)

Whether it is about potentiality or probability or predictability, one thing should be certain. That is, modal verbs are used to compose the speaker’s “comments” on and evaluation of the events instead of providing objective information about the occurrence of the events. They are of subjective nature and are by and large emotionally charged. The subjectivity of modality is unambiguously asserted by Lyons (1995) who argues “subjective modality is more common than objective modality in most everyday uses of language”. He maintains that speakers (locutionary agents, in Lyons’ terms) tend to use modal verbs to express “either their own beliefs and attitudes or their own will and authority, rather than reporting, as neutral observers, the existence of this or that state of aﬀairs. (p. 330)”

The givenness of background

An observation that additionally supports the subjective use of the modal verbs is provided by the fact that all the modal verbs occurred in sentences with wenn in the corpus E are also in constructed ﬁrst-person dialogues, the subjective nature of which has been already discussed in the previous part of the study. Having explained the use of the modal verbs in the wenn-sentences in terms of subjectivity, it is clear that the correlation between the use of modal verbs and the conjunction wenn with the meaning BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN is nonarbitrary. The common subjectivity determines a closeness of ﬁt of the two. Unlike wenn, als has a meaning that motivates the message of non-modal, i.e. factual. A given background must be known and familiar to the speaker. Nothing is more so than facts whose actual occurrence concerns the speaker. Thus it should be no wonder that als shows a lower compatibility with modal verbs that denote the speaker’s belief state or attitudes rather than facts. Unsurprisingly, the only occasion on which als co-occurs with a modal verb in the corpus E is one where the modal verb is used in a non-subjective manner. Witness the sentence: (17) Als Marxentius Communus erkennen musste, dass nun trotz allem eigentlich alles beim alten geblieben war, hüllte er sein Haupt in die Toga und ging davon. Wohin, hat man niemals erfahren. ‘When Marxentius Communus had to recognise that, despite everything, everything actually remained the old way, he covered up his head with a toga and walked away. Where he went, we have never found out.’ (p.48) First of all, this sentence as part of the narration reveals the viewpoint taken by the third-person narrator who is not involved in the story. The deliberately detached viewpoint of the writer can be seen clearly in both the propositional content of the last sentence above and the use of the indeﬁnite personal pronoun man in it. With this distancing statement, the incidence introduced by the als-sentence is complete with a closure. Given the detached viewpoint, we can tell that the modal verb musste is used in a very much objective manner accordingly. That is, it signals that a high degree of necessity is imposed upon the subject by the external force of reality, as stated in the following complement clause introduced by dass. By virtue of objectivity, the situation can be taken for granted as the setting in which the accurate main line event unfolds. This example, rather than undermining the meaning we have postulated for als, provides a further proof of its meaning BACKGROUND GIVEN. A further observation that is of analytic interest with regard to the strategy of reinforcing is that, more often than not, wenn co-occurs with both the subjunctive and a modal verb, as in the following example: (18) Wenn ich das richtige Leben führen könnte, dann wäre ich ein ganz andere Mensch! ‘If I could live the right kind of life, I would be a completely diﬀerent person!’ (p. 58)

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This sentence is a clear illustration of the speaker’s eﬀort to reinforce the low degree of givenness, or high hypotheticalness in this context, by combining mood and modality. Thus far, the prediction of reinforcement as a strategy is conﬁrmed on account of the frequency counts of wenn versus als in subjunctive and with modal verbs. As far as lexical devices for reinforcing are concerned, we found that als is more often than not accompanied by the following adverbs denoting the speaker’s perception of time: schließlich ‘ﬁnally’, nun ‘now’, noch ‘still’, wieder ‘again’, and einmal ‘once’. These adverbs serve to give an accurate measure of the speaker’s perception and experience of the situation in terms of time and thereby indicate that the hearer/ reader can depend on and take for granted the speaker/writer’s knowledge about the background information he provides. As for wenn, we found that it is frequently, that is, on 32 occasions out of a total of 82, used with the adverb dann, as in (18) above. We argue that the adverb dann ‘then’, which is not grammatically obligatory, serves to strengthen the contingency between the hypothetical background and the main line situation. Some modal particles such as nur ‘only’, selbst ‘even’, meistens ‘mostly’, and erst ‘not . . . until’ are also observed to highlight the high contingency of the situation. Apparently, the choice of these lexical items is not arbitrary, but rather coherent with the respective meanings of the two conjunctions. Thus far, all three statistical skewings predicted by our hypothesis are conﬁrmed. In the following part of the chapter, I will re-examine some of the examples given in the Kontakte textbook in the light of the analysis of wenn and als, which I have presented here. Sentence (7a), repeated below for the reader’s convenience, is meant to illustrate what is called “conditional” by the textbook: (19) Wenn man auf diesen Knopf drückt, öﬀnet sich die Tür. ‘If you press this button, the door will open.’ This is a good example to serve the purpose because this sentence is about a theoretical consequence triggered by a certain event. However, the dependency between ‘the door will open’ and ‘you press the button’ is only theoretically certain. In other words, it is possible in reality that the door may not open even if you press the button due to whatever factors beyond the expectation based on the condition. Since ‘you press the button’ is something that has not taken place, the predicted consequence ‘the door will open’ cannot be taken for granted on that hypothetical background. Thus it is safe to replace — as an explanation for the use of wenn — the truth-conditional notion of conditionality with the concept of an instruction by the speaker to the hearer to understand the presented background as ungiven rather than given. This instructional meaning rather than a descriptive truth-conditional notion of conditionality better motivates the perceived message of hypotheticalness. Note that ambiguous cases abound in the conditional usage of wenn. Whereas a cautious English speaker struggles to decide between Give me a call if you have time and Give me a call when you have time in her discourse strategy, a German speaker

The givenness of background

need not worry about such a choice. By not oﬀering a given background that can be taken for granted, wenn leaves enough room for the face-related issue of pushiness to be diluted and the hearer interprets the message based on other cues in the verbal or non-verbal exchange of information. In short, wenn is not necessarily or precisely what either conditionality or temporality is able to account for. In this respect, even some traditional grammars admit the dilemma the user has in diﬀerentiating conditionality and temporality. Hentschel and Weydt (1990) remark: Bei wenn ist der Bezug (temporal oder konditional) oft nicht eindeutig entscheidbar und kann nur anhand des Kontextes bestimmt werden, da die Konjunktion nicht zwischen Konditionalität und Temporalität unterscheidet. (p. 271) In the case of wenn it is often not unambiguous as to which meaning (temporal or conditional) is being referred to. The reference can be determined only with the aid of the context, because the conjunction does not diﬀerentiate between conditionality and temporality. [Translation mine, Z. J.]

The reason why the conjunction wenn does not distinguish between conditionality and temporality is that it means neither one nor the other, but assumes a higher degree of semantic abstraction. Let us now turn to temporality in relation to the contrast between wenn and als. Given the compatibility in terms of tense which wenn and als seem to share, at least partially, as traditional grammars describe, wenn still cannot be used in any even remotely familiar way als is used in any of the tenses with which both als and wenn show suﬃcient compatibility. In the past tense wenn is traditionally perceived as a word that refers to a repeated or habitual act or event, as the textbook describes it. The English translation ‘whenever’, which well renders the message of the German wenn, gives the illusion that the traditional description does suﬃcient justice to the semantic aspect of wenn. In fact, that wenn refers to a repeated or customary act or event is just a vague impression of one message conveyed by wenn in the given context, no matter how close the English translation seems to be to the German original form. Sentence (7b), repeated below as (20), does not emphasize an action Mr. Wagner repeatedly or habitually performed in the past: (20) Wenn Herr Wagner nach Hause kam, freuten sich die Kinder. ‘When(ever) Mr. Wagner came home, the children would be happy.’ Based on the information given in the sentence, we cannot precisely decide whether Mr. Wagner did actually come home or not. And this is the point of this sentence: What the wenn-clause focuses on is a hypothetical background that oﬀers a circumstance in the past under which the content of the main clause can be expected to be true. Thus the sentence instructs the hearer that given the hypothetical background of Mr. Wagner’s coming home in the past, the children’s being happy would be true. The hearer is given the hint not to mind whether the event is real but to picture it in imagination on the hypothetical background. Precisely because wenn signals BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN, the main clause freuten sich die Kinder is translated into

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English as ‘the children would be happy’ rather than ‘the children were happy’ — a diﬀerence between contingency and fact. That the modal verb would substitutes the simple past were in the English translation reveals the nature of the original sentence in German. It is about something hypothetical, not actual. Logically, only something hypothetical can be treated as a variable that has the potential of being unlimitedly repeated. This is probably why the authors of the textbook decided that they were justiﬁed in describing the meaning of wenn in terms of repetition or habituality. Als used in the past tense forms a contrast to wenn, which is explained by the textbook in terms of once-versus-more-than-once. The textbook is limited to a simplistic solution to the semantic contrast: compared to wenn, als refers to non-recurring events. It is simplistic because it ignores the context in which each subordinating conjunction occurs by looking solely at the subordinate clause introduced by the conjunction in question and treating it as a self-suﬃcient entity. Contemplating the whole sentence (6a), repeated below as (21), one comes to realize that the weight of the sentence lies in the main clause, or the main line situation, hence the background-foreground distinction: (21) Als ich 15 Jahre alt war, sind meine Eltern nach Texas gezogen. ‘When I was 15 years old, my parents moved to Texas.’ It does not matter whether ‘I was 15 years old’ is recurring or non-recurring, what concerns the hearer is that ‘I was 15 years old’ is a fact to be taken for granted. This fact oﬀers a ﬁxed reference point or background for the hearer to approach what is to be said next: ‘my parents moved to Texas’, which is the occurrence intended to be the core of the information. It is not really important in which tense something is talked about. However, as I already suggest in the previous part of the study, something that has the nature of givenness has the logical tendency to be a fait accompli. This is why the textual frequency of als markedly skews towards the past tense while departing from the non-past tense. All of the 24 instances are observed in the past tense and none in the present, thus needless so say the future. The possibility of future tense that indicates any possible distance from the actual now is deﬁnitely ruled out wherever als is used as a subordinating conjunction to set the given background. Since the primary concern of a sentence with an als-clause is to introduce a given background, there may or may not be any necessary causality between the two occurrences distributed in the dependent clause and the main clause, respectively. Causality or non-causality is not of signiﬁcance; what matters is the introduction of events according to the viewing arrangement made by the speaker. The two events may occur simultaneously or the event presented in the subordinate clause may precede or follow the event introduced by the main clause. This is what the German grammars such as Duden, Buscha, Hentschel & Weydt, and Genzmer, inter alia, call the simultaneity, the anteriority and the subsequency. In any case, however, the meaning of als remains its consistency in the sense of BACKGROUND GIVEN. It

The givenness of background

does not undergo any change because of the diﬀerent time order the als-clause possesses each time. Now I would like to discuss in a more detailed fashion the descriptive account of wenn oﬀered by Duden Grammatik regarding the hypothetical versus the conditional meaning, which has already been touched upon in the review of traditional grammars. Look at (9) again, reintroduced here as (22) below: Es würde mich sehr freuen, wenn ich ihn sehen würde. ‘I would be very much pleased, if I would see him.’ a′. Dass ich ihn sehen werde, wird mich sehr freuen. ‘That I would see him would please me very much.’ b. Wenn das wahr ist, dann müssen wir uns beeilen. ‘If this is true, then we have to rush.’

(22) a.

Contemplating the two examples given by Duden, one notices that the same sign wenn is used in two settings that diﬀer from each other in the following ways: First, sentence (22a) is in subjunctive mood while (22b) is in indicative. Second, the wenn-clause in (22a) is placed behind the main clause whereas the wenn-clause in (22b) is placed in the ﬁrst position. It is argued in this study, once again, that a syntactic paraphrase relationship is not a reliable criterion in semantic analyses. Sentence (22a) is not and cannot be semantically identical to (22a′) even though the transformed structure may sound close enough to the original. In fact, sentence (22a) conveys a very diﬀerent message than sentence (22a′) does. Sentence (22a) suggests a high degree of hypotheticality that is unmistakably connected with wenn and the subjunctive as well as the sentential position of the wenn-clause. By contrast, (22a′) is almost on route to actuality because of the substitution of wenn with dass and because of the replacement of the subjunctive with the indicative. The relative pronoun dass is one subordinating conjunction that denotes objective reality, and the indicative mood in which objective assertions are made. Apparently, what is lost in the paraphrase relationship from (22a) to (22a′) is of great semantic and pragmatic signiﬁcance. To claim that (22a) and (22a′) are the same is mistaken. It is obvious that the value of the syntactic paraphrase relationship is too questionable to be trusted in setting any norms for a semantic analysis. The diﬀerences between (22a) and (22b) cannot be attributed to whether or not they are subject to a syntactic paraphrase relationship. As a matter of fact, the diﬀerences between these two sentences do not invalidate the postulation of the invariant meaning for wenn, but rather support the idea that the same sign can be used diﬀerently in varying contexts. Sentence (22a) is diﬀerent from (22b) not because wenn has a diﬀerent meaning in one sentence than in the other. The meaning of the conjunction itself is not so powerful as to dictate the whole set of contrasts. The sign remains rather stable by maintaining the same meaning BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN while being in constant interaction with other grammatical elements on a number of linguistic levels. The

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subjunctive form in (22a), compared to indicative formulations, denotes a contrafact that is of lower probability. The secondary position of the wenn-clause in (22a) is a signal that indicates the fact that the wenn-clause is less salient than the main clause in the ﬁrst position of the sequence. The two factors, the subjunctive plus the backgrounding of the wenn-clause, are coupled with each other in (22a). This combination reinforces the message of unlikelihood, one that is in tune with the meaning of wenn. In pragmatic terms, it is natural that the speaker tends to adopt a relatively humble tone to express her wish (isn’t any wish an emotionally triggered hypothesis?) of ‘I would be pleased’ when she evaluates the probability of ‘I would see him’ as low; or when she intends to show politeness by being pessimistic (cf. Brown & Levinson 1978 on strategies of politeness). It is true that the entire consideration of the linguistic texture of such sentences as (22a) is beyond native speakers’ awareness. German speakers, like speakers of many other languages, conventionally use them to show politeness in communication. However, the fact that such forms are associated with a certain degree of social ﬁnesse and dignity reveals the direct link between semantic structures and symbolic interaction. In contrast to (22a), sentence (22b) is in the indicative mood and the wenn-clause is pushed forward to the ﬁrst place of the sequence and thus is more salient. That is to say, the wenn-clause indicates a hypothetical state of relatively high probability in comparison to its subjunctive counterpart. But in any case, by virtue of wenn, which indicates that a background is not given and that the hypothetical background cannot be taken for granted, it is not assumed that the hypothetical world is close to reality. The adverb dann leading the main clause refers back to the preposed wenn-clause and in so doing adds extra emphasis on the contingency it represents. The hypothetical world, though oﬀering suﬃcient motivation, does not necessarily oﬀer any condition for what is said in the main clause. Thus one can see that the validity of the meaning BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN postulated for wenn remains intact in this context as well. From my previous discussion of als, it is clear that this subordinating conjunction is always used in the sense of givenness, or actuality, no matter in which tense and whether at a certain point or in a certain period of time. Thus when we think of the separation of temporality from factuality made by Duden, we can dismiss it as unnecessary because the factual quality of als is present in all tenses where als can be used. Yet, the notion of factuality alone neither claims nor explains the syntactic function of subordination served by als. In other words, facts are asserted everywhere in verbal communications, but als is not used wherever facts are claimed. The key point is the relationship between the background and the foreground events. It is by means of the linking agent als that the telling of facts receives a perspective and stops being arbitrary and becomes meaningful and communicative. The same thing applies to wenn. For this reason, a linguistic analysis must reveal the relational meaning of the two items and not just the isolated sense of factuality and hypotheticality. This consideration justiﬁes the concentration on the relational notion of background as the central aspect of the invariant meanings postulated for wenn and als.

The givenness of background

4. Conclusion I have argued in this study that the two modern german subordinating conjunctions wenn and als show diﬀering distributions and uses across discourse frame, tense and mood and that they exhibit a striking diﬀerence in the ability to tolerate an indeﬁnite subject. Wenn is favored by subjective discourses and analytic discourses whereas als is not utilized in dramatic dialogues nor in philosophical discourses, but in narratives for introducing episodes. While wenn can be used in just about any tense, it is more frequently used in the non-past tense and it has a high compatibility with the subjunctive, modal verbs, modal particles and indeﬁnite subject NPs. Not all uses of wenn can be explained either in terms of conditionality or in terms of temporality. Als occurs only in the past tense, although it theoretically can be used in the present tense as well. Als does not tolerate the future tense and the subjunctive. Even though both wenn and als can be used in the past tense, they are not used in the same way and are never interchangeable without introducing signiﬁcant differences in the massage being communicated. All these contrasting aspects are both formally real and statistically evidenced. They are not random and they demand explanation. In the present study, one invariant instructional meaning has been postulated for each individual conjunction within “the system of speaker’s instruction to the givenness of the background”. The advantage of this postulation is that the meaning is relatively abstract and thus allows a wider range of semantic interpretations in varying contexts. The meaning BACKGROUND NOT GIVEN of wenn and the meaning BACKGROUND GIVEN of als, from which concrete messages in speciﬁc situations can be derived, are shown to be successful in explaining all uses of the conjunctions. The postulation also makes it possible to explain why a certain meaning inhibits some grammatical representations and favors others in terms of the deﬁniteness of the subject NP and in terms of tense, mood and modality.

Notes * This chapter developed from a term paper I had written for Professor Robert Kirsner’ s German 238 course at UCLA, “Linguistic theory and grammatical description.” I am grateful for Professor Kirsner’ s valuable eﬀort to improve the earlier version of this work. However, errors in this chapter are exclusively mine. For further discussion of the Columbia School, see Contini-Morava 1995. 1. Duden does not explicitly term the semantic aspect as “factual”; but it clearly claims that this aspect is non-temporal. Duden decides that sentence 5d can be transformed into a sentence with a factual dass-clause: Dass er plötzlich auftauchte, (das) freute mich ungemein. Duden points out that both 5d and its paraphrase relationship are to be viewed as factual: “In beiden Fällen wird der Inhalt des Inhaltsatzes als tatsächlich gegeben gesetzt.” (p. 745) 2. See Langacker (1990) on speaker’s viewing arrangement and subjectivity. 3. The notion of a “frame” is born out of the sociolinguistic research known as symbolic

20

202 Zhuo Jing interaction. Bateson, in his celebrated essay A theory of play and fantasy (1972), showed that even monkeys engaged interactive actions that as a whole sequence suggests “this is play” versus “this is combat”. The message that “this is play” is a frame, contrasting to other potential frames such as “I am ﬁghting you” or “I am threatening you”. Goﬀman (1974) adopted Bateson’ s concept and used in his analyses of human social interaction. The “frame” in his sense is the way individuals deﬁne the situation within which the interaction occurs. 4. The present perfect is concerned more with aspect than with tense. It has been suggested that present perfect marks the boundedness of events and therefore signals the speaker’s perspective. See Sasse (2001) on aspectology and Löbner (1988) on tense, aspect and aktionsart. 5. German does not have overt future marking. Given appropriate contexts, the unmarked present tense can give rise to an inference of the future. For example, the German sentence Er kommt morgen früh an is literally ‘He arrives tomorrow morning’, understood as ‘He will arrive tomorrow morning’ in English. The so-called werden-future, rather than marking temporality, expresses the speaker’s certainty or determination with regard to the situation being communicated. 6. See Kirsner (1972) on the meaning of the Dutch deﬁnite article. 7. See Bouma (1973) on modal verbs in German.

References Bateson, G. 1972. Steps to an Ecology of Mind. Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press. Bolinger, D. 1972. Degree Words. The Hague/Paris: Mouton. Bouma, L. 1973. The Semantics of the Modal Auxiliaries in Contemporary German. The Hague, Paris: Mouton. Brown, P. & S. Levinson 1978. Politeness. Studies in Interactional Sociolinguistics 4. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Buscha, J. 1989. Lexikon Deutscher Konjunktionen. Leipzig: VEB Verlag Enzyklopädie. Chafe, W. 1976. “Givenness, contrastiveness, deﬁniteness, subjects, topics, and point of view.” In Subject and Topic, C. Li (ed), 25–55. New York: Academic Press. Contini-Morava, E. 1995. “Introduction: On linguistic sign theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds.), 1–39. Contini-Morava, E. and Goldberg, B. S. (eds). 1995. Meaning as Explanation: Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Croft, William.1990. Typology and Universals. Cambridge Textbooks in Linguistics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Diver, W. 1969. “The system of relevance of the Homeric verb.” Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 12: 45–68. Diver, W. 1981. “On deﬁning the discipline.” Columbia University Working Papers in Linguistics 6, 59–117. Diver, W. 1995. “Theory.” In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds.), 43–114. Duden 4 Die Grammatik. 1995. 5. Auﬂage. Mannheim/Leipzig/Wien/Zürich: Dudenverlag. Duden Deutsches Universal Wörterbuch. 1998. Mannheim, Leipzig, Wien, Zürich: Dudenverlag. Ende, M. 1973. Momo. Stuttgart: K. Thienemanns Verlag.

The givenness of background 203 García, E. 1975. The role of Theory in Linguistic Analysis: The Spanish Pronoun System. Amsterdam: North Holland. Genzmer, H. 1995. Deutsche Grammatik. Frankfurt am Main & Leipzig: Insel. Givón, T. and C. Li (eds.) 1979. Discourse and Syntax. New York: Academic Press. Goﬀman, E. 1974. Frame Analysis. Boston: Northeastern University Press. Halliday, M. A. K. 1970. “Functional diversity in language as seen from a consideration of modality and mood in English.” Foundations of Language 6: 322–361. Heidegger, M. 1959. Unterwegs zur Sprache. Stuttgart: Verlag Günter Neske. Hentschel, E. and Weydt, H., 1990. Handbuch der deutschen Grammatik. New York, Berlin: de Gruyter. Hopper, P. 1979. “Aspect and foregrounding in discourse. In Givón and Li (eds.), 213–241. Joos, M. 1968. The English Verb: Form and Meanings. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Kirsner, R. S. 1972. On Deixis and Degree of Diﬀerentiation in Modern Standard Dutch, unpublished doctoral dissertation. Columbia University, New York. Kirsner, R. S. 1979a. “Deixis in discourse: an exploratory quantitative study of the modern Dutch demonstrative adjectives.” In Givón and Li (eds.), 355–375. Kirsner, R. S. 1979b. The problem of Presentative Sentences in Modern Dutch. Amsterdam: North Holland. Lambrecht, K. 1994. Information Structure and Sentence Form. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Langacker, R. 1990. “Subjectivity.” Cognitive Linguistics 1 (1): 5–38. Löbner, S. 1988. “Ansätze zu einer integralen semantischen Theorie von Tempus, Aspekt und Aktionsarten.” In Temporalsemantik, V. Ehrich and H. Vater (eds.), 163–191. Beiträge zur Linguistik der Zeitreferenz. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag. Lyons, J. 1995. Linguistic Semantics. New York/Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary.1986. Springﬁeld, MA: Merriam Webster, Inc. Reid, Wallis. 1976. “The quantitative validation of a grammatical hypothesis: the passé simple and the imparfait” In Proceedings of the 7th Meeting of the North Eastern Linguistic Society, J. A. Kegal, D. Nash and A. Zaenen (eds), 315–333. Sasse, H-J. 2001. Recent Activity in the Theory of Aspect. Arbeitspapier 40 (Neue Folge). Institut für Sprachwissenschaft. Universität zu Köln. Searle, J.1969. Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tannen, D. 1988. “Hearing voices in conversation, ﬁction, and mixed genres. In Linguistics in Context: Connecting Observation and Understanding, D. Tannen (ed.), 89–113. Vol. XXIX. in Advances in Discourse Processes, Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Terrell, T. D., Tschirner, E., Nikolai, B. and Genzmer, H., 1996. Kontakte. New York: McGrawHill. Traugott, E.1989. “On the rise of epistemic meanings in English: An example of subjectiﬁcation in semantic change.” Language 65 (1): 31–55. Whaley, L. 1997. Introduction to Typology. Thousand Oaks/London/New Delhi: SAGE Publications.

CHAPTER 7

The relevance of relevance in linguistic analysis Spanish subjunctive mood Bob de Jonge Groningen University

1. Introduction In this chapter I will argue, as others have done previously (cf. for instance Klein 1975), that the various phenomena observed in the distribution of the subjunctive and the indicative moods in Spanish may be explained by means of a single, unitary meaning for, respectively, both indicative and subjunctive.¹ The proposed hypothesis has the advantage over others in the fact that it can oﬀer a general explanation for the distribution of both forms and does not need to rely on various descriptionlike “meanings” for the occurrences of the subjunctive in diﬀerent distributional environments. The meaning presented in this study is non-arbitrary in the sense that it is not only compatible with the distribution of the forms but also justiﬁes or motivates that distribution. If a non-arbitrary meaning is capable of justifying and predicting the distribution of linguistic forms, then all meanings of all linguistic forms could, and in my view should, be taken as responsible for linguistic structure as a whole.², ³ Before presenting the hypothesis to be examined here, some of the most important previously hypothesized meanings for the subjunctive mood will be brieﬂy reviewed.⁴

2. Some previous studies Klein (1975), who bases herself on Hooper (1975) and Terrell and Hooper (1974), tries to demonstrate that the indicative mood indicates ‘assertion’ of the occurrence expressed by the verb, and that the subjunctive indicates ‘non-assertion’ in complement clauses (Klein 1975: 353). However, there are some problematic cases, as shown by (1), taken from Klein (1975: 355): (1) Lamento que aprenda (S) ‘I regret that he should learn’ [translation Klein’ s]

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In Klein’ s view, with “main verbs of comment, such as lamentar ‘regret’ [. . .] the nonassertion of the complement can only be taken to indicate that it is not the purpose of the sentence to state this fact, but only to comment on it [. . .]”. This is essentially circular: reasoning that the meaning of the subjunctive mood is non-assertion, and that then aprenda cannot be taken as an assertion (in spite of its factuality in the real-world-situation) is only valid because of the assumption that the subjunctive mood means non-assertion. Moreover, if the subjunctive mood is caused by the verb lamentar, whose purpose is to comment on aprender and not to assert it, then other constructions which also comment on the subordinate clause should behave in precisely the same way. That this is not the case is shown by (2): (2) Es evidente que aprende zz(I) ‘It is obvious that he is learning’ There are, at least, two observations to be made. In the ﬁrst place, it might be objected that que aprende here constitutes a subject clause that may therefore behave diﬀerently. However, this would allow arbitrariness in the analysis, whereas we hypothesize that the meaning of the subjunctive should determine its distribution. If meaning is the basic ingredient of a linguistic form, then that meaning (and that form) should occur only in combinations with those other meanings (and the linguistic forms signaling them) that are congruent with it. Of course, this point of view does not allow (meaningless) syntactic categories to determine the distribution of the other linguistic forms in their contexts.⁵ The second observation to be made is that es evidente indicates a comment on a factual occurrence. This observation contradicts the explanation of (1): if a main clause that indicates a comment — any comment — on the subordinate clause causes subjunctive mood, then it should always do so, and not only with certain kinds of comments in certain constructions. This certainly must be the case if we are to take meaning seriously, and as I said in the beginning, it is my intention to do exactly that. Other important studies that focus on meaning related to subjunctive mood, such as Haverkate 1989, contain essentially the same sort of argument found in Klein 1975. Haverkate assumes that one of the fundamental functions of the subjunctive mood is to aﬃrm that the sentence with the verb in subjunctive mood does not convey information (1989: 98), but should be taken as already conceived, explicit or not, in the previous context. The occurrence, rendered in the subjunctive would then indicate background information. But here again, cases like (2) are problematic for this theory, since the preconception of the information is as valid for this kind of sentence as for the other verbs of comment, as exempliﬁed in (1). Moreover, the postulated negative meaning as stated by Haverkate raises another question: if the subjunctive expresses that the sentence does not convey (new) information, what is it that the subordinate part that shows use of the subjunctive does convey? It is not the comment in itself, for that part is rendered in the main clause

Spanish subjunctive mood 207

of the sentence. We should, then, look for a meaning of the subjunctive that can be stated in positive terms in order to be able to explain (and not merely describe) all its uses as opposed to the indicative.

3. Hypothesis It should be stressed that neither of the two moods is intended to convey the truth as related to the real world and that neither has more truth-value than the other. Speakers by deﬁnition express a vision on reality that is subjective and can only be taken as the version of reality they want to get across to the hearer. The best proof of this statement is lying: all speakers are capable of lying, and clearly, lying can be done in the indicative mood.⁶ Thus, an occurrence expressed in indicative mood is not necessarily factual, but its eﬀect on the hearer is intended to make him or her believe it is. The meaning assertion for indicative mood is therefore not badly chosen; it is non-assertion that needs reﬁnement. What examples like (1) and (3) below have in common is that, in both sentences, there is another situation relevant apart from the one expressed by the subjunctive mood: (3) Quiero que aprenda (S) ‘I want that he/she learns’ In (1), the speaker has in mind a situation diﬀerent from the actually presented one, namely a situation in which the person he or she is talking about had not learnt what he or she is actually doing. In (3), it is just the other way round: the person in question is not learning, and the speaker is expressing his or her wish that the other should do so. If this correspondence is the core of the meaning of subjunctive mood, then we could hypothesize the following meanings for the two moods: (4) Indicative mood (I) = assertion of the occurrence expressed by the verb (5) Subjunctive mood (S) = contextual relevance of an alternative for the occurrence expressed by the verb An important diﬀerence between this hypothesis and most others is that it considers the communicative situation in which the utterances containing the subjunctive mood occur. In order to test a hypothesized meaning, it is necessary in my view to take into account its communicative eﬀects on the message. Therefore, use of terms like contextual and relevance are indispensable in this kind of hypothesis. Below, I will brieﬂy outline the role and importance of these terms in the analysis. The proposed hypothesis should, and can, as shown in De Jonge (1998), account for so-called syntactic categories as in (3), in which use of the subjunctive is said to be ‘governed’ by the verb querer. In a meaning-based hypothesis, these cases should

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also be dealt with in a non-arbitrary way, rather than by writing mechanical “rules” that describe the co-occurrence of, say, certain types of verbs with the subjunctive. These verbs should be shown to have a meaningful characteristic in common in order to explain the use of the subjunctive with them; it does not suﬃce to merely say that it is always there. This characteristic could very well be the fact that in all communicative contexts in which querer que ‘to want to’ occurs, a desired situation is in fact not taking place. It would then follow that in situations in which a verb of desire is used, use of the subjunctive should indicate the current relevance of the opposite situation, the most logical alternative, in the given context. Therefore, since in all these situations an alternative is in fact relevant, categorical use of the subjunctive should not surprise us. De Jonge (1998) demonstrates qualitatively that this is so for verbs of desire, verbs and other constructions of emotion, hacer que ’to make that’ in the matrix clause and with conjunctions like aunque ‘although’ and el hecho de que ‘the fact that’.⁷ This way of relating meaning to distribution is not common in traditional grammars, since normally only the syntactic environment is taken into account in formulating rules. In the meaning-based hypothesis of the present study, on the other hand, one must consider the prototypical communicative situation in which the construction with subjunctive mood is used. Before beginning the actual analysis, it is important to deﬁne the terms of our analysis. In the ﬁrst place, by alternative I mean an alternative to the verb, indicated in the subjunctive mood. The most common alternative to a verb is its negated counterpart. Therefore, while considering possible alternatives to the verb under analysis, the verb-negation is always taken into consideration. However, negations implied in subordinate conjunctions as in sin que ‘without that’ are not, since it is precisely the meaning of this conjunction that may explain the relevance of an alternative, expressed by the subjunctive.⁸ It should also be stressed that the word relevance is crucial in the analysis of the proposed hypothesis. It is possible to think of an alternative for any given situation, but this alternative is not necessarily relevant in the given context. In analyses of categorical uses of the subjunctive, it is possible to test the proposed hypothesis on the basis of the meaning of the relevant syntactic element, as shown above and in De Jonge (1998). However, it is impossible to do so in those cases where variation between subjunctive and indicative is observed, for only analysis of the wider context can demonstrate the relevance of an alternative. In this chapter, the hypothesis will be tested on a corpus of independent examples in syntactic contexts where variation between subjunctive and indicative is observed. All were taken from a collection of short stories by García Márquez (GGM 1994). In order to demonstrate the correctness of the proposed hypothesis in those cases where subjunctive is used, the relevance of the alternative will be studied in the communicative setting.

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4. The data In order to investigate this hypothesis systematically, a corpus of examples of both indicative and subjunctive mood in similar contexts was collected. For this investigation, the largest group of contexts where both moods occur was chosen, namely all clauses introduced by some form of the conjunction que ‘that’. All instances of these clauses were taken from GGM (1994), yielding 728 instances of clauses introduced by some form of que, of which 613 (84%) were in indicative mood, and 115 (16%) in subjunctive mood.⁹ Table 1 presents the distribution of both moods in different kinds of clauses introduced by que. One thing is immediately clear from Table 1: practically all clause types show both indicative and subjunctive mood, so it is safe to say that there is no relation between syntactic categories and use of mood in Spanish. There is, therefore, no reason to carry out the analysis on the basis of such categories, so they play no further role in this chapter. In what follows, we focus solely on the meaning-based hypothesis proposed above.

5. The meaning-based analysis The analysis to be discussed below shows the contextual presence of an alternative with both moods. It should be noted, however, that the mere indication of an alterTable 1. Distribution of indicative vs. subjunctive mood in subordinate clauses introduced by (x)que, in García Márquez (1994)

Total complement clauses Total (X) prep.que Subject clauses Relative clauses Total (X) adj. que Adv.que Total prep.N que Imperative que sino que #Que Total

Indicative mood

Subjunctive mood

Rate %

Tokens

Rate %

81 67 67 95 95 89 100 50 100 78

140 93 32 284 19 16 17 1 2 7

19 33 33 5 5 11 — 50 — 22

33 46 16 15 1 2 — 1 — 2

84

611

16

116

Tokens

Note : Diﬀerent types of subordinate clauses are given. The abbreviations used are: prep. ‘preposition’, as in para que ‘so that, in order to’; adj. ‘adjective’, as in lo más rápido que pueda ‘as fast as he can (S)’; adv. ‘adverb’, as in seguro que ‘for sure that’; prep.N ‘preposition noun’, as in de manera que ‘in a way that, so that’; sino que ‘but that (after a negated main verb)’. However, these distinctions in types of subordinate clauses will turn out to be irrelevant to the analysis, since both moods occur in practically all of them.

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native in Table 2 (to be presented shortly) does not automatically mean that this alternative is also relevant in the given context. Examples (6) and (7) are cases in which an alternative is present in the given context, but, while an indicative is used in (6), a subjunctive is used in (7): (6) Cuando murió don José Montiel, todo el mundo se sintió vengado, menos su viuda; pero se necesitaron varias horas para que todo el mundo creyera que en verdad había muerto (I). ‘When José Montiel died, everybody felt revenged, except his widow; but it took various hours before people believed that he had really died (I).’ (GGM 1994: 83) [all translations mine, BdJ] (7) Fue preciso que atornillaran (S) la tapa del ataúd y que lo emparedaran (S) en el aparatoso mausoleo familiar, para que el pueblo entero se convenciera (S) de que no se estaba haciendo el muerto. ‘It was necessary to screw (S) the lid onto the coﬃn and to put (S) him behind the wall of the pompous family grave in order to convince (S) the whole village that he was not just pretending to be dead.’ (GGM 1994 : 83–4) In (6), the alternative is that Montiel did not die. This alternative is present, because obviously many people at ﬁrst did not believe he died. However, an indicative is used, because after some time this alternative had ceased to be relevant, and if people ﬁnally really believed he did die, there is no other option than to assert this fact in indicative mood. In (7), on the other hand, three cases of subjunctive mood are observed. The alternatives are clearly present in the given context: as long as the lid had not been screwed onto the coﬃn, and he had not been put behind the wall of his grave, people were not convinced he was dead. The relevance of these alternatives lies in the fact that an utterance of this kind can only be conceived of from a perspective where the lid has not yet been screwed onto the coﬃn and the coﬃn has not yet been put into the grave. In (8), an example is given in which no alternative is present in the context: (8) José Montiel murió en su hamaca, un miércoles a las dos de la tarde, a consecuencia de la rabieta que el médico le había prohibido (I). ‘José Montiel died in his hammock, on a Wednesday at two o’clock in the afternoon, as a result of an attack of rage that his doctor had forbidden (I) him to have.’ GGM 1994: 84) In (8), there is no alternative present to the relevant verb había prohibido ‘had forbidden’ in the given context: his doctor had forbidden him to get very angry and there is no way of expecting a presence of not forbidding this in this context, let alone its relevance. Table 2 gives the total distribution of subjunctive vs. indicative mood in contexts where there is an alternative present, vs. those where there is not. All contexts

Spanish subjunctive mood Table 2. Distribution of indicative vs. subjunctive mood in subordinate clauses introduced by (x)que, in García Márquez (1994) with contextual alternatives χ2=283.6; p < 0.001 + alternative − alternative Total

Indicative mood

Subjunctive mood

Rate %

Tokens

Rate %

Tokens

51 100

122 489

49 0

116 —

84

611

16

116

were classiﬁed according to the contextual presence of an alternative, independently of its contextual relevance, and independently of the mood being used. What we would expect to see, then, is a relative preference of alternatives for the subjunctive mood, whereas the absence of an alternative should never lead to use of the subjunctive, in view of the meaning of the latter. The results are set out in Table 2. It should be stressed that the results in Table 2 were obtained without taking into consideration the contextual relevance of the alternative. Table 2 shows clearly that the mere presence of a contextual alternative greatly favors the use of the subjunctive mood, whereas its absence leads to exclusive use of the indicative mood.¹⁰ The next step in the analysis is to show whether the diﬀerence between the use of the indicative in some cases and the subjunctive in others depends on the contextual relevance of the given alternative. According to our hypothesis, use of the subjunctive should occur ONLY when the alternative is indeed relevant to the message conveyed.

6. Demonstrating relevance In principle, there should be two ways to demonstrate the relevance of an alternative in given contexts with use of the subjunctive mood: qualitatively in each individual context, and quantitatively, showing the presence of a contextual factor that correlates with the subjunctive mood. But there is one methodological problem to be solved: there are also observed alternatives in contexts with the indicative mood, as the next pair of examples shows, but it is impossible to prove a negative, or, the irrelevance of the alternative in these contexts. In (9), a subjunctive is used, and therefore an alternative should be relevant in the given context; in (10) an alternative appears to be present, but should not be relevant, since an indicative is used:¹¹ (9) – Baltazar – dijo Montiel, suavemente. Ya te dije que te la lleves (S). ‘Baltazar, Montiel said, gently. I already told you that you should take (S) it away.’ (GGMs 1994: 78) (10) – ¿Entonces? Ana se arrodilló frente a la cama.

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– Que además de ladrón eres embustero – dijo. –¿Por qué? –Porque me dijiste que no había (I) nada en la gaveta. ‘And so? Ana kneeled down in front of the bed. – That apart from a thief, you are also a cheater -she said. – Why? – Because you said to me that there was (I) nothing in the drawer.’ (GGM 1994: 35–6) In (9), Baltazar, a carpenter who made a birdcage for the son of Montiel without Montiel knowing it, refuses to take the cage away and ﬁnally gives it to the boy. Not taking it away is therefore an alternative and Baltazar’s refusal to do so indicates its relevance in the given context. This corresponds, as expected, to the subjunctive form. In (10), on the other hand, Ana claims that Dámaso, who has stolen a set of French snooker balls from a bar, has lied to her about the amount of money he is supposed to have found in the drawer of the bar. She is commenting on his uttered words (that in the end turn out to be true) and, although obviously there is a possible alternative, Ana just wants to assert his alleged lies and thus has to use an indicative. However, it can be argued that Ana ﬁrmly believes there was something in the drawer, making this alternative relevant for the given context, and then the reasoning as given immediately above, would be circular, for an indicative is observed. Moreover, it could be objected that these cases are special, since they represent reported speech, and that (9) is a reported imperative. However, there are historical relations between the imperative and the subjunctive mood; in Old Spanish both indicative and subjunctive forms could communicate “imperative-type” messages, with the latter being a form with a weaker meaning (Lapesa 1981: 216, Menéndez Pidal 1976: 345–6). It is not surprising, therefore, that the indicative forms specialized for the non-formal relations between speaker and 2nd person tú and vosotros in aﬃrmative contexts, and that the subjunctive specialized for formal relations between speaker and 2nd person usted(es), and for all negated forms, creating together a new imperative paradigm in the Spanish verb system. Moreover, it is not diﬃcult to link the function of the imperative to the proposed meaning of the subjunctive mood: in cases where an imperative is used, the actual communicative situation presents a true alternative situation. For example, the iconic situation for saying ‘eat your supper’ to a child, is that of the child refusing to do so. Therefore, neither from a formal point of view nor from a historical or communicative one is it necessary to distinguish examples like (9) from other cases of the subjunctive. It seems better to look for conﬁrmation of the proposed hypothesis in quantitative tendencies. As shown above in the qualitative analyses, an alternative for a given eventuality is usually provided by its negative counterpart. Therefore, negation might be a useful variable to study. Negated sentences generally refer to things

Spanish subjunctive mood

that do not take place, which in itself suggests an alternative to things that do. This is generally not the case with aﬃrmative sentences. Accordingly, there are two correlations that must be examined: that between negation in the subordinate clause with subjunctive mood, and that between negation in the main (or superordinate) clause with subjunctive in the subordinate clause. One might expect that the second correlation would be stronger, because a negative main clause is more likely than an aﬃrmative one to create a relevant alternative in the subordinate; cf. ‘he believes that John was not the thief ’ vs. ‘he does not believe that John was the thief ’. In the both situations, John is not believed to be the thief, but in the second one, the starting point is a subordinate clause saying he is, namely ‘- that John was the thief ’, thus suggesting an alternative relevant in the context. It is in the latter kind of situations where we expect to observe a relative preference for use of the subjunctive in Spanish. In the following two sections, we will see whether this is indeed the case.

6.1. Negation in the subordinate clause When taking into consideration the eﬀect negation in the subordinate clause might have on the use of subjunctive mood, it is obvious that for the (relevant) alternative it makes no diﬀerence whether the verb in question is negated or not: when negated, its alternative is the aﬃrmative form, and when aﬃrmative, the negated one is. For example, when taking (9) and (10), both examples would not change as far as the use of moods is concerned if we were to replace the clauses by their negated counterparts (cf. (11) and (12)): (11) te dije que no te la lleves (S) ‘I told you that you should not take (S) it away’ (12) me dijiste que había (I) algo en la gaveta ‘You told me there was (I) something in the drawer’ Therefore, there seems to be no reason to expect a signiﬁcant correlation of negation in the subordinate clause with the use of the subjunctive. Table 3 shows the results of this test. As Table 3 indeed shows, there is no diﬀerence in distribution of indicative vs. subjunctive mood with negated or not negated verbs (84% for indicatives Table 3. Distribution of indicative vs. subjunctive mood with presence or absence of a negation in the subordinate clause χ2=0.02; p < 0.9 − negation subordinate + negation subordinate

indicative mood

subjunctive mood

Rate %

Tokens

Rate %

Tokens

84 84

530 81

16 16

100 16

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indicative mood

subjunctive mood

Rate %

Tokens

Rate %

Tokens

85 70

576 35

15 30

101 15

both without and with negations respectively, and corresponding values of 16% for the subjunctive).

6.2. Negation in the main clause Things could change when we take into account the presence of a negation in the main clause. As stated above, just before the end of the ﬁrst part of Section 5, a negation in a main clause could suggest a contrast between the content of the subordinate clause and its (implicitly present) negative counterpart, thereby making that negative potentiality relevant in the general context. Accordingly, one expects to observe a correlation between a negated main clause and the presence of subjunctive mood in the subordinate clause. Table 4 presents the data and shows that our prediction is conﬁrmed. Of all main clauses without a negation, 15% subjunctive (vs. 85% indicative) is observed in the subordinate clause, whereas this percentage is twice as high (30%) in subordinate clauses with a negation with the main verb.¹² That our hypothesis explains facts which otherwise would seem mysterious is shown by the following: in (13) and (14), a minimal pair of examples is given where one of them, (13), shows a negation in the main clause and the other, (14), does not. In both cases, the subordinate clause is a relative clause. Now traditional grammars, such as Ramsey (1956), claim that “after a relative pronoun referring to a person, thing or idea which is either unknown or not deﬁnitively known, the verb of the dependent clause is subjunctive” (1956: 420). That is, there is supposed to be a correlation between the degree of familiarity or givenness of the antecedent of the relative clause and mood. Furthermore, according to some grammars, the use of the deﬁnite article can be taken as an independent indication of the relatively greater familiarity of the antecedent, whether implicit or explicit, and lead to the use of the indicative. An indeﬁnite article or its absence would, by contrast, indicate an unknown antecedent, which, in its turn, should lead to the subjunctive. However, (13) and (14) both have unknown antecedents, according to the use of the indeﬁnite article, and nonetheless both moods are observed. But if we scrutinize the main clauses, we observe a negation in (13), and its absence in (14), corresponding exactly to the use of the moods that we have predicted:

Spanish subjunctive mood

(13) A pocas cuadras de allí, en una casa atiborrada de arneses donde nunca se había sentido un olor que no se pudiera (S) vender, permanecía indiferente a la novedad de la jaula. ‘Only a few blocks away, in a house ﬁlled with harnesses, where no odor had ever been smelled that could (S) not be sold, he [Montiel] remained indiﬀerent to the novelty of the cage.’ (GGM 1994: 74–5) (14) Después de que el alcalde les perforaba las puertas a tiros y les ponía el plazo para abandonar el pueblo, José Montiel les compraba sus tierras y ganados por un precio que él mismo se encargaba (I) de ﬁjar. ‘After the mayor perforated their doors with gunshots and gave them a deadline to leave the village, José Montiel bought their land and cattle for a price he himself took (I) the trouble to establish.’ (GGM 1994: 89–90) In both cases, the antecedent is inanimate and unknown in the previous context, as indicated by the indeﬁnite article. Nevertheless, in one case the subjunctive is used and in the other, the indicative. Traditional grammars like the one mentioned above would have to conclude that (14) should be taken as an exception, since no adequate explanation can be given as to why this example does not follow the proposed distribution of subjunctive and indicative mood with (un)known antecedents. Our proposed hypothesis, however, serves perfectly to explain these two cases: in (14) a description is given of the situation of how people were expelled from the village and how Montiel bought their properties and how prices were so arbitrarily ﬁxed. There is no relevant alternative present in the context, and in fact, the lack of an alternative is an important feature of the message: these people had no choice. Thus, an indicative form is used. In (13), on the contrary, the context implies that anything that had a smell in that house was a commodity that could be sold; that this is a possibility is a consequence of negation in the main clause: the existence of no odor that could not be sold implies a wide variety of odors that could.¹³ Multiple alternatives are implicit in this example, and therefore, the subjunctive mood is appropriate here.

7. Conclusion What I have tried to demonstrate in this chapter is that a theory based on the meaning of the linguistic sign is capable not only of describing but also of explaining the distribution of linguistic forms. Although this is a brief chapter which has not discussed the problem of subjunctive versus indicative in all possible contexts, the ﬁrst results of the semantically oriented investigation outlined here are, in my view, quite promising. We therefore have reason to be optimistic about our further research on this topic.

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Notes 1. This is a further developed version of De Jonge (2001) and of a paper presented at the 6th Columbia School Linguistics Conference held at Rutgers University (State University of New Jersey), New Brunswick, NJ, October 1999. I am indebted to Reineke Bok-Bennema, Concepción Company Company, Brigitte Kampers-Manhe, Arie Molendijk, Dorien Nieuwenhuijsen, Co Vet and the editors of this volume for comments on earlier versions of this chapter. All remaining ﬂaws and errors are my full responsibility. 2. ‘Linguistic forms’ should be taken in the broadest possible sense: also syntactic phenomena may be taken, in my view, as linguistic forms and thus as meaningful forms; cf. for instance Bolinger (1991) for the meaning of word order in Spanish. 3. For a more detailed discussion of this theoretical point of view, see García (1975, especially chapter X), Diver (1975 and 1995), Reid (1991) and Contini-Morava (1995). 4. I am well aware of the fact that the literature on mood in Romance linguistics is abundant. However, due to space limitations I will limit myself to two studies that fall within the scope of the hypothesis presented here. 5. It may be clear that this point of view invalidates any traditional analysis of subjunctive vs. indicative mood based on the distinction between main and subordinate clauses as related to mood. Moreover, both moods occur in both clause types, although the subjunctive has a preference for subordinate clauses. And again, as we will see below, in diﬀerent types of subordinate clauses, both moods occur. 6. I would even say more: I assume that all lying takes place in the indicative mood. This is the most logical thing to do: the speaker wants the hearer to take the lie as a fact, and the best way to make him believe it is, is to assert its authenticity by use of the indicative mood. 7. Aunque may take both subjunctive and indicative in the subordinate clause. Here, too, the proposed hypothesis can explain this distribution. Consider a sentence such as aunque hace/haga mal tiempo, vamos a la playa ‘although/even if the weather is bad, we will go to the beach’. The second option takes into account the possibility of bad weather, presupposing the alternative, namely good weather, the normal situation for beach visits. The ﬁrst option, on the other hand, merely takes bad weather as an observed factuality. 8. This reasoning may seem circular, but in fact it is not. In the search for an alternative, only the verb in subjunctive is taken into consideration, including any occurring negation. With regard to negation, note that it has a ﬁxed position in relation to the verb: between the negation no ‘not’ and the inﬂected verb no other element than an oblique pronoun may be inserted, as in no (lo) sé ‘I do not know (it)’. The negation thus forms an inseparable unit with the inﬂected verb and accordingly has to be taken into account when looking for its alternative. The relevance of the alternative, then, is sought in the rest of the context, which (of course) is not ﬁxed. Some subordinate conjunctions, such as para que ‘so that’ and sin que ‘without (that)’ trigger this contextual relevance through their general meaning, and so no further context needs to be taken in consideration. 9. GGM (1994) consists of six short stories, all ﬁrst published in 1963 adding to a total of almost 20.000 words (19.934, to be precise). Although García Márquez is of Colombian origin, the Spanish used in his books may be considered to represent Latin American Spanish in general and not Colombian Spanish in particular. 10. The results obtained in this table may seem to have been gathered circularly, but in fact

Spanish subjunctive mood they are not. The classiﬁcation was made on the basis of the possible presence of an alternative, and not of its absence. In the worst case, we might have missed an instance of an alternative present, with the consequence that the number of indicatives with an alternative would rise (with a slight change of percentages). But this would not alter the generally observed preferences. 11. It could also be that the indicative is indiﬀerent to the contextual relevance of an alternative; its use would then indicate that the assertion of the occurrence is more relevant than the relevance of its alternative. I am indebted to the editors of this volume for drawing my attention towards this possibility. However, it does not really change my analysis, for it does not eliminate the danger of circularity, which I will discuss below. 12. Traditional grammars state that with verbs of thought, such as creer ‘to believe’ and pensar ‘to think’, their negative counterparts should show use of the subjunctive. In this table, however, only four cases of these negated verbs were observed out of a total of 50 negated verbs in main clauses. As the following example shows, these four did not show exclusive use of the subjunctive. (i)

No pensó -como no lo había pensado la primera vez- que Dámaso estaba (I) aún frente al cuarto, diciéndose que el plan había fracasado, y en espera de que ella saliera dando gritos. ‘She did not think -just as she had not thought the ﬁrst time- that Dámaso was (I) still at the other side of the door, telling himself that the plan had failed, and waiting for her to come out of the room screaming.’ (GGM 1974: 63)

Here, an assertion is being made of a possible thought Ana did not have -Dámaso is at the other side of the door, etc.-, it is not a comment on a situation she was actually thinking about. Only in the latter case, use of the subjunctive would be appropriate, since Dámaso had indeed left. 13. In syntactic and traditional analyses, the negation nunca ‘never’ in the matrix is said to trigger use of the subjunctive in the subordinate clause (cf. for instance Kampers-Manhe (1991: 49) for French and Quer (1998: 37) for Catalan). However, as stated above in general terms, this observation does not explain its appearance in these contexts. The hypothesis proposed here, on the other hand, reveals why subjunctive is the most coherent choice: a negation of this kind of situation automatically implies the relevance of an alternative.

References Bolinger, D. 1991. “Meaningful word order in Spanish.” In Essays on Spanish: Words and Grammar, D. Bolinger, 218–230, Newark, Delaware: Juan de la Cuesta. Contini-Morava, E. 1995. “Introduction: On linguistic sign theory.” In Meaning as Explanation. Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory [Trends in Linguistics, Studies and Monographs 84, E. Contini-Morava and B. Sussman Goldberg (eds), 1–39. Berlin/New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Diver, W. 1975. “Introduction.” Columbia University Working Papers in Linguistics, 2 (Fall), 1–26. Diver, W. 1995. “Theory.” In Meaning as Explanation. Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory [Trends in Linguistics, Studies and Monographs 84], E. Contini-Morava and B. Sussman Goldberg (eds), 43–114. Berlin/New York: Mouton de Gruyter.

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Bob de Jonge García, É. 1975. The role of theory in linguistic analysis: the Spanish pronoun system. Amsterdam: North Holland. GGM = García Márquez, G. 1994. Los funerales de la mamá grande. Barcelona: Plaza & Janes. Haverkate, H. 1989. Modale vormen van het Spaanse werkwoord. Dordrecht: Foris. Hooper, J. 1975. “On assertive predicates.” In Syntax and Semantics IV, J. P. Kimball (ed.), 91– 124. New York: Academic Press. Jonge, R. de 1998. “El uso del subjuntivo: ¿un problema para los hablantes de lenguas germánicas?” In Las lenguas en la Europa comunitaria [Proceedings from the 3rd International Colloquium, Amsterdam 1997], F. Sierra Martínez et al. (eds), 75–84. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Jonge, R. de. 2001. “Spanish subjunctive mood: One form, more than one meaning?” In Adverbial Modiﬁcation [Faux Titres 203], R. Bok-Bennema et al. (eds), 79–93. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Kampers-Manhe, B. 1991. L’opposition subjonctif/indicatif dans les relatives, PhD thesis, University of Groningen. Klein, F. 1975. “Pragmatic constraints on distribution: the Spanish Subjunctive.” Papers from the Regional Meeting of the Chicago Linguistic Society 11: 353–365. Lapesa, R. 1981. Historia de la lengua española. Madrid: Gredos. Menéndez Pidal, R. 1976. Cantar de mío Cid.Texto, gramática y vocabulario. Vol. I. Madrid: Espasa Calpe. Quer, J. 1998. Mood at the interface. The Hague: Holland Academic Graphics. Ramsey, M. M. 1956. A Textbook of Modern Spanish. Revised by R. Spaulding. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Reid, W. 1991. Verb & Noun Number in English: A Functional Explanation. London and New York: Longman. Terrell, T. and J. Hooper. 1974. “A Semantically Based Analysis of Mood in Spanish.” Hispania 57: 484–494. Vet, J. P. 1996. “Analyse syntaxique de quelques emplois du subjonctif dans les complétives.” Cahiers de Grammaire 21: 135–152.

CHAPTER 8

A sign-based analysis of English pronouns in conjoined expressions Nancy Stern The City College of New York

1. Introduction The use of pronouns in conjoined expressions vexes writing teachers and puzzles linguists: (1) a. Me and him went to the movies. b. That’s between he and I. c. According to John, the article was written by Ann and himself. (Kuno 1987: 121) d. As for Harry and myself, we won’t be able to attend. While there remain many unanswered questions, this chapter oﬀers a sign-based account of one part of this corner of English grammar, speciﬁcally, the choice between -self and simple (object) pronouns in conjoined expressions.¹ The use of -self forms in (1c) and (d) is unusual because, as is well known, most -self pronouns ﬁnd their antecedent within their clause, as in the much studied reﬂexive and emphatic uses, shown in (2) and (3): (2) Mick saw himself in the mirror. (3) Mick himself was on stage. Structural syntactic accounts treat cases like (1c) and (d) as exceptions to the rule that -self forms are used either reﬂexively or emphatically. In fact, few accounts of pronouns, functional or formal, provide an explanation of why -self forms occur in conjoined expressions, and most theorists just exclude them from the analysis.² I have proposed that -self and simple pronouns are signals of invariant meaning (Stern 2001). The aim of this chapter is to demonstrate that the meaning of -self forms makes them particularly felicitous in conjoined expressions. While speakers’ concerns about prescriptive rules probably account for some of the distribution of pronouns in conjoined expressions, this explanation is, at best, incomplete. This chapter will show that -self pronouns are often deployed eﬀectively in conjoined contexts when the conjuncts are to be distinguished from each other, and understood as diﬀerentiated and separated entities.

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2. Confusion over prescriptive rules Before turning to a linguistic meaning hypothesis, let us consider the role of prescriptivism as a possible explanation. There appears to be a sense among linguists, teachers, and others that -self forms appear in conjoined expressions as the result of the misapplication of prescriptive rules. The thinking is that speakers are sometimes unsure whether it is correct to use I or me, and they may use myself to avoid the conundrum altogether. Following is a passage from a popular usage guide that tries to set the record straight: In the contest between I and me, the booby prize often goes to myself. That’s why we see sentences like Jack and myself were married yesterday. (It’s Jack and I.) Or like this more common self-promotion: The project made money for Reynaldo and myself. The speaker isn’t sure whether it’s Reynaldo and me or Reynaldo and I, so she goes with Reynaldo and myself. Tsk, tsk. (It’s for Reynaldo and me.) (O’Conner 1996: 13)

We will return to the issue of prescriptive rules in Section 6, but this factor can only be part of a successful explanation. Skilled writers use elegantly constructed sentences such as those in (4), and (5), and this does not seem to be related to a misunderstanding of prescriptive rules: (4) the principal hazards were to himself and not the neighbors in whose children he was deeply interested . . . (MBW 42) (5) As Hedda Nussbaum, in a red coat with faux-fur trim, met the press on the courthouse steps in Manhattan on March 10 to announce a legal victory giving herself and other battered women more time to sue their abusers, she dabbed her left eye with a tissue. (RHN) Examples (6) and (7), from best-selling novels, show two near minimal pairs, in which the choice of pronoun is not contingent on whether the referent has been mentioned elsewhere in the clause. In (6a) and (b), both from the same novel, both types of pronoun are coreferent with the understood subjects: (6) a.

Behind him emerged a woman’s face and graceful hands with redlacquered nails, locked on the boy’s shoulders as if in a death grip, holding him between herself and Trudi. (HSR 321) b. Suspended in the beams of pearl-gray light, he kept Trudi there though his arms began to quiver with her weight, held her there between him and his wife for what seemed the span of an entire lifetime . . . enveloping the three of them with the musty smell of earth. (HSR 20)

In (6a), the understood subject of holding is the woman, referred to in the between-phrase by herself. In (6b), the referent of he is the subject of held and is also the referent of the simple pronoun in the between-phrase. By contrast, in (7), the ref-

English pronouns in conjoined expressions

erents of the pronouns have not been mentioned elsewhere within the clause. That is, there is no clause-internal antecedent for either the -self pronoun in (a) or the simple pronoun in (b): (7) a.

Between herself and the door was a pungent memory, a reprise of another time she’d walked the length of the hall and opened the door to him, a moment when all her life had changed, had altered its course for good. (SPW 286) b. Trudi loved quickly, rashly — Sister Mathilde, whose voice would tremble with emotion when she spoke of the martyrs; Eva Rosen . . . ; Herr Pastor Schuler, who would hear Trudi’s ﬁrst confession and tell her not to forget that she was God’s child — loved quickly, rashly, as she had once loved George, as though there were no air between her and the other person. (HSR 91)

Neither dialect nor register appears to account for this variation. Hypothesizing that -self forms are simply reﬂexes of underlying syntactic structure does not account for this variation either. However, the distribution of these forms can be explained by postulating that both the -self and simple pronouns are signals of (distinct) invariant meaning, used by speakers to meet communicative goals.

3. The meaning of -self pronouns I have proposed that the grammatical diﬀerence between -self and simple pronouns is a semantic one: while all pronouns signal some combination of Person, Number and Sex meanings, -self forms are hypothesized to signal an additional meaning, INSISTENCE ON AN ENTITY(S) (Stern 2001).³ This analysis therefore rejects the traditional characterization of -self as a reﬂexive pronoun, but it does borrow from the tradition by analyzing -self as a kind of emphatic pronoun. INSISTENCE can be understood as a vigorous reference that draws additional attention to an entity or entities. INSISTENCE is a strong pointing to an entity, a way of saying to the hearer, “Yes, this entity. I do mean this one(s)!” There are many diﬀerent reasons why a speaker might choose to INSIST on a referent. Hearers must infer a speaker’s communicative intent, and her motivation for choosing to INSIST.

3.1. Reﬂexive uses Reﬂexive messages are the most frequent ones associated with -self forms, so it will be instructive to see how the meaning INSISTENCE contributes to reﬂexive interpretations. While it is beyond the scope of this chapter to explicate the use of INSISTENCE in all the contexts in which -self forms occur, we should address reﬂexive uses at least brieﬂy to assure the reader that the hypothesized meaning can, in fact, account for this use of -self forms.⁴ In reﬂexives, the referent of the -self pronoun un-

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expectedly plays more than a single role in one event (Levinson 1991; Givón 1993; Kemmer 1995). INSISTENCE serves as an alert to the hearer that there is something unusual about the referent, speciﬁcally, that the referent is playing more than a single role at just one time (Stern 2001, 2003). This analysis, dubbed the Role Conﬂict Hypothesis, accounts for the appearance of -self pronouns in reﬂexive environments, as well as in some environments that are not syntactically reﬂexive. It also explains the occurrence of simple pronouns in grammatically reﬂexive environments. The next three attested utterances will illustrate: (8) a.

Edward Sapir continually berated himself for idleness, when, in fact, he was continually turning out grammars for complex and diﬃcult languages. (MBW 287) b. “Let Me Count the Times” is about a man who compiles statistics on his love life, which includes an aﬀair with himself. (SHE) c. Even as a child I could tell that Mr. Tanaka saw the world around him as it really was. (GMG 14)

In (8a), a traditional reﬂexive context in which a -self pronoun appears, Sapir has two roles, as the berater and the one who was berated. Generally, when someone is berated, he berates someone else, so the message that the same entity plays both roles at the same time is unexpected. In (b), a -self pronoun occurs even though its clause is not syntactically reﬂexive. Nevertheless, there is a role conﬂict because the man has two roles: the one having the aﬀair, and the person the aﬀair is with. Under normal circumstances, these two roles are played by diﬀerent people. But here, one individual plays both roles, so the -self pronoun appears. By contrast, in (c) a simple pronoun appears even though its clause is syntactically reﬂexive. This is because there is nothing unexpected, as there is no dual role for Mr. Tanaka. When a man sees the world, he typically sees the world around himself, not around someone else. There is no reason to INSIST on this referent, because there is nothing unexpected about him.

3.2. He behaved himself The brief explanation oﬀered above does not explain why -self pronouns occur with certain verbs in which simple pronouns never seem to occur, as in: (9) He behaved himself. Clearly, the meaning of behave leads to the expectation that the second participant will be the same as the ﬁrst, since one cannot behave someone else. Nevertheless, -self pronouns appear here, and it is diﬃcult to imagine a simple pronoun in this context. An alert reader may wonder, then, why a simple pronoun does not occur in (9), if the referent’s role is expected. There is a role conﬂict in (9), but its source is grammatical: the meanings of the English Control System.⁵ (This grammatical source of

English pronouns in conjoined expressions

The girl kissed the boy. C1 C2 C1 = Higher Controller (in position before the verb) = the girl C2 = Lower Controller (in position after the verb) = the dog Figure 1. The English Control System

role conﬂict is found in (8a) as well.) The word order meanings of the Control System, which signal that the participants exert diﬀerent degrees of Control over an event, are schematized in Figure 1. In the girl kissed the boy, the phrase the girl, by virtue of its position prior to the word kissed, is a signal of Higher Control, and the boy, by virtue of its position after kissed, is a signal of Lower Control. There is an inherent conﬂict when one individual is signaled to have both a Higher Control and a Lower Control role simultaneously. It is this conﬂict that motivates the use of the -self form (as opposed to a simple form) in he behaved himself. While there is no apparent emphasis on the -self form, INSISTENCE serves to warn the hearer that there is something unexpected about this referent, and in this case, it is that he is playing more than one role in the single event of behaving. Why then is the second participant (himself) mentioned at all? Why not simply, he behaved? The -self form occurs in such contexts in order to invoke the Control System. In one-participant events such as he behaved, there is no Control meaning signaled. The appearance of the second participant, himself, in (9) results in the invocation of the Control System, so that he is a signal of Higher Control, adding to the agentivity of the message. Turning to authentic data in which the appearance of -self as a second participant is, in a sense, optional, we see that -self forms may occur speciﬁcally to invoke the Control System, to suggest that their referents are in control of their situations: (10) a.

My big mistake here was that I didn’t realize how very, very angry I was . . . . And I needed support. Certainly, deathbed wills became exceedingly diﬃcult and depressing, as if they weren’t in the ﬁrst place. Sometimes I found myself angry that the client had gotten himself sick in the ﬁrst place, a notion only one step away from the anger I was really feeling — anger at Joe for getting sick and for dying and of course for leaving me. (SFC 212–213) b. We are brought up to control and manage our bodies’ functions, holding back coughs and yawns, fending oﬀ sleep in public . . . . But childbirth cannot be controlled in this sense. Once labor begins, your baby is going to get himself born with or without your conscious cooperation. (LYB 27)

In (10a), when the writer says I found myself angry that the client had gotten himself sick, he wants to blame the client’s sickness on the client himself, to impute control to the person who had died, in order to have a target for his own anger. Later in the

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passage, he writes anger at Joe for getting sick and for dying . . . . Here, the writer is speaking more rationally about what he is angry about — his friend’s death — and, being realistic, does not blame his friend, and does not invoke Control. In (10b), the writer is trying to express the agency of the baby, and his control over the birth situation. His birth will not just happen; rather, he will be an active, controlling participant.

4. Diﬀerentiation Another communicative eﬀect that may result from the use of -self pronouns is the diﬀerentiation of their referents from other, closely related entities. As we will see, this characteristic of -self forms makes them particularly suitable for conjoined expressions. For instance, among emphatic appositive uses, we ﬁnd -self pronouns used to diﬀerentiate their referents from other entities. That is, if we go beyond the overly general rubric “emphatic” and look more closely at the message eﬀects among -self forms used as appositives, we ﬁnd that in some cases, the pronoun steers the hearer away from unintended connections between the actual referent and other possible referents, as in (11): (11) It is wrong, almost always, to review the blurbs, cover, publicity, contract or circumstances surrounding a book instead of the book itself (PSM) The writer of this passage wants to diﬀerentiate the content of a book from other elements that a reader might consider when thinking of that book. A similar eﬀect is found in (12), in which a speaker wants to distinguish the actual dinner from other details of an event: (12) – How was the banquet? – The dinner itself was ﬁne, but after that it was all downhill. I was bored to death. (Kemmer 1995: 60) Kemmer notes that a banquet consists of many parts, including possibly dinner, dessert, drinks, décor, other guests, etc. The speaker wants to be sure to diﬀerentiate the dinner from these closely related entities. Even in non-appositive argument uses, -self forms can be used to diﬀerentiate referents.⁶ From a structural point of view, the next two examples are unexpected, since there are no clause-internal antecedents for the pronouns. But they share the semantic feature we have just seen among appositives, of excluding others and differentiating closely related entities: (13) But when [young men during the Vietnam War] burned their draft cards, no one died. Their protest aﬀected themselves alone as sovereign individuals. (CKD)

English pronouns in conjoined expressions

While there is no apparent structural motivation for the use of a -self pronoun here, there appears to be a semantic motivation: the referents are to be sharply diﬀerentiated from others. In (13), the writer has also used the words alone and sovereign to emphasize that the actions of the Vietnam protesters aﬀected only them, and not anyone else. The same message eﬀect is seen in (14), in which the speaker is answering a question about an irreverent book he has written about celebrities called Naked Pictures of Famous People. (14) I am writing about their iconic basis more than I’m writing about themselves. (SNP) In this example, the speaker wants to diﬀerentiate the people themselves from their iconic value, what he terms their “iconic basis”. These are obviously two closely related aspects of being a celebrity, but the speaker wants to diﬀerentiate them. In (15), the speaker wants the referent of the -self pronoun to be understood to the exclusion of others, and also uses the word solely to contribute to this message: (15) a.

“We created an ad campaign solely directed at women for this watch.” The thinking, she said, was that Patek Philippe needed “to be speaking to women in a language solely for themselves.” (CAD) b. “We created an ad campaign solely directed at women for this watch.” The thinking, she said, was that Patek Philippe needed “to be speaking to women in a language solely for them.” (Unattested)

The speaker in (15a) could have used a simple pronoun, as in (b), and the scene described would have remained the same. The attested choice however, is more eﬀective in expressing the idea that the ad campaign is targeted very speciﬁcally — exclusively — to women. The -self pronoun, with its meaning INSISTENCE, serves to diﬀerentiate its referent from other possible referents.

4.1. Diﬀerentiation in conjoined expressions We have just seen that -self forms may be used to diﬀerentiate their referents from other, closely related entities. And this is just what they may do in conjoined expressions: -self forms suggest that their referents are bounded and distinct from other, related entities in the group created by the conjuncts. Conjoined expressions contain the word and. And draws things together, creating the notion of a group that consists of the entities named by the conjuncts, as in bacon and eggs; salt and pepper; Donny and Marie. The -self form may be used to differentiate or individuate its referent, to, in a sense, extract its referent from the relationship suggested by the word and. To put it another way, the word and puts things together, but the meaning of the -self form, INSISTENCE, can serve to pull them apart. For this reason, -self forms can be quite felicitous in conjoined expressions.

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4.2. Between-phrases Evidence for this hypothesis can be found by examining a collection of between-phrases, where it will be shown that simple pronouns occur when there is a greater closeness or intimacy between the referent and other entities, and -self pronouns appear when there is more of a distance between the conjuncts. Let us return to the near minimal pairs seen earlier in (6) and (7). Syntactic conditions do not predict which form will appear, but a semantic account fares quite well. (6a) is from the novel Stones from the River. A woman who is ﬂeeing the Nazis with her young son unexpectedly encounters a stranger, Trudi. Naturally, the woman is terriﬁed and mistrustful, fearing for her son’s life and for her own. There is no intimacy or closeness whatsoever between the woman and Trudi. The -self pronoun helps express this great gulf between them. In (6b), we see the use of a simple pronoun, from the beginning of the same novel, when Trudi is an infant. Here, the three people on the scene are a family: a father, mother and their new baby. The mother has rejected her child following her birth. This passage describes a scene in which the father, who loves both his baby and his disturbed wife, hopes his wife will embrace them both and that they can live the close, happy family life he dreams of. The use of the simple pronoun suggests the closeness the father longs for, the closeness which is the goal of him holding the baby there between them. A -self pronoun would not be eﬀective in this passage, as it would suggest a distance between the husband and wife which was not part of the intended message. Likewise in (7), a syntactic account is unsuccessful, but our signal-meaning hypothesis oﬀers an explanation. (7a) is from the best-selling novel The Pilot’s Wife, in which the main character, Kathleen, learns of her husband’s death when a man comes to her front door to deliver the news of a plane crash. Her entire world disintegrates as she discovers that her husband had been living a double life, married to another woman, with children in another city — all at the same time he was married to her. In the scene described in (7a), near the end of the novel, Kathleen is approaching the door again, remembering that other time she answered the doorbell and ﬁrst learned of her husband’s death and then of his duplicitous other life. In that memory, the distance between her life before she answered the door and the utter chaos that ensued afterward is immense. The -self pronoun occurs in this between-phrase to help express the conceptual distance between the referent of -self, Kathleen, and the door, an entire world away. By contrast, the between-phrase in (7b) contains a simple pronoun. This is from the same novel in which (6a) and (b) appear. One of the goals of this passage is to express the closeness Trudi felt toward those she loved. The conceptual distance between the referent of her (Trudi) and the other conjunct (the other person) is quite small, as though there were no air between [them]. This conceptual closeness appears to be one of the reasons for the writer’s choice of the simple pronoun. In the passages in (16), a simple pronoun occurs in the between-phrase. In each example, there is a

English pronouns in conjoined expressions

closeness, a bond, an “intimate connection” as in (g), between the conjuncts: (16) a. b. c.

d.

e. f. g.

h.

Nothing comes between me and my Calvins! (Former ad campaign for Calvin Klein jeans) Whatever the product, the goal is always emotional identiﬁcation between it and the consumer. (MAL) “It’s much easier to play someone else than to be yourself onscreen,” says Michael Douglas, who transforms himself into a bumbling, outof-shape English professor in the drama Wonder Boys. “And when it’s going good, there’s an element of feeling that you’re living that character. On Wall Street I felt that. There was no separation between me and Gordon Gekko until the end of the day.” (ACH) About a year ago, Ms. Whitman [CEO of eBay] set up a consumer insight and analysis group to ﬁnd out. In contrast to the situation at traditional retailers, she said, “there is no one between us and the consumer.” (HDO) Some mothers, like Dot Hewitt of Paramus — can no longer ﬁnd the gift that best captured the bond between her and her children, but it doesn’t matter. (AHM) The Best Medicine Can Help You Improve One of the Most Important Relationships in Your Life: The One Between You and Your Doctor. (MAB) And because she missed the written words that had formed the intimate connection between her and Stefan for seventeen years — so much more satisfying to be with him on the page than in person — she began to write to him again, fervent notes in German that she would hide and never show him, letters in which she didn’t have to hold back with her love for him or with her anger . . . (HVE 105) Between you and me, she’s an awful singer.

The conspiratorial between you and me in (16h) ﬁts the pattern of (a) through (g): there’s no need to diﬀerentiate us; instead, we’re bonded together by this secret we’re sharing. By contrast, in the examples in (17), a -self form appears in the between-phrases, and there are considerable distances between the conjuncts: (17) a.

Despite the revelations of the last several minutes, despite the unnatural relationship between herself and the baby (despite the very fact of the child’s existence at all), Kathryn felt an urge, akin to sexual, to hold the infant to her breast, to that hollow space that wants always to embrace a small child (SPW 215) b. There was too much of everything in the banker’s oﬃce, the banker’s house. It all only emphasized the gap between Elizabeth and himself. [Elizabeth is the wife of the referent of himself, and the banker is her wealthy father.] (HVE 31)

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c. d.

e.

f.

g.

“Gore is on the oﬀensive because he has to convince people that there are diﬀerences of substance between himself and Bradley,” says Tumulty. (GVB) Unsatisﬁed by ham-ﬁsted stereotypes, I went in search of political scientists, historians, legal scholars, biologists and psychologists who might cast more light on why most women make their ﬁrst public act as mothers an etymological suicide, obliterating the most visible link between their children and themselves. (LWS) An ad for a computer, headline: Christian Murphy was non-verbal. He lived with a wall between himself and the rest of the world. . . . Caption: This is Christian. He can see, hear, feel touch, but he cannot speak. He was born with autistic tendencies that cut him oﬀ from the world around him. (ADA) And I puzzled about the contrasts between Ruth and myself, especially when she made what seemed to me contradictory remarks, such as that it was quite impossible to imagine me as a man and that “you’d make a better father than a mother.” (MBW 196) Gradually, she recognized more words. During the day she spoke German to the children: it was easier than taking every thought, translating it into English inside her head, and then saying it aloud, a process that always meant one extra step between herself and the meaning. (HVE 106–7)

Figure 2 provides a summary. The phrases containing the -self pronoun suggest either a conceptual, physical or emotional distance, while the phrases containing the simple pronoun suggest closeness and connection. The qualitative data examined here provide support for the INSISTENCE hypothesis. INSISTING on an entity can diﬀerentiate that referent, thereby suggesting a conceptual distance between that referent and others. between + -self

between + simple

(conceptual distance) a pungent memory the unnatural relationship emphasized the gap diﬀerences of substance obliterating the most visible link he lived with a wall

(conceptual closeness) as though there were no air nothing comes between . . . emotional identiﬁcation no separation there is no one the bond between [a mother] and her children One of the most important relationships in your life the intimate connection

I puzzled about the contrasts one extra step

Figure 2. Summary of between-phrases

English pronouns in conjoined expressions 229

The pattern shown here results from an examination of a large group of examples, collected at random. While this type of collection is unstructured and cannot be used to quantitatively measure the frequency of forms or of speciﬁc contexts, it provides a relatively large number of relevant tokens. It is left to future research to validate the hypothesis quantitatively.

5. Use of forms is multi-determined It is important to note that the use of -self and other forms is multi-determined. -Self pronouns contribute to many types of interpretations in both argument and appositive uses, and these interpretations are found in conjoined expressions as well. For example, in (4), in addition to diﬀerentiation, the -self pronoun appears to contribute to a message of contrast, and it also suggests the importance of the referent, both of which are frequent interpretations resulting from the use of -self forms. In (4), the word not demonstrates that the writer wishes to distinguish the referent of himself from the other entity in the phrase, the neighbors. The writer notes that these two entities do not share the same relationship to the hazards, which were to her father, but not to the others. In (5), the meaning INSISTENCE is deployed to separate the form’s referent from the rest of the group. The same article describes the referent, Hedda Nussbaum, as “one of the most famous battered women in America,” and in addition, this passage tells us that she is a newly empowered crusader. She is, therefore, not an ordinary member of the group. There is another motivation for the use of -self in this passage. As we saw in the discussion of reﬂexives, -self pronouns are often used when there is something unexpected about the referent. Nussbaum’s role here as a strong, healthy spokesperson is rather surprising. The last time she had been seen in public was after her daughter had been murdered, and she herself had been brutally beaten over a period of ten years. So, the meaning INSISTENCE is useful in this example on at least two counts: to diﬀerentiate Nussbaum as a special member of this group, and because her role is unexpected. In contrast to (5), the following example shows a simple pronoun in a conjoined expression: (18) What the arrest has also done, though, is thrust into the spotlight, once again, a man [Michael Skakel] who has spent much of his life trying to escape the rumors and accusations dogging him, his older brother Thomas and by extension, his entire family. (CGO) Skakel, a 40-year-old member of the Kennedy family, had just been arrested on charges of committing a murder when he was a teenager. While no arrest had been made at the time of the crime, 25 years earlier, many residents and investigators had suspected Skakel since that time. The meaning INSISTENCE is not used here because there appears to be nothing unexpected about this referent, and no need to diﬀer-

230 Nancy Stern

entiate him from the other conjuncts. It is not surprising that Skakel and his brother had been dogged by rumors. Skakel’s brother had also been a suspect, and because of a widespread belief in a cover-up by their wealthy family, the whole family had been under a cloud of suspicion. There is no need to diﬀerentiate Skakel from the others in the group formed by the conjoined expression. Example (19) features a -self pronoun in a conjoined expression, where the use of the meaning INSISTENCE is motivated not only by the need to diﬀerentiate the referent from the other conjuncts, but also because the role of the referent is unexpected: (19) The day before the gunman-arsonist turned a Harlem clothing store into an inferno that killed seven employees and himself, the store’s owner, who is Jewish, told a court that . . . arson and physical attacks seemed imminent. (MCF) The meaning INSISTENCE is deployed to advise the hearer that there is something noteworthy, something worth INSISTING about this referent. One motivation for the use of INSISTENCE here is to diﬀerentiate the arsonist from the group formed by the conjuncts (all those who were killed by the ﬁre). The arsonist is a unique member of this collectivity, as he is the one responsible for all these deaths. Another motivation for the use of INSISTENCE in this example is that the role of the arsonist is unexpected, since arsonists generally set ﬁres that kill other people, not themselves.⁷ To reiterate, the use of -self pronouns is multi-determined. -Self pronouns contribute to the same types of interpretation in conjoined expressions as they do in other environments. What makes them particularly apt in conjoined contexts is the eﬀect of diﬀerentiating their referent from others. It is not the case that every time a -self pronoun is used in a between-phrase, it is to express distance, or that every time a simple pronoun occurs it is to express closeness. Nevertheless, there appears to be a strong skewing, and this discovery accounts for much of the distribution of pronouns in these contexts.

6. The human factor: prescriptive pressures As we discussed earlier, one of the factors that does seem to inﬂuence the choice of pronoun in conjoined expressions is speakers’ eﬀorts to follow prescriptive rules. Here (as in other instances) language users are quite diﬀerent from linguists. Linguists strive to ignore prescriptivist tenets in their work as analysts, but most speakers and writers are quite interested in using language “correctly” and in following the guidelines of stylebooks and other authorities. Thus, one of the factors that affects speakers’ choices of pronouns appears to be the desire to conform to social norms and prescriptive pressures. The role of prescriptive pressures is part of what Diver (1975) calls the Human Factor. As Cameron (1995: 6) describes it, “language-using is a social practice: the

English pronouns in conjoined expressions

human capacity for acquiring and using language is necessarily actualized within social relationships . . . .” Norms and evaluative views are the essence of such practices. While misapplication of prescriptive rules is probably one factor in the use of pronouns, another factor is the opposite — application of the prescriptive rules. Many speakers may deliberately use the forms according to the normative guidelines they know well. Therefore, in conjoined expressions as objects, some speakers might avoid -self pronouns if they are aware of the standard that prescribes simple (object) pronouns to be used. The next example demonstrates the diﬃculty of determining with certainty the reasons for a speaker’s choice in any given instance. We do ﬁnd examples where we cannot settle on any single motivation or set of motivations. Nevertheless, the indeterminacy of individual examples like (20) should not deter us from pursuing functional, communicative explanations. In this example, the writer describes a signiﬁcant age diﬀerence between herself and her students, yet she uses the simple pronoun, me. (20) As a teacher, I am at times most disconcerted by the style that reminds me of the 25-year gap in age between my students and me — the one my son calls the Hootchie-With-a-B. A.: smart girls in tight jeans, midriﬀ-baring spandex shirts or body-hugging knit minidresses. (TWC) At ﬁrst glance, this writer is discussing a large conceptual gap (a 25-year age gap), so a -self pronoun may have been more eﬀective in communicating her intended message. However, it is also possible that this writer used the simple pronoun me precisely to achieve the conceptual closeness eﬀect we have been discussing, that is, to ally herself with her students. After all, she tells us that she is disconcerted by this age gap (more precisely, by the style that reminds her of it). She may have used me to minimize the gap, to suggest a closeness and aﬃnity with her students. But the possible inﬂuence of prescriptive pressures in this example should not be ignored. It is likely that the writer, a high school teacher, is well aware of the rules laid down in grammar books, and she may be devotedly following them. It may be quite diﬃcult to determine to what extent prescriptivism is a factor in a writer’s choice of pronoun in any individual example, but it would be naïve to believe that it plays no role at all. A more rigorous understanding of this aspect of the human factor — that is, the ways in which prescriptive pressures inﬂuence the distribution of forms — is clearly needed.

7. Pronouns as signals of meaning While most research on -self pronouns has focused on the structural conditions for their use, the ﬁndings presented here suggest that treating pronouns as meaningful signals can successfully account for their distribution. In conjoined expressions, -self pronouns contribute to the same types of message eﬀects that motivate their

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use in other environments. They are especially felicitous in conjoined expressions, because they can diﬀerentiate their referents from the other conjuncts. While this observation does not account for all the choices speakers and writers make between -self and simple pronouns in conjoined expressions, it oﬀers the beginnings of an understanding of this complex and little studied phenomenon.

Data Sources Chuck Arnold. “Chatter.” People Weekly. March 6, 2000 (v53 i9 p168). [InfoTrac] ADA Ad for Apple Computers AHM Mary Amoroso. “Whether hand-made or bought, some Mother’s Day presents stand out as extra-special.” The Bergen Record. May 9, 1999. CAD Dana Canedy. Advertising Column, The New York Times, September 7, 1999. CGO David W. Chen. “Glare of an Old Horror Intrudes on a Priviliged Life,” The New York Times, January 22, 2000, p. B1. CKD Polyxane S. Cobb. “Kevorkian’s Disobedience” (letter to the editor), The New York Times, April 22, 1999. GMG Arthur Golden. 1997. Memoirs of a Geisha. New York: Knopf. GVB Tony Karon. “Gore vs. Bradley: Get Ready for a Wonkfest,” Web-only news October 27, 1999. HDO Laura M. Holson. “Deﬁning the On-Line Chief; Ebay’s Meg Whitman Explores Management, Web Style,” The New York Times, May 10, 1999, p. C8. HSR Ursula Hegi. 1994. Stones from the River. New York: Scribner Paperback Fiction. HVE Ursula Hegi. 2000. The Vision of Emma Blau. New York: Simon and Schuster. LWS Carol Lloyd. “Why should a baby get the father’s last name?” www.Salon. com, January 20, 2000. LYB Penelope Leach. 1987. Your Baby and Child. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. MAB Ad appearing in The New York Times for a book by Mike Magee, M. D. and Michael D’Antonio, The Best Medicine. Saint Martin’s Press. MAL Douglas Martin. “What’s in A Name: The Allure of Labels,” The New York Times (Week in Review), January 19, 2000. MBW Margaret Mead. Blackberry Winter. 1972. New York: Touchstone Books. MCF Robert D. McFadden. “Harlem Store Owner Had Cited Anti-Semitism Before Fatal Fire,” The New York Times, December 12, 1995, p. A1. PSM Michael Pye. “Serial Mom” (Review of Joyce Carol Oates writing as Rosamond Smith, Starr Bright Will Be With You), The New York Times Book Review, April 11, 1999. RHN Francine Russo. “The Faces of Hedda Nussbaum,” The New York Times Magazine, March 30, 1997, p. 26. ACH

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SFC SHE SNP SPW TWC InfoTrac

Mark Senak. 1998. A Fragile Circle. Los Angeles: Alyson Books. R. Z. Sheppard. “Bitter Sweets,” Time Magazine, February 9, 1999, p. 70. Jon Stewart, on The Today Show, NBC, October 4, 1999. Anita Shreve. 1998. The Pilot’s Wife. Boston, New York and London: Little, Brown and Company. Sallie Tisdale. “What Color Is Your Uniform,” The New York Times, May 24, 1998, Sunday Styles/Section 9, p. 5 The InfoTrac Reference Center, Magazine Index from the General Reference Center. 2001. The Gale Group Inc. This electronic database consists of articles from magazines, reference books, newspapers and news services on current events, popular culture, the arts and sciences, sports, business etc. that have appeared from 1980 to the present.

Notes 1. -Self pronouns include myself, yourself, himself, herself, itself, ourselves, etc., while simple pronouns include me, you, him, her, it, us, etc. 2. The most well-known syntactic account, generative grammar’s Binding Theory, is not intended to cover conjoined expressions (Chomsky 1981, 1982, 1995; Reinhart and Reuland 1993). Van Hoek (1997) and Kuno (1987) discuss data that include -self pronouns in conjoined expressions. 3. By hypothesis, meanings are present only when they are encoded linguistically, that is, when they are part of the invariant semantic contribution of the form. So, for instance, you signals Person, but does not signal a Number meaning or a Sex meaning, although of course the number and sex of referents are often part of the hearer’s interpretation of an utterance. 4. A more thorough description of the INSISTENCE hypothesis and the use of -self pronouns in reﬂexive and other contexts can be found in Stern (2001). 5. A more thorough description of the English Control System can be found in Reid (1991) and Huﬀman (1993). 6. Following Kemmer and Barlow (1996) and Cresswell (1997), the term “argument” is applied here not only to participants selected by the verb (e.g., Diana and Ben in Diana loves Ben), but to any entity with its own role, including objects of prepositions (e.g., Diana was looking at a picture of Ben in the newspaper), where Diana, picture, Ben and newspaper are all here described as arguments. 7. The order of the conjuncts may also be relevant, since a simple pronoun would seem like a more plausible option if the arsonist had been mentioned ﬁrst. We can only speculate about non-occurring examples, but an inferno that killed him and seven employees would seem more likely than an inferno that killed seven employees and him.

References Cameron, Deborah. 1995. Verbal Hygiene. London and New York: Routledge. Chomsky, Noam. 1981. Lectures on Government and Binding. Dordrecht: Foris Publications.

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Nancy Stern Chomsky, Noam. 1982. Some Concepts and Consequences of the Theory of Government and Binding. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Chomsky, Noam. 1995. The Minimalist Program. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Cresswell, Cassandra. 1997. Non-argument Reﬂexives: A Pragmatic Analysis. Senior honors thesis, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Diver, William. 1975. “Introduction.” Columbia University Working Papers in Linguistics 2: 1–20 [corrected reprint 1980]. Givón, Talmy. 1993. English Grammar: A Function-Based Introduction, Vols. 1 and 2. Philadelphia and Amsterdam: Benjamins. Huﬀman, Alan. 1993. “The Control-Focus interlock.” Part I, Events and Participants. Modern English: A Columbia School Grammar. Ms. Kemmer, Suzanne. 1995. “Emphatic and reﬂexive -self : Expectations, viewpoint and subjectivity.” In Subjectivity and Subjectivisation, Dieter Stein and Susan Wright (eds), 55–82. Cambridge University Press. Kemmer, Suzanne and Michael Barlow. 1996. “Emphatic -self in discourse.” In Conceptual Structure, Discourse and Language, A. E. Goldberg (ed), 231–248. Stanford, CA.: Center for the Study of Language and Information. Kuno, Susumu. 1987. Functional Syntax: Anaphora, Discourse and Empathy. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Levinson, Stephen C. 1991. “Pragmatic reduction of the Binding Conditions revisited.” Journal of Linguistics 27: 107–161. O’Conner, Patricia T. 1996. Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Reid, Wallis. 1991. Verb and Noun Number in English: A Functional Explanation. London and New York: Longman. Reinhart, Tanya and Eric Reuland. 1993. “Reﬂexivity.” Linguistic Inquiry 24(4): 657–720. Stern, Nancy. 2001. The Meaning and Use of English -Self. Ph.D. dissertation, CUNY Graduate Center. Stern, Nancy. 2003.“The grammar of English reﬂexives: A new view.” In LACUS Forum XXIX: Linguistics and the Real World, Douglas W. Coleman, William J. Sullivan and Arle Lommel (eds), 327–337. Houston: LACUS. Van Hoek, Karen. 1997. Anaphora and Conceptual Structure. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.

CHAPTER 9

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system A sign-oriented approach Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin Ben-Gurion University of the Negev

1. Introduction In this chapter we will explore the issue of semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system. Traditional analyses of the Hebrew verb system have typically been limited to listing and discussing the various syntactic, semantic and pragmatic functions of each of the seven major patterns that comprise the verb system. We will outline a sign-oriented analysis of the Hebrew verb system as presented in tobin (1995), that adopts the tenets that the distribution of linguistic signs and their relationships are motivated by invariant meaning and that the connection between signal and meaning in sign systems may be iconically reﬂected in the language code. Then we will go on to show how two of the patterns of the Hebrew verb system can be systematically opposed based on the notion of invariant meaning. Traditional analyses have attempted to attribute speciﬁc functions to each pattern in the verb system, but none has validated the entire system with all the possible roots that appear in each pattern. In the present analysis, the connection between two patterns in the verb system will be exhaustively tested from a semiotic linguistic approach, with the intention of contributing to a more general attempt towards a uniﬁed calculus of meaning (see van Schooneveld 1978) in language.

2. The Hebrew verb system Hebrew, like other Semitic languages, has a fundamentally diﬀerent structure than the Indo-European languages. In the Semitic languages, the isomorphic connections between phonology, morphology, syntax and semantics are much more overt. The vast majority of the words of the language can be analyzed into consonantal roots signaling broad semantic ﬁelds which are combined with ﬁxed morphophonemic patterns for what are traditionally called nominal adjectival (mishkalim ‘weights/scales’), and verbal (binyanim ‘building blocks’) forms. More often than

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not, the connections and relationships between the root and these ﬁxed morphophonemic patterns are rather transparent. The relatively transparent connection between lexical roots and the ﬁxed morphophonemic nominal, verbal, or adjectival patterns may be brieﬂy illustrated for the triliteral /C–C–C/ consonantal root K-T-V ‘write’ as follows: KoTeV ‘writes, writer’; KaTaV ‘wrote, reporter, correspondent’; niKTaV ‘was written’; KiTeV ‘inscribed’; KuTaV ‘was inscribed’; hiKTiV ‘dictated’, huKTaV ‘was dictated’; hitKaTeV ‘corresponded, wrote letters’; nitKaTeV ‘was written in a correspondence, letter’; KaTaVa ‘article’; KToVet ‘address’; KiTuVit ‘title, subtitle’; KTuVa ‘contract’; KtaV ‘handwriting’; miKTaV ‘letter’; miKTAVa ‘writing desk’; haKTaVa ‘dictation’; hitKaTVut ‘correspondence’; KTiV ‘spelling, orthography’; KaTVan ‘typist, scribe’; KaTVanut ‘typing’; KaTuV ‘was written, biblical verse, passage, text’; KTaVim ‘works, writings’; SHiKTuV ‘rewrite’. It should be clear from the above examples, that on the most fundamental level, the Hebrew lexicon is primarily based on (usually triliteral) /C-C-C/ consonantal roots. These lexical roots pass through elaborate conjugational, inﬂectional and derivational patterns and systems in order to form words. Some of these grammatical conjugational and inﬂectional patterns (mishkalim/binyanin) are signaled by alternating vocalic and consonantal — vocalic aﬃxes (preﬁxes, inﬁxes, suﬃxes). Different synthetic, semantic and syntactic forms are systematically created through these mishkalim/binyanim .

2.1. Traditional and neotraditional analyses The Hebrew verb system consists of seven or eight conjugational and inﬂectional patterns¹ termed binyanim, which are signaled by alternating vocalic and consonantal-vocalic aﬃxes (preﬁxes, inﬁxes and suﬃxes). The names of the traditional seven major binyanim (PAAL, NIFAL, PIEL, PUAL, HIFIL, HUFAL, HITPAEL) are derived from the triconsonantal (CCC) root P-‘-L / ‘action’ and the ﬁxed morphophonemic pattern of each binyan. The traditional seven major binyanim usually have been deﬁned according to their most frequent or prototypical function: simple, intensive, causative, reﬂexive and/or voice (active, passive). These terms, primary functions

Table 1. The binyan system: traditional view (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7)

PAAL — ‘simple’ conjugation (also known as QAL / ‘basic/ simple’) NIFAL — ‘passive’ of ‘basic-simple’ conjugation (PAAL/QAL) PIEL — ‘intensive’ conjugation PUAL — ‘passive’ of ‘intensive’ conjugation (PIEL) HIFIL — ‘causative’ conjugation HUFAL — ‘passive’ of ‘causative’ conjugation (HIFIL) HITPAEL — ‘reﬂexive’ conjugation

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system Table 2. The binyan system: root–pattern–verb Root

Binyan

Pattern

Resulting verb

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7)

PAAL NIFAL PIEL PUAL HIFIL HUFAL HITPAEL

CaCaC niCCaC CiCeC CuCaC hiCCiC huCCaC hitCaCeC

KaTaV / ‘wrote’ niKTaV / ‘was written’ KiTeV / ‘inscribed’ KuTaV / ‘was inscribed’ hiKTiv / ‘dictated’ huKTaV / ‘was dictated’ hitKaTeV / ‘corresponded’

K-T-V K-T-V K-T-V K-T-V K-T-V K-T-V K-T-V

and designations of active and passive voice, have served, over the centuries, as the traditional labels for the binyanim as shown in Table 1. Most, if not all of the usually triconsonantal (CCC) roots in the language are combined with the morphophonemic patterns of one or more binyan to create a lexical verb. This “root + binyan = verb” process is illustrated in Table 2 (for the third person, masculine, singular past forms from which the traditional labels are taken) using the triconsonantal root K-T-V ‘write’.

2.2. A sign-oriented analysis of the binyan system There have been many attempts at characterizing the binyan system. According to Tobin (1995), however, all of these, whether syntactic or lexicalist, have not gone beyond the listing of a variety of semantic, syntactic and pragmatic functions of each binyan. Such listing and discussion of the various syntactic, semantic and pragmatic functions have failed to assign a single function or a set of functions consistently and systematically to each pattern. The result is that the binyan system appears to be asymmetrical and random. Tobin proposes that a set of invariant meanings may be postulated for each binyan, and that these comprise a larger semantically motivated grammatical system. He argues for an eight-member binyan system, with the eighth pattern being the passive reﬂexive NITPAEL. The binyan system is conceived as composed of three interlocked deictic systems, deﬁned by the following semantic domains: 1. Domain 1: the Objective versus Subjective conceptualization of actions, states, or events: i.e. an objective description or more of a subjective description: this means that the encoder may either be giving an objective description of an action, state, or event, or making a more subjective assessment or comment on an action, state, or event. In other words, merely “presenting the facts” or “appraising the facts”, i.e. revealing more of a personal point of view, an impression, or opinions of the scene. For example, KaTaV-‘wrote’ as compared with KiTeV-‘inscribed’ (or in other words, ‘pressed down very hard on the paper’/ ‘wrote roughly’). The notion of Objective versus Subjective may best be viewed as a continuum or cline across the lines of denotation — connotation respectively.

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2. Domain 2: the Single, versus Multiple perceptions of these actions, states, or events: this means that the action, state, or event may either be identiﬁed at a Single perception, or that a pluralty or more than one — a Multiple — perception is necessary to identify it. For example, KaTaV-‘wrote’ as opposed to hitKaTeV‘corresponded’. Within this domain, actions, states, or events requiring a plurality of Multiple perceptions may also be perceived within Integral space and time, i.e. occupying a single continuous space and time rather than discrete discontinuous space and time (in a way similar to Semantic Integrality (Tobin 1995: 71)). 3. Domain 3: the Automony of actions, states, or events: this means that the action, state, or event may be identiﬁed independently (Autonomous), or is dependent on other elements (either implicitly or explicitly) to be identiﬁed (Non-Autonomous). For example, hiKTiV-‘dictated’ as compared with huKTaV-‘was dictated’ (by whom?). Each binyan is deﬁned by one value of each one of these systems. While the root presents the general semantic ﬁeld of the action, state or event, the binyan conceptualizes and categorizes diﬀerent ways of perceiving the action, state and event. This function of a binyan is termed its semantic domain. The diﬀerent verb patterns are deﬁned in the following manner with respect to the three semantic domains: (a) PAAL: objective, single perception, autonomous (KaTaV-‘wrote) (b) HITPAEL: objective, multiple perceptions, autonomous (hitKaTeV-‘corresponded’) (c) PIEL: subjective, single perception, autonomous (KiTeV-‘inscribed’) (d) HIFIL: subjective, multiple perceptions, autonomous (hiKTiV-‘dictated’) (e) NIFAL: objective, non-autonomous, multiple perceptions (of original single perception) (niKTaV-‘was written’) (f) NITPAEL: objective, non-autonomous, multiple perception (of original multiple perception) (nitKaTeV-‘was written in the correspondence’) (g) PUAL: subjective, non-autonomous, multiple perceptions (of original single perception) (KuTaV-‘was inscribed’) (h) HUFAL: subjective, non-autonomous, multiple perceptions (huKTaV-‘was dictated’) Tobin stresses that these interlocked invariant meanings are not absolute but rather relative in nature. When a root appears in all eight patterns, all of the opposed markedness values are deﬁned relative to each other. If a root is only partially distributed within the system, some of these semantic features may be neutralized. However, if a root appears in more than one pattern, it will maintain the opposed markedness values for those patterns in which it appears. The fact that not all roots appear in all conjugations is related to semantic/pragmatic holes in meaning in the system which, in some cases, are ﬁlled by other roots. Junger (1988) lists which roots appear in which conjugation but no one, to the best of our knowledge, has attempted to explain the nature of this distribution.

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system

Since the binyan system falls somewhere between inﬂectional and derivational morphology, the meaning of a certain verb form is not entirely predictable based on the verb pattern. Rather, the meanings of verb forms are motivated by the meaning assigned to the preﬁx/inﬁx of the diﬀerent binyanim. The binyan system is not a totally closed one, in the sense that it is productive to a certain extent. Berman and Sagi (1981) list verbal neologisms from various studies on Hebrew child language. They assume that children do this either to ﬁll lexical gaps in the system or in their own lexicons. Some of these have entered normative language such as kile’ax-‘washed (trans)’, a PIEL form of hitkale’ax (HITPAEL pattern)showered himself. Based on their examples, children coin new verbs in all the four autonomous verb patterns. The reason that children do not coin verbs in the non-autonomous verb patterns is probably that these are conceptually more complex. Another interesting observation made by Berman and Sagi (p. 41), that lends support to this assumption, is that children very often inﬂect a HITPAEL verb form in the NIFAL conjugation (in terms of Tobin’s system, HITPAEL and NIFAL diﬀer only in one domain: NIFAL is non-autonomous and HITPAEL is autonomous). Hebrew-speaking adults very often create new verbs for the purpose of being ironic or facetious or making subjective remarks. An interesting example is the newly coined hitputara combination of the HITPAEL form hitpater (‘resigned’) and the PUAL form putar (‘dismissed’)- meaning that a person was ‘induced by his/her superiors to resign.’

3. PAAL–HITPAEL verb alternations In what follows, we will present two analyses of PAAL–HITPAEL verb alternations- a traditional sentence-oriented analysis (based on Oron 2001) and a sign-oriented analysis. It will be shown that a traditional approach, because of conceiving the sentence as the basic unit of analysis and assuming preconceived categories, is unable to make the same types of extensive generalizations as a sign-oriented approach. Signoriented theory diﬀers from more traditional approaches to language in that it views language as a holistic code used by human beings for communicating. This code is comprised of linguistic signs which integrate signals and meanings and the relationship between them. The distribution of linguistic signs and their relationships are motivated by invariant meaning and the connection between signal and meaning may be iconically reﬂected. Moreover, the invariants of the language code are not preconceived categories, but rather must be discovered. Another important point is that the invariant meanings that underlie the code level are not equivalent to sentence or dictionary or discourse meanings and messages nor to the syntactic, logical or pragmatic communicative discourse functions and exploitations of this code.

3.1. PAAL–HITPAEL verb alternations — a traditional analysis As previously stated, the binyanim have been traditionally deﬁned according to

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their most frequent meanings or functions and/or voice. Under this approach, PAAL represents the ‘simple’ or ‘basic’ conjugation, and HITPAEL represents reﬂexive conjugation (e.g. Berman 1975a). There are roughly 150 roots that can appear in both binyanim. However, only a relatively small amount of these (24) ﬁt the ‘basic-reﬂexive’ dichotomy. Another possibility of exploring the diﬀerence in meaning between PAAL and HITPAEL is to group the verb pairs into diﬀerent verb categories, and to see whether a consistent distinction can be found between the two binyanim within each group. We will attempt to do this with intransitive verbs of motion. There are ten such verb pairs, and they are listed in Table 3. A consistent distinction can be found between the PAAL and HITPAEL forms of the ﬁrst six verb pairs: both forms denote activities with similar semantic content. However, only the PAAL form can be telicized by adding a goal phrase, whereas the HITPAEL form remains an activity even when the same type of goal phrase is aﬃxed to it. This point can be illustrated by the following example: (1) a.

Ha-ish halax me-ha-gan la-bait be-sha’a. the-man walk.PAAL.PAST from-the-park to-the.house in-hour ‘The man walked from the park to the house in an hour.’ b. Ha-ish hithalex me-ha-gan la-bait bemeshex the-man walk.HITPAEL.PAST from-the-park to-the.house during sha’a. hour ‘The man walked back and forth from the park to the house for an hour.’

Table 3. PAAL-HITPAEL intransitive verbs of motion Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

1. h.l.x. 2. r.ts. 3. n’.a.

halax rats n’a

walked ran moved

hithalex hitrotsets hitnoe’a

4. z.z.

zaz

moved

hitazez

5. n.d. 6. n.o.d.

nad (berosho) bowed (his head) nadad wandered, migrated (birds) ‘af ﬂew savav encircled, spun, turned around, wandered galash surfed, skied, slid zaxal crawled

walked back and forth ran back and forth moved from side to side, back and forth ran back and forth from one place to another swung back and forth swayed back and forth

7. .‘.f. 8. s.o.v. 9. g.l.sh. 10. z.x.l.

hitnadned hitnoded hit’ofe histovev

ﬂew away, took oﬀ spun, rotated, turned around

hitgalesh hizdaxel

slid down wriggled, crawled into

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system

This example can be said to illustrate that the two verbs with similar semantic content, in identical syntactic structures, have diﬀerent aspectual interpretations. In the second structure, it can be claimed, the verb form hithalex has taken on an iterative meaning, and this is the reason why it cannot be delimited by a frame adverbial such as in an hour. This claim can be extended to all of the HITPAEL forms under consideration. More speciﬁcally, it can be argued that the HITPAEL forms have an iterative component in their Lexical Conceptual Structure, which is only made explicit when an adjunct deﬁnes two or more points in space in between which the motion is carried out. These observations, however, fail to explain why these verbs, despite the fact that they retain their basic semantic content in both patterns, gain an iterative component when conjugated in the HITPAEL pattern. The solution would have to lie in a diﬀerence in meaning between the two patterns. This diﬀerence would have to be consistent since in all of the cases it was the HITPAEL form that carried an iterative component (and there are no examples of an alternation where the HITPAEL form carries the ‘basic’ meaning and the PAAL form gains an iterative component). Furthermore, ‘iteration’ would have to be only one aspect of this diﬀerence in meaning between the two patterns, since the distinction between the remaining four PAAL– HITPAEL verb alternations cannot be described in the same way. The problem at the core of this analysis is the preconception of the category intransitive verbs of motion. First, it prevents addressing the fact that other PAAL–HITPAEL alternations display the same distinction despite not being ‘verbs of motion’, for example, nasham‘to breathe’ vs. hitnashem- ‘to pant’. Second, it does not allow the discovery of other types of distinctions between PAAL–HITPAEL alternations which might lead to a generalization about the fundamental diﬀerence between the two patterns. In any case, however, such a generalization would be diﬃcult to reach within a sentence-based approach, as former attempts in the literature have shown. An example of such an attempt is Berman (1975b). Berman lists a wide variety of uses/ meanings associated with HITPAEL which appears to be riddled with inconsistencies and contradictions. For example, the pattern HITPAEL is characterized by a mixture of syntactic and semantic features; it is said to carry the following possible meanings: 1. intransitivity; 2. reciprocity; 3. iteration. In addition, HITPAEL is said to function as the middle form of verbs appearing in PIEL, and by virtue of that, to be a derived pattern par excellence. However, verb forms appearing only in HITPAEL and carrying a “basic” meaning are also cited. An additional feature attributed to HITPAEL is that it conveys an intensiﬁed or more speciﬁc meaning in relation to its PAAL or PIEL counterparts, but other examples where HITPAEL behaves “idiosyncratically” vis-à-vis PAAL and PIEL are also given. Berman concludes (p. 37) that a systematic description of the binyan system of contemporary Hebrew is diﬃcult to achieve because of the multitude of gaps and inconsistencies. However, she postulates that some of the consistencies outlined must have a basis, otherwise certain generalizations would go unexplained and it would imply that speakers of the language must acquire each lexical item separately and independently.

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242 Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin

Mandelblit (2000) has taken a diﬀerent approach in attempting to characterize the diﬀerent patterns of the binyan system. She proposes that, while the verb root provides the semantic content about participants and relations in the conceived event, and the syntactic construction deﬁnes the generic structure of the event, the binyan marks the relative role the participants play in the more elaborate conception of the event structure. Mandelblit outlines a ‘blending schema’ that is typical of each pattern. This approach is diﬀerent in positing that the grammatical meanings traditionally associated with the diﬀerent patterns are not inherent to the patterns themselves, but rather produced by the diﬀerent mapping schemes. However, none of these schemes is consistent for all of the forms that can appear in a particular pattern. For PAAL, for example, the blending characterization works only for transitive verbs.

3.2. PAAL–HITPAEL verb alternations within sign-oriented theory We will now explore the question of PAAL–HITPAEL verb alternations from a signoriented approach as outlined in Tobin (1995), extending the discussion to all 150 roots displaying this alternation, based on entries from RAV-MILIM: a comprehensive dictionary of Modern Hebrew by Choueka (1997). Most English glosses were taken from the Oxford English–Hebrew/Hebrew–English Dictionary (1995). In those cases where the verbs had newer or more common or colloquial messages than those that appeared in the dictionary, we provided our own glosses. This will be the ﬁrst time that the PAAL–HITPAEL connection will be tested exhaustively according to Tobin’s conception of the Hebrew verb system. Under this approach, each binyan is characterized according to three semantic domains: (1)objective versus subjective conceptualization of actions, states or events; (2)single versus multiple perception of actions, states or events; (3)autonomous versus non-autonomous character of actions, states and events from the point of view of the decoder at the point of encoding. In this system, PAAL is deﬁned by the following three features: objective, single perception and autonomous. HITPAEL is deﬁned thus: objective, multiple perceptions, autonomous. As is apparent, PAAL and HITPAEL share the features objective and autonomous, but diﬀer with respect to the domain of ‘perception’: whereas PAAL is marked for single perception, HITPAEL is marked for multiple perception. This means that an action, state or event denoted by the pattern PAAL is identiﬁed at a single perception (e.g. KaTav-‘wrote’), whereas an action state or event denoted by the pattern HITPAEL requires more than one perception (e.g. hitKaTeV‘corresponded’). Tobin points out (p. 255) that the simpler morphological forms are marked for the simpler single perception, whereas the more complex morphological forms, like HITPAEL and HIFIL that bear the preﬁxes HIT- and HI respectively, are marked for multiple perception reﬂecting language iconicity. Some of the PAAL forms may be arguably said to be non-uniform in their structure, therefore requiring more than a single perception. We propose here, then, that PAAL is identiﬁed by a singular perception (a single or an integral multiple percep-

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system

tion) whereas HITPAEL is identiﬁed by a plurality of perceptions. An alternative analysis to the one presented above, therefore, is that with respect to the domain of ‘perception’, PAAL is unmarked for number of perceptions and HITPAEL is marked for plurality of perceptions, always having more complex perceptions than the corresponding PAAL form.

3.2.1. The data

According to Stern (1994), the HITPAEL pattern cannot be characterized by a coherent semantic system. He recognizes seven message types that can be conveyed by the HITPAEL pattern, apart from iteration which is usually attributed to this pattern: 1. a one-place predicate with a basic meaning; 2. a two-place predicate with a basic meaning; 3. reciprocity; 4. a process or coming into being; 5. a state; 6. a sort of passive; 7. reﬂexiveness. Stern’s description of the diﬀerent binyanim is among the most thorough and extensive, exemplifying the accepted categories created by sentence-oriented grammarians. For this reason the PAAL–HITPAEL alternations will be examined according to this categorization of HITPAEL. We will attempt to show that a distinction based on number of perceptions can achieve systematicity in explaining the diﬀerence in meaning between the two verb forms, and that it can attribute a consistent meaning component to each one of the verb patterns regardless of traditional verb type categorizations. Obviously some of the meaning types overlap, and some forms may be classiﬁed in more than one way. In these cases, the classiﬁcation that most emphasizes the distinction between the PAAL and HITPAEL forms will be chosen. 3.2.1.1. Iteration. In some cases, both verb forms denote the same type of action (due to the invariant meaning of the root), however, the HITPAEL form carries an iteration meaning component. This is true for the six pairs of “intransitive verbs of motion” discussed earlier, but it is also true for four additional PAAL–HITPAEL alternations, as seen in Table 4. As for the ﬁrst six verb pairs discussed earlier, the HITPAEL forms necessarily require more than one perception on the part of the decoder in order to perceive the action since the action is not uniform; it consists of repetitions of the action depicted by the PAAL form, which only requires a singular perception. The last four verb pairs can also be consistently distinguished in that the HITPAEL form of the verb conveys a repetitive action that is semantically similar to its PAAL counterpart: 7) PAAL- knock vs. HITPAEL-knock repeatedly; 8) PAAL- cry vs. HITPAEL-whine; 9) PAAL- exhale vs. HITPAEL-pant/gasp; 10) PAAL- inhale vs. HITPAEL pant/gasp. 3.2.1.2. Reciprocity. The following PAAL–HITPAEL verb pairs also depict actions with similar semantic content, with the diﬀerence that the HITPAEL forms also convey reciprocity. This means that the action is directed towards an entity, and that that same entity directs the action back without this being explicitly stated. Also, when the action is carried out by more than one entity, it is implicitly understood that the entities are directing the action towards one another and, therefore, more than a sin-

243

244 Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin Table 4. HITPAEL verbs of iteration Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

1. h.l.x. 2. r.ts. 3. n.a.

halax rats na

walked ran moved

hithalex hitrotsets hitnoe’a

4. z.z.

zaz

moved

hitazez

walked back and forth ran back and forth moved from side to side, back and forth ran back and forth from one place to another swung back and forth swayed

5. n.d. 6. n.o.d.

hitnadned hitnoded

7.

hitdaPek

8. 9. 10.

nad (berosho) bowed (his head) nadad wandered, migrated (birds) d.p.k.² daak knocked (on a door) b.x.a. baxa cried n.sh.f. nashaf blew (air), exhaled n.sh.m. nasham breathed, inhaled

hitbaxjen hitnashef hitnashem

knocked (on a door) repeatedly whined panted, gasped panted, gasped, breathed heavily

gular perception is required for decoding the action. In some cases, the similarity in semantic content between the PAAL form and the HITPAEL form is not as transparent as in the previous cases; however, it is still evident as may be seen in Table 5. The HITPAEL forms in examples (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), (8) and (9) all denote an action that is carried out with an additional participant, conveyed by the preposition with that is absent from the English glosses of their PAAL counterparts:1) PAAL-see vs. HITPAEL- meet with someone; 2) PAAL-compose rhymes vs. HITPAEL- rhyme with; 3) PAAL-write vs. HITPAEL- correspond with; 4) PAAL-crush vs. HITPAEL- ﬁght with; 5) PAAL-whisper vs. HITPAEL- communicate with someone by whispering; 8) PAALrape vs. HITPAEL- have sexual intercourse with; 9) PAAL-unite vs. HITPAEL- become united with. In other words, the HITPAEL forms denote a more complex activity, requiring more than a singular perception in order to be decoded. Note that although in example 8) both shagal and hishtagel can mean had sexual intercourse with, only hishtagel implies that all of the participants in the act were active. Note also that only shagal can mean raped which is clearly not reciprocal. In examples 7) PAAL-kissed (someone) vs. HITPAEL-kissed each other, 11) PAAL-hugged vs. HITPAEL-hugged each other, 12) PAAL-gored vs. HITPAEL-gored each other, 13) PAALheard vs. HITPAEL-heard from each other, and 14) PAAL-came closer to vs. HITPAELcame closer to each other (ﬁg.) , the PAAL forms describe an action that involves an agent and possibly a patient, but only the HITPAEL forms denote an action with multiple active participants, as conveyed by the pronoun each other. This holds for the HITPAEL forms in examples 6) PAAL-poured vs. HITPAEL-merged, mingled together and 10) PAAL-gathered dates vs. HITPAEL-gathered together, as witnessed by the adverb together.

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system Table 5. HITPAEL verbs of reciprocity

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

r. ʔ.a. x.r.z. k.t.v. k.t.sh. l.x.sh.

ra ʔ a xaraz katav katash laxash

saw (something) composed rhymes wrote pounded, crushed whispered

hitraʔa hitxarez hitkatev hitkatesh hitlaxesh

poured kissed (someone) had sexual intercourse with, raped united, bound, brought together

hitmazeg hitnashek hishtagel

picked or gathered dates embraced (someone), encircled gored, butted

hitgoded

met with someone rhymed with corresponded with fought with communicated with someone by whispering merged, mingled together kissed (each other) had sexual intercourse with someone became united with, formed a cooperative with gathered together (intrans.)

hitxaBek

hugged (each other)

hitnageax

heard came closer (to something or someone)

hishtamea hitkarev

gored (each other), argued vehemently heard from each other came closer (to someone or something or, ﬁguratively, to each other)

6. m.z.g. mazag 7. n.sh.k. nashak 8. sh.g.l. shagal 9. ʔ.g.d.

ʔagad

10. g.d.d.

gadad

11. x.B.k.

xaak

12. n.g.x.

nagax

13. sh.m.a. shama 14. k.r.v. karav

hitʔaged

All of the HITPAEL forms in the table above have an additional participant understood to play an active role. This is not true of their PAAL counterparts. The HITPAEL forms, therefore, clearly require more than a singular perception. 3.2.1.3. Process or coming into being. A large number of verbs in the HITPAEL form that have a PAAL counterpart denote a process or a coming into being. This component is missing from most of the PAAL counterparts. A process or coming into being implies that the action, state or event conveyed by the verb is not uniform and therefore requires more than a singular perception on the part of the decoder. In those cases where a PAAL form does denote a type of process or coming into being, the focus of the event is on the end-point of the process, whereas their HITPAEL counterparts denote both the process and result- clearly a more complex event. This is illustrated in Table 6. Nearly all of the HITPAEL forms in Table 6 explicitly denote a process or coming into being as denoted by the words became or grew in their English glosss. This is true for the following examples 1)PAAL-shone vs. HITPAEL-became shiny, 2)PAAL-reached old age vs. HITPAEL-grew older, 3)PAAL-raged vs. HITPAEL-became enraged, 4)PAAL-was furious vs. HITPAEL-became furious, 5)PAAL-rejoiced vs.

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246 Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin

HITPAEL-became exultant, 6) PAAL-eroded vs. HITPAEL-became eroded, 7) PAAL-preserved vs. HITPAEL-became preserved, 8) PAAL-worked vs. HITPAEL-became enslaved, 9) PAAL-bristled vs. HITPAEL-came to be bristled, 10) PAAL-prevailed vs. HITPAELcame into existence, became perceived, 11) PAAL-remained silent vs. HITPAEL-became silent, 12) PAAL-lasted vs. HITPAEL-grew longer, 13) PAAL-was angry vs. HITPAELbecame angry, 14) PAAL-was agitated vs. HITPAEL-became agitated, 15) PAAL-ate, consumed vs. HITPAEL-became consumed, 16) PAAL-reached adulthood vs. HITPAELmatured, became an adult. Note that, although both forms can mean ‘to reach adulthood’, only the HITPAEL form can mean ‘mature intellectually/emotionally’, clearly denoting a more complex event. 17) PAAL-fabricated, invented vs. HITPAEL-became disillusioned, 19) PAAL-withered vs. HITPAEL-became withered, worn out, 20) PAALswallowed vs. HITPAEL-became confused (the meaning of hitbala is probably derived from the literary expression hitbal’a da’ato, literally, ‘his reason was swallowed’, and metaphorically, ‘he lost his sanity’) 21) PAAL-raged, seethed vs. HITPAEL-became turbulent and seething, 22) PAAL-grew, grew up vs. HITPAEL-became large or lofty, 23) Table 6. HITPAEL verbs of process or coming into being Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

1. z.h.r. 2. z.k.n. 3. z.’.f. 4. z.’.m. 5. ts.h.l. 6. sh.x.k. 7. sh.m.r. 8. ‘.B.d. 9. s.m.r. 10. s.r.r.

zahar zakan za’af za’am tsahal shaxak shamar ’aad samar sarar

shone, glowed reached old age raged, scowled was furious rejoiced wore down, eroded guarded, preserved worked, worshiped bristled prevailed

hizdaher hizdaken hizda’ef hizda’em hitztahel hishtaxek hishtamer hishta’aBed histamer histarer

11. sh.t.k.

shatak

hishtatek

12. ʔ.r.x.

ʔarax

hit ʔ arex

grew longer, dragged on

13. 14. 15. 16.

ragaz ragash ʔaal bagar

remained silent, refrained from or stopped speaking lasted (a certain period of time) was angry seethed, was agitated ate, consumed graduated, reached maturity

became shiny grew older became enraged became furious became exultant became worn down, eroded became preserved became enslaved, subjugated came to be bristled came into existence, became perceived became silent

hitragez hitragesh hit ʔaKel hitbager

became angry became agitated, excited became consumed matured (intellectually/ emotionally), became an adult became disillusioned burst open, split open

r.g.z. r.g.sh. ʔ.K.l. b.g.r.

17. b.d.a. 18. b.k.a.

bada baka

fabricated, invented hatched, emerged, burst

hitbada hitbakea

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system 247

PAAL-knew vs. HITPAEL-became familiar with, 24) PAAL-dried vs. HITPAEL-became dried, 25) PAAL-was weary of vs. HITPAEL-became weary of, 26) PAAL-sat vs. HITPAEL-became seated, 27) PAAL-darkened vs. HITPAEL-became darker, 28) PAAL-was angry vs. HITPAEL-became angry, 29) PAAL-burned, blazed vs. HITPAEL-grew hotter, became intense, 30) PAAL-sold vs. HITPAEL-became addicted to (literally, ‘sold himself ’ to a cause, a habit. Probably derived from the expression maxar et nafsho la-satan- ‘sold his soul to the devil’) , 32) PAAL-boiled, was angry vs. HITPAEL-became angry, 33) PAAL-tired of vs. HITPAEL-became tired of, 35) PAAL-beat (intrans.), throbbed vs. HITPAEL-became excited with, 38) PAAL-was dark, gloomy vs. HITPAELbecame dark, gloomy, 38) PAAL-was diminished vs. HITPAEL-became diminished, and 39) PAAL-thought, assumed vs. HITPAEL-became known. In example 31) a similar distinction exists between the meaning of the PAAL form- smelt/reeked of- and the meaning of the HITPAEL form- evaporated, dissipated, disappeared. The PAAL form describes a state; the HITPAEL form describes a change of state, clearly a more complex event, requiring more than a singular perception in order to be decoded. 19. b.l.’. 20. b.l. ʔ. 21. g.’.sh

bala bala ga’ash

withered swallowed raged, seethed

hitbala hitbale ʔa hitga’esh

22. 23. 24. 25.

gadal jada jaash jaga

hitgadel hitvada hitjabesh hitjaga

hitkaha hitka’es hitlahet hitmaKer hitnadef

g.d.l. j.d.a. j.B.sh. j.g.a.

26. j.sh.v.

jashav

grew, grew up knew dried labored, toiled, was weary of sat

27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

kaha ka’as lahat maar nadaf

darkened was angry burned, blazed sold smelled of, reeked of

32. r.t.x. 33. ‘.j.f. 34. p.g.

ratax ajaf pag

35. p.’.m.

pa’am

boiled, was angry hitrateax tired of hit’ajef expired, vanished, hitpogeg stopped beat (heart), throbbed hitpa’em

36. p.k.a.

paka

37. k.d.r. 38. k.t.n.

kadar katan

39. s.B.r.

saar

k.h.h. k.’.s. l.h.t. m.K.r. n.d.f.

burst, tore, broke oﬀ, cracked, expired was dark, gloomy, sad was diminished in size, number or amount thought, assumed

hitjashev

hitpakea hitkader hitkaten histaBer

became withered, worn out became confused became turbulent and seething became large or lofty became familiar with became dried became weary of, toiled, labored sat down, became seated, settled became darker became angry grew hotter, became intense became addicted evaporated, dissipated, disappeared (ﬁg.) became angry became tired (of) faded away, gradually vanished became excited or ﬁlled with admiration burst, cracked as a result of excessive pressure became dark, gloomy, sad became diminished in size, number or amount became known

248 Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin

Some of the PAAL–HITPAEL verb pairs seem to carry an identical message: 18) baka (‘hatched, emerged, burst’)-hitbakea (burst open), 19) bala (‘withered’)hitbala(‘became withered’), 24)javash (‘dried’)-hitjabesh (‘became dry’), 27) kaha (‘darkened’)-hitkaha (‘became darker’), 34) pag (‘expired’, ‘vanished’)-hitpogeg (‘faded away’, ‘gradually vanished’), 36) paka (‘burst’, ‘cracked’, ‘expired’)-hitpakea (‘burst, cracked’), 37) kadar (‘was dark’, ‘gloomy’)-hitkader (‘became dark, gloomy’), 38) katan (‘was diminished’)-hitkaten (‘became diminished’). If the assumption that the two binyanim- PAAL and HITPAEL- diﬀer in terms of number of perceptions is correct, then a diﬀerence in message is expected despite the fact that in both cases the same verb root, with the same semantic content, is employed. Subtle as it may be, a diﬀerence exists in that, although both forms describe a process, the PAAL form focuses on the result of the process, whereas the HITPAEL form seems to denote both the process and the result (Tobin 1993). This can be illustrated by the following expressions with the paka-hitpaka alternation, where the forms are in complementary distribution: (2) a.

Savlanut-o pak’a. patience-POSSESSIVE expire-PAAL-PAST ‘He ran out of patience.’ b. hu hitpake’a mi-tsxok/ka’as/kin’a. he burst.HITPAEL.PAST of-laughter/anger/jealousy ‘He burst out laughing.’

The HITPAEL form very clearly depicts a process of tension building up until the ﬁnal result, namely, two perceptions. The PAAL form, on the other hand, depicts a singular perception by focusing on the ﬁnal result. The pair pag–hitpogeg diﬀer in the following manner: (3) a.

ta’arix pag tokef date expire.PAAL.PAST validity ‘expiry date’ b. ha-arafel hitpogeg. the-fog expire.HITPAEL.PAST ‘The fog dissipated.’

As in the previous examples, the PAAL form depicts an event involving only an endpoint, therefore requiring a singular perception for decoding. The HITPAEL form, by contrast, depicts a process with a result/endpoint that requires a plurality of perceptions in decoding. Another way of demonstrating the diﬀerence in meaning between the two verb forms is by relating to their corresponding mishkalim. As stated in Section 2, roots are combined with morphophonemic patterns to create nominal, verbal and adjectival forms- binyanim in the case of verbal forms and mishkalim in the case of nominal and adjectival forms. Berman (1994) lists ﬁve “action nominals” (p.83) that correspond to each one of the “active verb binyan patterns”. The corresponding action

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system 249 Table 7. HITPAEL verbs of action

1. 2. 3. 4.

Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

ts.v.x. ts.m.x. ts.’.k. z.’.k.

tsavax tsamax tsa’ak za’ak

screamed grew shouted cried out

hitstaveax hitstameax hitsta’ek hizda’ek

began to scream began to grow began to shout let out a cry

nominal pattern for PAAL is CCiCa and the corresponding action nominal pattern for HITPAEL is hitCaCCut. The following nominal actions correspond to the verb pairs in 18), 19), 24), 27), 34), 36), 37) and 38). There are some gaps in the system so not all of the PAAL forms have a corresponding action nominal. All of the HITPAEL forms, however, have a corresponding nominal action that in all cases depicts a process and result, involving more than a singular perception. In those cases where an action nominal exists for both verb forms, the one corresponding to the HITPAEL verb form will always require more perceptions for decoding: 18) bki’a- ‘the act of emerging’; hitbak’ut- ‘the process of becoming cracked’, 19) blaia- ‘the disintegration of rocks’; hitbalut- ‘the process of becoming worn out’, 24)hitjabshut- ‘the process of drying’, 27) hitkahut- ‘the process of darkening’, 34) hitpogegut- ‘the process of becoming dissipated’, 36) pki’a- ‘expiry’; hitpak’ut- ‘the process of bursting’, 37) hitkadrut- ‘the process of becoming dark or sad’, 38) hitkatnut- ‘the process of becoming diminished’. There is an additional group of verbs that denote the initiation of an action. They diﬀer from verbs that describe a process in that they focus on the starting point, as opposed to the end point, of an event. In both cases, however, the event can be said to be non-uniform and to require more than one perception in order to be decoded: in one case, both the beginning point of the action and the ongoing action must be perceived; in the other case, a process and its ending point or result must be perceived. These are illustrated in Table 7. In these examples, the HITPAEL form of the verb depicts two points in time: one prior to the initiation of the action and one subsequent to it. Consequently, more than a singular perception is required on the part of the decoder. 3.2.1.4. Reﬂexiveness. Several PAAL–HITPAEL alternations denote very similar semantic contents. In these cases, the HITPAEL verb forms diﬀer from the PAAL verb forms in that they encode reﬂexiveness. This means that the performer of the action is also the recipient of the action. Since the recipient of the action is diﬀerent from what would ordinarily be expected given the lexical meaning of the verb, more than a singular perception is required for the conceptualization of the event. This may be seen in Table 8. Most of the HITPAEL forms in Table 8 are evident reﬂexives of their PAAL counterparts as the pronouns himself and oneself suggest. This is true for the following examples: 1) PAAL-straightened up (trans.) vs. HITPAEL-straightened himself up,

250

Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin Table 8. HITPAEL reﬂexive verbs Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

1. z.k.f. 2. z.k.r.

zakaf zakar

hizdakef hizdaker

straightened himself up stood out, protruded

3. 4. 5. 6.

sagar sarag tsaa tsaar

straightened something up straightened something up or thrust out closed knit painted accumulated, gathered (something) twined, interweaved spread something out rolled something, rolled something up ﬂowed turned something over washed (something) collected or gathered (something) wore (something) handed over

histager histareg hitstaBea hitstaBer

shut himself up entwined himself painted himself accumulated, amassed

hishtazer hishtateax hitgolel

became interwoven stretched himself out rolled about, wallowed

hitkaleax hithaPex hitraxets hit ʔasef

showered (himself) turned (himself) over washed himself accumulated

hitlaBesh hitmaser

dressed himself devoted himself, gave himself (sexually) smeared himself with something called himself (by a name) wrapped himself up stretched himself spread (himself out), extended (himself) undressed himself resigned, rid oneself (of something) bowed, bent down laughed to himself

s.g.r. s.r.g. ts.B.a. ts.B.r.

7. sh.z.r. shazar 8. sh.t.x. shatax 9. g.l.l. galal 10. 11. 12. 13.

k.l.x. h.P.x. r.x.ts. ʔ.s.f.

kalax haax raxats ʔasaf

14. l.B.sh. laash 15. m.s.r. masar 16. m.r.x. marax

spread (something), smeared called (someone by name)

hitkara

18. ‘.t.f. ’ataf 19. m.t.x. matax 20. p.r.s. paras

wrapped something up stretched (something) spread out (something)

hit’atef mitmateax hitpares

21. p.sh.t. pashat 22. p.t.r. patar

took oﬀ (clothes) exempt, dismissed

hitpashet hitpater

23. sh.x. shax 24. ts.x.k. tsaxak

bowed (his head) laughed

hishtoxeax hitstaxek

17. k.r.a.

kara

hitmareax

3) PAAL-closed vs. HITPAEL-shut himself up, 4) PAAL-knit vs. HITPAEL-entwined himself, 5) PAAL-painted vs. HITPAEL-painted himself, 8) PAAL-spread something out vs. HITPAEL-stretched himself out, 10) PAAL-ﬂowed vs. HITPAEL-showered (himself ), 11) PAAL-turned something over vs. HITPAEL-turned (himself) over, 12) PAAL-washed (trans.) vs. HITPAEL-washed (himself), 14) PAAL-wore vs. HITPAEL-dressed himself, 15) PAAL-handed over vs. HITPAEL-devoted himself, gave himself (sexually), 16) PAALspread, smeared vs. HITPAEL-smeared himself with something, 17) PAAL-called vs.

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system

HITPAEL-called himself (by a name), 18) PAAL-wrapped vs. HITPAEL-wrapped himself, 19) PAAL-stretched vs. HITPAEL-stretched himself 20) PAAL-spread out vs. HITPAEL-spread himself out, 21)PAAL-took oﬀ (clothes) vs. HITPAEL-undressed himself, 22) PAAL-exempt, dismissed vs. HITPAEL-resigned, rid oneself of, and 24) PAALlaughed vs. HITPAEL-laughed to himself. In examples 2) PAAL-straightened something up vs. HITPAEL-stood out, protruded, 6) PAAL-accumulated, gathered (trans.) vs. HITPAEL-accumulated, amassed, 7) PAAL-twined, interweaved vs. HITPAEL-became interwoven, 9) PAAL-rolled (trans.) vs. HITPAEL-rolled about, wallowed, 13) PAAL-collected or gathered (trans.) vs. HITPAEL-accumulated and 23) PAAL-bowed (his head) vs. HITPAEL-bowed, bent down, the PAAL and HITPAEL forms are very close in semantic content apart for the fact that for the HITPAEL forms the agent and patient are one and the same despite the fact that this is not made explicit in the gloss by means of a pronoun. In all of these cases, a multiple perception is inherent in the interpretation. 3.2.1.5. “Sort of passives”. According to Stern (1994), one of the message types carried by HITPAEL is that of “a sort of passive”. He gives the example of hitkabel which can be translated as ‘was accepted’. Stern treats this as a passive since it can be followed by a by-phrase. This particular form will not be analyzed since it has no PAAL alternation. However, the forms in Table 9, appearing to be the passive forms of their PAAL counterparts, were listed in Rav-Milim: a comprehensive dictionary of modern Hebrew by Choueka (1997). The distinction of singular perception versus a plurality of perceptions is still maintained since the HITPAEL forms all denote a process or change of state very similar in semantic content to the action depicted by their PAAL counterparts. Moreover, in all of the HITPAEL forms, the “subject” of the verb takes on expanded roles and is understood as playing the role of both agent and patient. The claim that the agent and patient are simultaneously implied is supported by the fact that these verbs cannot be followed by a by- phrase. Note that all of these HITPAEL forms have a NIFAL counterpart denoting the same type of event in terms of semantic content and process, but where the agent and the patient are distinct. This is in line with the stated assumption that HITPAEL and NIFAL diﬀer in terms of the meaning componTable 9. HITPAEL ‘passive’ verbs Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

1. sh.k.x. 2. s.x.f. 3. s.t.m. 4. sh.B.r. 5. m.’.x. 6. ‘.k.r.

shaax saxaf satam shaar ma’ax ’akar

forgot swept away blocked, clogged broke (something) crushed, squashed extracted, uprooted

hishtaKeax histaxef histatem hishtaBer hitma’ex hit’aker

came to be forgotten came to be swept away came to be blocked, clogged came to be broken came to be crushed, squashed came to be extracted, uprooted

25

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Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin Table 10. HITPAEL passive Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

sh.k.l.

shakal

weighed (trans.), considered

hishtaklel

had its relative part taken into account

ent referred to as autonomous/non-autonomous: the HITPAEL form depicts a process with a result, whereas the NIFAL form depicts a change-of-state with causation. An additional HITPAEL form that can be considered a type of passive and that has a PAAL alternation is illustrated in Table 10. The distinction between these two forms diﬀers from the one described for the ﬁrst six pairs. hishtaklel cannot be said to be a process of shakal but it clearly describes an event that is more complex and less uniform, and therefore requires a plurality of perceptions in order to be decoded. Note that the ‘real’ passive of shakal is derived in the NIFAL pattern, where an external agent is implied: nishkal- ‘was weighed’. 3.2.1.6. One-place predicates. Many HITPAEL forms that alternate with a PAAL form do not ﬁt as neatly into one of the categories above. In terms of stern’s categorization, they can best be described as “one-place predicates with a basic meaning”. However, just as with the pairs already reviewed, the root will contribute similar semantic content to both forms, and the HITPAEL form will describe an event or action that is not uniform and that therefore requires more than one perception on the part of the decoder. This may be seen in Table 11. The diﬀerence in message for some of the PAAL–HITPAEL verb pairs listed above is quite subtle. For example, 9)PAAL-natsats and HITPAEL-hitnotsets both mean ‘to shine, sparkle’, however, there is a subtlety captured by Choueka’s dictionary meaning: natsats is said to mean ‘to glow as if emitting light’, whereas hitnotsets is deﬁned as ‘emitting sparks of light’. This distinction clearly captures the singular perception versus plurality of perceptions dichotomy. Another pair of verbs that seem nearly identical in meaning are 13) PAAL-savav and HITPAEL-histovev. The diﬀerence between them can best be illustrated by a pair of colloquial expressions where only the HITPAEL form is acceptable, in the ﬁrst expression, because an iterative event is being depicted, and in the second expression, because a process or change of state is being depicted. (4) a.

Histovev ben ha-raglajim. turn.HITPAEL.PAST between the-legs ‘Wandered around someone in an annoying and disruptive manner.’ b. histovev lo boreg. turn.HITPAEL.PAST to.him screw ‘Suddenly began acting in a strange manner.’

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system

In examples (1) and (10), the PAAL and HITPAEL forms also appear to convey very similar meanings, however, it is quite clear that the HITPAEL form is more complex than its PAAL counterpart: 1) PAAL-crawled as compared with HITPAEL-wriggled, crawled into. The HITPAEL form is more complex in that the ﬁrst English glosswriggled contains an element of iteration and the second English gloss-crawled into depicts a process and result. Both these actions clearly require a plurality of perceptions in order to be decoded. A similar case can be made for example 10) PAALﬂew; HITPAEL-ﬂew oﬀ, ﬂew by battering wings. The ﬁrst English gloss of the HITPAEL form depicts a process and result and the second English gloss contains an element of iteration. In 11) there is a greater semantic discrepancy between the two verb forms- PAAL-labored vs. HITPAEL-exercised. Nonetheless, a similarity in semantic content still exists but the HITPAEL form in this case also contains an element of iteration missing from the PAAL form. In examples (2), (3), (4) and (14), the HITPAEL forms denote a more complex activity in that they carry an element of reﬂexiveness wherein both agent and patient are simultaneously implied: 2)PAALwas right vs. HITPAEL-justiﬁed himself; 3) PAAL-got lost vs. HITPAEL-commited suicide, 4)PAAL-was depleted vs. HITPAEL-calibrated himself (both are derived from the root meaning ‘zero’, where depletion goes to zero and calibration is based on setting at zero), 14)PAAL-choked (trans.) vs. HITPAEL-choked (himself). Note that the Table 11. HITPAEL one-place predicates Verb root

PAAL form

1. z.x.l. zaxal 2. ts.d.k. tsadak 3. ‘.B.d. 4. ʔ.P.s.

’aad ʔaas

5. 6. 7. 8.

ran galash ratsa natsats

r.n. g.l.sh. r.ts.a. n.ts.ts.

9. n.m. 10. ‘.f. 11. ‘.m.l. 12. s.o.v.

nam ’af ’amal savav

13. sh.P.x. shaax 14. sh.n.k. shanak 15. sh.P.r. shafar

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

crawled was right (about something) got lost was depleted

hizdaxel hitstadek

wriggled, crawled into apologized, justiﬁed himself

hit’aBed hit ʔaPes hitronen hitgalesh hiratsa hitnotsets

committed suicide restarted, calibrated himself, came to his senses rejoiced slid down relented, was reconciled shone, sparkled, glittered

hitnamnem hit’ofef hit’amel histovev

drowsed oﬀ, drowsed ﬂew oﬀ, ﬂew by battering wings exercised spun, rotated, turned around

hishtaPex hishtanek hishtaper

‘poured his heart out’ choked (intrans.) improved

sang surfed, skied, slid wanted shone, sparkled, glittered slept, slumbered ﬂew labored encircled, spun, turned around, wandered poured choked (trans.) had good qualities

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form HIT’ABED-committed suicide is most probably derived from the more literary phrase (5) ‘ibed ‘atsmo la-da’at lose.PIEL.PAST himself to-reason ‘committed suicide’ The HITPAEL forms in examples (6), (7) and (9)-slid down; relented/was reconciled; drowsed oﬀ, respectively- are more complex than their PAAL counterparts-surfed/ skied/slid; wanted; slumbered, respectively- in that they depict a process as opposed to a uniform action. In examples 5) and 13), the HITPAEL forms are semantically more complex and depict actions that are less uniform than their PAAL counterparts, and therefore, more likely to require a plurality of perceptions in decoding: 5)PAAL- sang vs. HITPAEL-rejoiced; 13)PAAL-poured vs. HITPAEL-poured his heart out (which also includes an endpoint/result). In 15), there is a contrast between a state and a process with a result: PAAL-had good qualities vs. HITPAEL-improved(himself). 3.2.1.7. Two-place predicates. The motivation for this category is the same as for the previous one. Again it will be apparent that verbs in the HITPAEL pattern denote actions or events that are not uniform as compared with their PAAL counterparts, and that they, therefore, require a plurality of perceptions on the part of the decoder. This is shown in Table 12. In many of the examples above, the two verb forms denote a similar type of action or event, but whereas the PAAL form refers mainly to the result of the action or event, the HITPAEL form addresses both the process and the result. A similar distinction was found for the verb pairs in Table 6. As claimed before, a verb denoting both process and result requires a plurality of perceptions on the part of the decoder. This distinction is found in the following pairs: 5) PAAL-dwelled vs. HITPAEL-settled in, lodged, 7) PAAL-controlled vs. HITPAEL-gained control of, 9) PAAL-loved vs. HITPAELTable 12. HITPAEL two-place predicates Verb root

PAAL form

English gloss

HITPAEL form

English gloss

1. z.K.h.

zaa

won

hizdaKa

2. s.m.x.

samax

trusted, relied on (in general)

histamex

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

sa’ar shaha shaan saar shalat shamat

raged stayed dwelled hired, rented controlled dropped, let loose

hista’er hishtaha hishtaKen histaKer hishtalet hishtamet

was refunded for turning back equipment speciﬁcally relied on something/ someone to do something charge at, assault lingered, tarried settled in, lodged earned (wages) gained control of evaded, dodged

s.’.r. sh.h.h. sh.K.n. s.K.r. sh.l.t. sh.m.t.

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

ʔ.h.v. k.m. g.r. g.n.v. x.B.t. x.m.k. x.P.r. x.sh.v.

ʔahav kam gar ganav xaat xamak xaar xashav

loved, was fond of rose lived somewhere stole beat, struck slipped away dug thought, believed

hit ʔ ahev hitkomem hitgorer hitganev hitxaBet hitxamek hitxaPer hitxashev

17. l.m.d. 18. n.g.d.

lamad nagad

studied conﬂicted with

hitlamed hitnaged

19. r.’.m.

ra’am

roared

hitra’em

20. n.P.l. 21. ‘.l.a.

naal ’ala

fell climbed, ascended

hitnaPel hit’ala

22. ‘.s.k.

’asak

hit’asek

24. j.’.ts 25. m.r.d.

did (for a living), was engaged in pakad commanded, counted, took a census of, visited, came upon ja’ats gave advice marad refused to abide by

26. n.x.l.

naxal

inherited, obtained, suﬀered (defeat), gained (victory)

hitnaxel

27. ʔ.z.r.

ʔazar

gathered (strength, courage)

hitʔazer

28. x.B.r.

xaar

united with, merged

hitxaBer

29. k.sh.r.

kashar tied up, brought together

hitkasher

30. b.l.t.

balat

hitbalet

23. p.k.d.

stood out, protruded, excelled in 31. g.B.r. gaar became stronger, bigger; defeated 32. n.k.m. nakam took revenge 33. p.r.ts. parats broke into; inﬁltrated; broke out 34. sh.l.x. shalax sent

hitpaked hitja’ets hitmared

hitgaBer hitnakem hitparets hishtaleax

fell in love with rose against lived somewhere temporarily stole into wrestled with a problem evaded dug himself into behaved in a thoughtful manner, took into account became apprenticed opposed expressed indignation at something pounced (on/at), attacked gave up a cause for the sake of a more noble one occupied himself with, fooled around with took part in a census, counted oﬀ attendance check consulted with someone opposed in an active or violent manner settled on land that was bequeathed to him, took over and settled on foreign land adopted (a behavior, characteristic), became stronger, greater became connected to, established a contact or connection phoned, established a connection (by modem, transmitter etc.), became emotionally attached to excelled in, stood out, protruded overcame; defeated; became stronger, bigger took revenge barged in, burst out, erupted, broke out lashed out at, assaulted verbally

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fell in love with, 10) PAAL-rose vs.HITPAEL-rose against, 12) PAAL-stole vs. HITPAELstole into, 15) PAAL-dug vs. HITPAEL-dug himself into, 17) PAAL-studied vs. HITPAELbecame apprenticed, 20) PAAL-fell vs. HITPAEL-pounced at, attacked, 23) PAAL-visited, came upon vs. HITPAEL-counted oﬀ in an attendance check, and 27) PAAL-gathered (strength, courage) vs. HITPAEL-adopted (a behavior)/became stronger, greater. 34) PAAL- sent vs. HITPAEL- lashed out at. In other cases, the HITPAEL form of the verb describes a more complex event in that it is less uniform than that depicted by the PAAL form. Also, many of the HITPAEL forms take on a ﬁgurative meaning of their PAAL counterparts, which necessarily denotes a more complex event. The following pairs portray these distinctions: 1) PAAL-won vs. HITPAEL-was refunded for turning back equipment, 2) PAAL-trusted/ relied on vs. HITPAEL-relied on something/someone to speciﬁcally do something, 3) PAAL-stayed vs. HITPAEL-lingered/tarried, 8) PAAL-dropped/let loose vs. HITPAELevaded/dodged, 11) PAAL-lived somewhere vs. HITPAEL-lived somewhere temporarily, 13) PAAL-beat/struck vs. HITPAEL-wrestled with a problem, 14) PAAL-slipped away vs. HITPAEL-evaded, sneaked away from, 16) PAAL-thought/believed vs. HITPAEL-behaved in a thoughtful manner/took into account, 19) PAAL-roared vs. HITPAEL-expressed indignation at, 21) PAAL-climbed/ascended vs. HITPAEL-gave up a cause for the sake of a more noble one, 22) PAAL-did (for a living)/was engaged in vs. HITPAELoccupied himself with/fooled around with, 24) PAAL-gave advice vs. HITPAEL-consulted with someone, 25) PAAL-refused to abide by vs. HITPAEL-opposed in an active or violent manner, 26) PAAL-inherited/obtained/suﬀered (defeat)/gained (glory) vs. HITPAEL-settled on land that was bequeathed to him/took over and settled on foreign land, 28) PAAL-united with/merged vs. HITPAEL-became connected to/established a contact or connection and 29) PAAL-tied up/brought together vs. HITPAEL-phoned/established a connection (by modem, transmitter etc.)/became emotionally attached to. In two cases, the distinction between the two verb pairs lies in that the PAAL form depicts a state whereas the HITPAEL form depicts a process and result: 3) PAALraged vs. HITPAEL-charged at/assaulted and 18) PAAL-conﬂicted with vs. HITPAELopposed. In the following verb pairs, the HITPAEL form, as opposed to the PAAL form, depicts an event that occurs repeatedly over time, and therefore, requires more than one perception for decoding: 6) PAAL-hired/rented vs. HITPAEL-earned (wages). The last four pairs in Table 12 seem very similar, and in some cases, identical in meaning. However, their distribution diﬀers in certain situations: this can best be exempliﬁed through expressions and idioms. 31) gavar–hitgaber: (6) a.

gavar al-av jitsr-o. g.v.r..PAAL.PAST on-him desire-his ‘Was overcome by his desire.’ b. ka-ma’ajan ha-mitgaber. as-a.spring that-g.v.r.HITPAEL.PRESENT ‘That is constantly renewed and invigorated.’

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system

The verbs seem very diﬀerent because of the other lexical items in the idiom but the semantic connection between them can be clariﬁed. Both verbs are derived from the root meaning ‘strength’. In gavar alav jitsro, literally, ‘his desire defeated him’, the event depicted focuses on an endpoint. In kama’ajan ha-mitgaber, literally, ‘as the spring that intensiﬁes’, the event depicted involves both a process and result (and possibly an element of iteration). 32) nakam–hitnakem: (7) a.

ha-shem ji-kom dam-o. the-name FUTURE-n.k.m.PAAL blood-his ‘God will avenge his death.’ b. ze jitnakem b-o. this FUTURE.n.k.m.HITPAEL in-him ‘It will backﬁre on him.’

The literal meaning of the expression with the HITPAEL verb form is ‘this will take revenge on him’, meaning that one will bear the consequences of one’s acts. Clearly this is a more complex event in terms of perception than the act of avenging depicted by the PAAL form. 33) Parats–hitparets: (8) a.

parats la-bajit p.r.ts.-PAAL.PAST to.the-house ‘Broke into the house.’ b. hitparets la-bajit. p.r.ts.HITPAEL.PAST to.the-house ‘Burst into the house.’

The PAAL form parats focuses on an endpoint- the breaking into the house, whereas the HITPAEL form hitparets requires the decoder to conceive not only the endpoint of the agent being in the house but also the process of entering the house. The diﬀerence in meaning between the pair 30) balat–hitbalet can best be explained by referring to their corresponding action nominals: blita- ‘protrusion’ and hitbaltut- ‘the act of standing out, excelling’. Clearly the HITPAEL action nominal is broader and more complex in meaning. These examples illustrate that the HITPAEL form depicts an event that is more complex and less uniform, and hence more likely to require a plurality of perceptions on the part of the decoder. 3.2.1.8. States. Only two forms seem to ﬁt this category, although both can also ﬁt into one of the previous categories (such as ‘one-place predicate’ in the case of the ﬁrst verb and ‘iteration’ in the case of the second verb). In both cases shown in Table 13, it is clear that the state depicted by the HITPAEL form-was overcome by the desire in example (1) and knew his way around, was acquainted with a certain topic

257

258

Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin Table 13. HITPAEL statives Verb root 1. x.sh.k. 2. m.ts.

PAAL form

English gloss

xashak desired matsa found

HITPAEL form

English gloss

hitxashek (lo) was overcome by the desire hitmatsa knew his way around, was acquainted with a certain topic

in example (2) — is more complex then the event depicted by the PAAL form-desired in example (1) and found in example (2) — and that it requires more than a singular perception on the part of the decoder.

4. Summary and conclusions The issue of PAAL–HITPAEL pattern alternations within the Hebrew verb system was explored ﬁrst from a traditional sentence-oriented approach and then from a sign-oriented approach. In the ﬁrst analysis, only intransitive verbs of motion were analyzed since it was claimed that the traditional labeling of PAAL (‘basic’ conjugation) and of HITPAEL (‘reﬂexive’ conjugation) could not account for the distinction between most of the 150 PAAL–HITPAEL verb pairs. Ten such alternations were examined but a consistent distinction was found for only six of the pairs. For these six pairs it was claimed that both forms shared the same semantic content but that the verbs in the HITPAEL form took on an iterative meaning component, and consequently diﬀered in their event structure, so that as opposed to the PAAL forms, they could not be telicized. This observation did not explain why it was the HITPAEL form that took on an iterative meaning (and that there were no examples of the reverse occurring- a PAAL form taking on an iterative meaning component). Also, it could not account for the additional four verb alternations which also shared similar semantic content but did not display this distinction. Nor for that matter, could it account for the numerous other PAAL–HITPAEL alternations with similar semantic content that did not display this distinction or other PAAL–HITPAEL alternations with diﬀerent verb types that did display this distinction. A second, sign-oriented analysis was extended to all 150 PAAL–HITPAEL alternations, based on an analysis of the binyan system put forth by Tobin (1995). According to this analysis, each pattern within the system carries a set of invariant meanings, which together comprise a larger semantically motivated grammatical system. This means that the patterns are deﬁned relative to each other, and therefore, a pattern should not be contemplated independently but rather juxtaposed to the other patterns in the system. In this framework, each pattern is deﬁned by three semantic domains which determine how the action, state or event conveyed by the verb is perceived: (1) objective/subjective; (2) single/multiple perceptions; and (3) autonomous/non-autonomous. In terms of PAAL and HITPAEL, they are said to both be ob-

Semantic oppositions in the Hebrew verb system

jective and autonomous but to diﬀer in terms of perceptions: while PAAL conveys an action, state or event that requires a single perception in order to be decoded, HITPAEL conveys actions, states and events that require multiple perceptions in order to be decoded. In this second analysis, the HITPAEL verb forms were grouped according to the diﬀerent semantic features attributed to this pattern by Stern (1994). It was shown that regardless of this classiﬁcation, a single and consistent diﬀerence in meaning could always be found between the HITPAEL form and its PAAL alternation. This diﬀerence, in terms of number of perceptions required for decoding, explains why, when one of the verb alternations has an iterative meaning component, it will always be the verb in the HITPAEL form. Even in those cases where the PAAL form denotes an event that appears to require more than a single perception, the HITPAEL counterpart always involves more perceptions. Indeed, we proposed an alternative analysis whereby the PAAL verb forms are unmarked for number of perceptions, but are always simpler in this respect when opposed to their HITPAEL forms. This issue warrants further attention in future analyses of this type. Since the binyan system overlaps with both grammar and the lexicon, we do not claim that the meanings of the HITPAEL forms are entirely predictable based on the corresponding PAAL forms. That is, the meanings of the HITPAEL verbs are not transparently predictable in a compositional fashion (i.e. verb stem + pre-/inﬁx > resulting meaning). Rather, their meanings are motivated by the meaning assigned to the pre-/inﬁx. This means that even when a verb goes on to develop its own idiomatic uses, which can no longer be accounted for by the source semantics of the root, it still retains the notion of perceptions. For example, the verb form hitapes, derived from the noun efes ‘zero’, and which originally meant ‘recalibrated itself ’, has taken on the colloquial meaning of ‘regained one’s senses’ (both share the common message of returning to the starting point, namely, zero). An analysis of this type truly captures generalizations that were missing from the initial analysis of PAAL–HITPAEL verb alternations and from other analyses of its type. Previous research (e.g. Sachs 1987 and Sachs 2001) and the present attempt, are lending further support for a sign-oriented analysis of the Hebrew verb system, as outlined in Tobin (1995). We would like to think that any such analysis juxtaposing any two patterns within the system would be equally successful. Once all of the oppositions stipulated in Tobin (1995) are validated, a uniﬁed and coherent description of the Hebrew verb system may be achieved.

Notes 1. The system is traditionally described as composed of seven patterns. Tobin (1995, ch.8), however, diverges from this description, and postulates an eight-member system, including the pattern NITPAEL, which is traditionally considered synonymous with HITPAEL. 2. Upper-case characters in the root represent consonants that undergo allophonic occlusant–spirant alternations.

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260 Noah Oron and Yishai Tobin 3. We would like to thank the editors of the volume for their helpful suggestions and comments. We are responsible, of course, for all errors.

References Berman, Ruth A. 1975a. “The representation of the verb-roots and patterns in the lexicon.” In Sefer Rozen Jerusalrm, 25–36. Council on the Teaching of Hebrew. Berman, Ruth A. 1975b. “The morphological realization of syntactic processes in the binyan system.” Hebrew Computational Linguistics 9: 25–39. Berman, Ruth A. 1994. “Word-formation as evidence.” Proceedings of the Annual Boston University Conference on Language Development, 19, 1, 82–95. Berman, Ruth A. and Sagi, Yisrael.1981. “On word-formation and neologisms in early child language.” Hebrew Computational Linguistics 18: 31–61. Choueka, Yaacov. 1997. RAV-MILIM: a Comprehensive Dictionary of Modern Hebrew. Israel: C. E. T., Miskal, Steimatzky. Junger, Judith 1988. Predicate Formation in the Verbal System of Modern Hebrew. Dordrecht: Foris. Mandelblit, Nili. 2000. “The grammatical marking of conceptual integration: from syntax to morphology.” Cognitive Linguistics 11: 197–251. Oron, Noah. 2001. “Hebrew PAAL and HITPAEL verbs of motion and event structure.” Department of Foreign Languages and Linguistics, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. Unpublished Ms. Sachs, Jacques. 1987. The Opposed Meanings of the kal/nifal in the Hebrew binyanim: A Signoriented Approach. Ben-Gurion University of the Negev M. A. Thesis. Sachs, Jacques. 2001. The Autonomous/Non-Autonomous Distinction in the Hebrew Verb Form: A Sign-Oriented Analysis. Ben-Gurion University of the Negev PhD. Dissertation. Stern, Naftali. 1994. The Verb Dictionary: Meaning and Distribution of Verbs in Modern Hebrew. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University. Tobin, Yishai. 1993. Aspect in the English Verb: Process and Result in Language. London and New York: Longman. Tobin, Yishai. 1995. Invariance, Markedness and Distinctive Feature Analysis: A Contrastive Study of Sign Systems in English and Hebrew. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins and Beer Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press. van Schooneveld, C. H. 1978. Semantic Transmutations: Prolegomena to a Calculus of Meaning. Bloomington, IN: Physsardt.

CHAPTER 10

Grammaticization of ‘to’ and ‘away’ A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai* Kumiko Ichihashi-Nakayama University of California, Santa Barbara Tokyo University of Foreign Studies

Hualapai, an Upland Yuman language, has a pair of morphemes, -k and -m, which show contrasting functions in various linguzistic environments. The present study argues that these various usages of the morphemes can be explained in a uniﬁed way by postulating their basic function as indicating the direction or distance from the focal point. Particular functions of the morphemes are determined according to what the focal point is in a given environment, which may be a physical location or an abstract conceptual domain in the speaker’s mind. Using the framework of grammaticization, the possible developmental process of these functions is proposed from concrete lexical functions to more abstract pragmatic/discourse functions.

1. Introduction Hualapai is one of the Native American languages spoken in the northwest part of Arizona, and a member of the Upland Yuman language family. In Hualapai, as well as in other Yuman languages, we ﬁnd a pair of suﬃxes, -k and -m, which show contrasting functions in several diﬀerent parts of the grammar. The morphemes may attach to nominal elements and indicate cases, or they may attach to verbal elements and indicate direction, evidentiality or reference-switch. A number of studies dealing with other Yuman languages suggest that the functions of these morphemes, or at least some of them, may be considered as manifestations of the same basic meanings (e.g. Langdon 1970; Kendall 1975; Winter 1976; Munro 1976; Jacobsen 1983). Among those, Kendall 1975 is a speciﬁc attempt to provide a uniﬁed and coherent account of these morphemes in Yavapai, another Upland Yuman language closely related to Hualapai. Kendall (1975: 9) proposed two basic meanings for the Yavapai -k and -m. One of the meanings, which explains the case as well as the mood functions of the morphemes, concerns the point of view of the speaker: the morpheme -k indicates states or events toward or at the location of the speaker, or evaluations or thoughts

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originating in the speaker, while the morpheme -m indicates things away from or conceptually separated from the speaker. The second function of the morphemes is identiﬁed in terms of the reference-switching operation: -k indicates sameness and -m indicates diﬀerence of the subject referents from clause to clause. Although she suggests a possible merger of these two meanings, she leaves it as a hypothesis to be examined in other Yuman languages. The present study argues that the various usages of the morphemes -k and -m in Hualapai can indeed be explained in a uniﬁed way by postulating only one basic meaning for each morpheme. I will argue that the morpheme -k has the general function of indicating ‘inside/toward the focal point’, while -m has the general function of indicating ‘outside/away from the focal point’. The focal point may be a physical location or an abstract conceptual domain in the speaker’s mind, and particular functions of the morphemes are determined according to what the ‘focal point’ is in a given context. The diﬀerent functions of the morphemes are further analyzed in the framework of grammaticization. It will be proposed that these usages may have been developed or grammaticized from the original meanings of the morphemes in the history of the Hualapai language.

2. -k and -m in Hualapai 2.1. Locative/directional case markers One of the functions of the Hualapai -k and -m is marking the locative/directional case as nominal suﬃxes. When -k follows a noun naming some kind of place, the morpheme marks allative case and indicates “motion to or location at a point of reference; at; on; around; to and toward”. On the other hand, -m marks ablative case and indicates “motion or location away from a point of reference; away from; (go) by; over” (Watahomigie, Bender, and Yamamoto 1982: 57–9). In (1), for example, ‘my father’ came toward ‘the house’ as marked by -k, while, in (2),‘my mother’ moved away from ‘the house’ as marked by -m:¹ (1) nya đála-ch ’wa:-v-a-k va:-k-yu-ny. my father-SUB house-DEM-EV-LOC 3.come-SS-AUX-PAST ‘My father came to this house.’ (2) nya jíđa-ch ’wa:-v-m jibám-k-yu-ny. my mother-SUB house-DEM-LOC 3.go.out-SS-AUX-PAST ‘My mother went out of this house.’ (Watahomigie, Bender, Watahomigie and Yamamoto 2001: 46)

A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai

2.2. Directional verbal suﬃxes When they appear with certain motion verbs, the morphemes -k and -m show a similar semantic contrast to the one we just observed in nominal case markers, as seen in (3) below: (3) e:-k e:-m gami:-k gami:-m jiba:-k jiba:-m ’u:-k ’u:-m vo-k vo-m

‘give (toward the speaker) / receive’ ‘give (away from the speaker) / send’ ‘bring (to the speaker)’ ‘take (away from the speaker)’ ‘come out’ ‘go out’ ‘come and see’ ‘go and see’ ‘come home’ ‘go home’

Like the nominal suﬃxes, -k here indicates the motion ‘toward the reference point’, while -m indicates the motion ‘away from the reference point’. The ‘reference point’ is generally where the speaker is located. For example, compare examples (4) and (2), repeated as (5), below: (4) nya misí’-h-ch ’wa:-h-m jibá’k-k-yu. my girl-DEM-SUB house-DEM-LOC 3.come.out-SS-AUX ‘My daughter came out of the house.’ (5) nya jíđa-ch ’wa:-v-m jibám-k-yu-ny. my mother-SUB house-DEM-LOC 3.go.out-SS-AUX-PAST ‘My mother went out of this house.’ In both (4) and (5), the movement of the subject referents is ‘away from the house’ as indicated by the ablative case -m attached to the ‘house’. In (4), however, the speaker is outside the ‘house’, and, in reference to the speaker’s location, the movement of ‘my daughter’ is expressed as the one ‘toward’ the speaker by using the verb jiba:-k with the verbal suﬃx -k. On the other hand, in (5), the speaker is inside the ‘house’, and the movement of ‘my mother’ is expressed as the one ‘away from’ the speaker by the verb jiba:-m with the verbal suﬃx -m.

2.3. Pragmatic functions of -k and -m The morphemes -k and -m may appear at the end of sentences and express diﬀerent degrees of evidentiality as shown in the following examples (Yamamoto 1976: 149– 150):

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(6) a.

nya:vlwi:v-m John-ch kwekiviyaam qowa:m-k. noon-at John-SUB automobile drive-K b. nya:vlwi:v-m John-ch kwekiviyaam qowa:m-m. noon-at John-SUB automobile drive-M ‘John drives a car at noon.’

(7) a.

John-ch quwa:q keya:-k. John-SUB deer shoot-K b. John-ch quwa:q keya:-m. John-SUB deer shoot-M ‘John shoots a deer.’

In (6) and (7), both the (a) and (b) sentences have the same propositional meanings. In (6a) and (7a) with the morpheme -k at the end, however, the speaker is asserting what is been said and is somehow committed to it. Here the speaker is making a statement about the event that s/he either witnessed or knows for certain. On the other hand, the (6b) and (7b) with the morpheme -m describe ‘matter-of-fact’ events from an objective point of view. The speaker is making a statement without any implication of his/her belief or commitment toward its truth (Yamamoto 1976: 150). This very nature of -k and -m seems to explain why certain sentences take only -k or -m depending on the factuality of the proposition and the speaker’s perception of it as seen in the following examples (Yamamoto 1976: 150–1): (8) yapa:-m kwekiviya:m qowa:m-m misie:v-k/*-m night-at car drive-DS dangerous-K ‘Driving a car at night is dangerous.’ (9) John-ch kula keya:-m ’-tie:-k/?-m John-SUB rabbit shoot-DS 1-happy-K ‘John’s shooting a rabbit made me happy.’ (10) svo:v-m wayo:v-m/*-k wait-DS boring-M ‘Waiting is boring.’ In (8) and (9), the speaker expresses the proposition as more or less his/her personal opinion. This seems to be the reason why only -k, the morpheme associated with the speaker’s personal commitment to the statement, is acceptable or more appropriate in these examples. On the other hand, (10) denotes a generally-known fact, at least according to this particular speaker, and only -m, the morpheme associated with a general statement, is considered acceptable.

2.4. ‘Switch-reference’ markers The morphemes -k and -m may also be used in clause combining and function as

A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai

switch-reference markers. Switch-reference has been claimed to be a device which “indicates whether or not its subject is identical with the subject of some other verb” (Haiman and Munro 1983: ix). In Hualapai, at least in the elicited data, the morphemes -k and -m seem to show this canonical function: -k indicates that the clauses combined by the morpheme share the same subject, while -m indicates that the clauses combined by the morpheme have diﬀerent subjects. This is illustrated in (11) and (12): (11) Rhiánnon-ch he’-h tuy-k đathgwi:l-k-wi-ny. Rhiannon-SUB dress-DEM 3/3.take.oﬀ-SS 3/3.wash-SS²-AUX-PAST ‘Rhiannon took oﬀ the dress and (Rhiannon) washed it.’ (12) Jóhn-a-ch Máry baeq-m mi:-k-i-ny. John-EV-SUB Mary 3/3.hit-DS 3.cry-SS-AUX-PAST ‘John hit Mary and she (=Mary) cried.’ In example (11), the subject of the ﬁrst clause, ‘Rhiannon’, is the same as that of the second clause, and the clauses are combined by the ‘same subject marker’ -k attached to the main verb of the ﬁrst clause, tuy ‘take oﬀ ’.³ In example (12), on the other hand, the subject of the ﬁrst clause is ‘John’ but the subject of the second clause is ‘Mary’, and the clauses are combined by the ‘diﬀerent subject marker’ -m aﬃxed to the main verb of the ﬁrst clause, baeq ‘hit’. The examination of the textual data, however, reveals that there are some cases in which the usage of the morphemes does not agree with the continuing or switchreference of the subjects. That is, the morpheme -k is used even when the subjects of the combined clauses are diﬀerent, or -m is used even though the subjects of the combined clauses are the same. In these cases, the selection between -k and -m seems to be more sensitive to the event structure or the speaker’s conceptualization of the denoted event, rather than the identity of the grammatical subject. The following examples (13), (14), and (15) are from a short Hualapai text, Robber’s Roost: (13) wa-k-tə-sči-:və-k hayku-:və-č ha-k-wa-k house-REL-FACT-x-DEM-LOC white.man-DEM-SUB DEM-LOC-stay-SS kwe-va-k-yo:-və-č ha-k-wa-k . . . thing-DEM-REL-steal-DEM-SUB DEM-LOC-stay-SS ‘At the place X, a white man stayed there. A thief stayed there.’ (Winter and Butcher 1976: 61) (14) nyə-wi-k hayku’ nyə-hwa:k-ya’ wampor-e PERF-do-SS white.man his-be.two-DEM train-? tə-nyu:r-k-wa:m-s’am-ya-k akiwi:-θ-m . . . FACT-multicolored-REL-carry-close-DEM-LOC stand-COT-DS ‘He (=thief) did that (=robbed the train). A white man, his partner, stood in the door of the mail-carrier part of the train . . .’ (Winter and Butcher 1976: 62)

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In (13), although the subject of the ﬁrst clause, ‘a white man’, and the subject of the second clause, ‘a thief ’, are diﬀerent individuals, the two clauses are connected by the ‘same subject’ marker -k aﬃxed to wa ‘stay’ in the ﬁrst clause. The same thing happens later in the text, as seen in (14). In (14), the clauses are connected by -k afﬁxed to wi ‘do’ although they have diﬀerent subjects, ‘the thief ’ and ‘the white man’. In the story, the ‘white man’ is an accomplice of the ‘thief ’. Although they are diﬀerent persons, it seems that the speaker perceives them as a ‘unit’, and this motivates the use of -k in (13) and (14). The opposite case is found in example (15). Here, all of the clauses share the same subject ‘they (= authorities)’. Despite that, the last clause in the example follows the ‘diﬀerent subject’ marker -m aﬃxed to the second occurrence of wim ‘go’: (15) ha-wim-čə-k ke-k ha-wim-čə-θ-m nyə-v-war-čə-k . . . DEM-go-DJ-SS Q-LOC DEM-go-DJ-COT-DS PERF-EMPH-fail-DJ-SS ‘They (= authorities) were going in a certain direction, somewhere, when they failed (to catch him).’ (Winter and Butcher 1976: 63) In this part of the story, the authorities are in pursuit of the thief by tracking his (his horse’s) footprints. What is expected as a result of the story line would be the capture of the thief. However, something went wrong, and they failed to catch him. The morpheme -m here seems to indicate this unexpectedness in the course of events. This kind of ‘exceptional’ usage of the switch-reference markers has been reported in Yuman as well as in other languages. Langdon and Munro (1979: 332–3) conclude that the switch-reference mechanism in Yuman does not simply operate based on the identity of the grammatical subject; they propose several possible determining factors such as agency or control. Mithun (1993) and Watkins (1993) both have convincingly shown that the ‘switch-reference’ systems in Central Pomo (Pomoan) and Kiowa (Kiowa-Tanoan) mark the event or rhetorical structure rather than the identity of the subject in discourse. According to Mithun, the primary function of the switch-reference system in Central Pomo is to link clauses with the ‘same subject’ markers when actions are presented as components of a single event and with the ‘diﬀerent subject’ markers when they are distinct events. She argues that referenttracking is only a secondary eﬀect of this primary function, since the closely associated actions are more likely performed by the same subject referent, while distinct events are performed by the diﬀerent subject referents. Similarly, Watkins claims that the ‘same subject’ markers in Kiowa are used to indicate the identity of events rather than that of the referents, while the ‘diﬀerent subject’ markers may be used sentence-initially to link subunits in the discourse which are thematically distinct but parts of the larger episode. Although more observation needs to be done using extensive discourse data, what we have seen in (13) through (15) seems to show that switch-reference in Hualapai operates in a similar manner. The morpheme -k indicates that the speaker perceives certain participants or events as a continuous unit, rather than simply indicating that the clause shares the same grammatical subject with the following clause. On the other hand, the morpheme -m indicates discontinuity of the events rather than diﬀerence of the subject referents.

A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai

3. Uniﬁed functions of -k and -m in Hualapai In the previous sections, the various usages of the Hualapai morphemes -k and -m have been observed. We have seen that the morpheme -k may indicate direction toward a certain location, motion toward the speaker, the speaker’s commitment toward a proposition, and the unity of events. We have seen that the morpheme -m, on the other hand, may indicate direction away from a certain location, motion away from the speaker, the speaker’s non-commitment to a proposition, and the discontinuity of events. All these usages can be explained in a uniﬁed way if we postulate one general function of each morpheme. I propose that the basic function of the morpheme -k is to indicate the notion of ‘inside/toward the “focal point”’, while the basic function of the morpheme -m is to indicate the notion of ‘outside/away from the “focal point”’. The focal point is the pointz of reference the direction or distance to which is perceived by the speaker and reﬂected in his/her usage of the morpheme -k or -m. The focal point is not necessarily a concrete physical location. It can also be an abstract conceptual domain in the speaker’s mind. In the usage as directional markers, both on nouns and verbs, as observed in Sections 2.1 and 2.2, the focal point is a physical location expressed by the noun to which -k or -m is aﬃxed or the speaker’s physical position. Then -k expresses an event or motion inside/toward this focal point, while -m expresses an event or motion outside/away from this focal point. When the morphemes indicate evidentiality, as seen in examples (6)–(10), the focal point is the speaker’s psychological domain, and the choice between -k and -m reﬂects the psychological distance the speaker feels toward the described event. The speaker’s commitment toward the statement can be considered as proximity to his/ her psychological domain and expressed by the morpheme -k. On the other hand, statements describing general facts are marked by -m, indicating their detachment from the speaker’s psychological domain. When the morphemes are used to combine clauses, as discussed in Section 2.4, the choice between -k and -m reﬂects the speaker’s conceptualization of the relationship between the expressed participants or events. When two events are perceived as continuous, that is, in the same conceptual domain or focal point, they are combined by -k. When two events are perceived as discontinuous, that is, the second event is conceptualized as distinct from the focal point, the ﬁrst event, they are combined by -m. While she concludes her survey of the Yavapai -k and -m with two basic functions, Kendall (1975: 9) suggests the possibility of relating the switch-reference function to the locative/directional function. She suggests that as long as the speaker stays on the same topic or talks about the same subject, s/he stays in one ‘conceptual location’, while when the speaker switches topics or subjects, s/he is metaphorically moving away from that ‘conceptual location’. Her ‘conceptual location’ may be compatible with the ‘focal point’ I am proposing here, except that she assumes that the ‘conceptual location’ in the switch-reference function of the morphemes is represented by

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the grammatical subject. As discussed in Mithun (1993) and Watkins (1993), and shown in Section 2.4 with Hualapai data, however, the focal point does not necessarily coincide with the grammatical subject. When and only when we recognize the fact that the ‘switch reference’ system operates on the conceptualization of the denoted events rather than the identity of the grammatical subject per se, can we conﬁdently relate the ‘switch-reference’ function of the morphemes to the other functions and postulate one basic function of each morpheme.

4. Additional functions of -m in Hualapai The morpheme -m has a couple of additional functions in Hualapai. Once we recognize the basic function of the morpheme that I have proposed in the previous section, these seemingly ‘unrelated’ usages can also be explained in a uniﬁed way.

4.1. Instrumental/comitative case marker In addition to the locative/directional case, the morpheme -m in Hualapai may mark instrumental and comitative cases. (16) below shows -m as an instrumental marker. (17) shows -m as a comitative marker: (16) Jóhn-a-ch kwàsadsa:d-m gwe ma:-k-wi. John-EV-SUB fork-INST something 3/3.eat-SS-AUX ‘John eats with a fork.’ (17) Cindy-ch Jorigine-m qwa:w-v-k-i. Cindy-SUB Jorigine-COM talk-RECIP-SS-AUX ‘Cindy is talking with Jorigine.’ In these functions, there is no contrastive usage of the morpheme -k. While Kendall (1975) could not explicitly relate these functions to the locative/directional meaning of the morpheme, I argue that the instrumental and comitative functions of -m can also be attributed to the general meaning of the morpheme, ‘outside/away from the focal point’. What is introduced with an instrumental or a comitative marker is an additional participant, such as kwasadsa:d ‘fork’ in (16) and Jorigine in (17), who, in addition to the subject referent, plays some part in the denoted event. These additional participants are separate or ‘detached’ entities from the subject referents. Assuming that, in these cases, the subject referent is the speaker’s focal point or ‘starting point’ in his/her conceptualization of the denoted event (cf. Chafe 1976, 1994), this ‘detachment’ notion can be considered to motivate this usage of -m here.

4.2. Time ‘adverbials’ The morpheme -m is also used in time expressions, corresponding to English

A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai 269

time adverbials, such as makanya:-m ‘yesterday’, va:-m ‘now’, ye:ka-m ‘tomorrow’, nya’du:y-m ‘in summer’. As pointed out in Munro (1976) and Langdon and Munro (1979), these time expressions are in fact not nominal but verbal in Yuman languages. For example, (18) actually contains two predicates/clauses and is literally translated as ‘I wrote something and it was yesterday’: (18) nya-ch makanya:-m gwe ’-đinyu:d-’-wi-ny. I-SUB yesterday-DS something 1/3-write-1-AUX-PAST ‘I wrote (something) yesterday.’ Therefore, this usage of -m should be regarded as switch-reference rather than a case marking. Here, the second predicate, ‘being yesterday’, states an additional or parenthetical remark and is considered as being outside or detached from the main event, ‘my action of writing’, which motivates the use of -m.

4.3. Habitual expressions The morpheme -m may attach to repeated verbs and express habitual activities. Example (19) below illustrates this usage: (19) nya-ch tu he gwe ma-m ma-m wi-j-wi I-SUB very there something eat-DS eat-DS do-DISTR-AUX ‘I always eat there.’ (Redden 1980: 68) In habitual expressions, each activity is perceived as a distinct, discontinuous event which occurs in a diﬀerent time and place.⁴ This conceptualization motivates the use of the morpheme -m in these expressions. On the other hand, the following example (20) shows a nice contrast to this usage. (20) nyi-tha-ch wi-k wi-k wi-wi. DEM-3-SUB do-SS do-SS do-AUX ‘He did it over and over and over.’ (Redden 1980: 69) In (20), the verbs are marked with the morpheme -k , not -m, and express repeated actions on a single occasion. The whole event, although more than one action has taken place in a short period of time, is perceived as one event, and, as expected, the usage of -k reﬂects this conceptualization of the event.

5. Grammaticization of -k and -m in hualapai In the previous sections, I have shown the various usages of the morphemes -k and -m in Hualapai, and argued that these usages can all be explained by one basic function of each morpheme. Next, I would like to turn to the question whether this wide distribution of the usage of the morphemes -k and -m in Hualapai is a synchronic phenomenon or a result of diachronic development. Jacobsen (1979: 575,

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1983: 175) suggests a possible developmental process of the morphemes in Yuman starting from verbal directional suﬃxes -k/-m that originally meant ‘hither’/ ‘hence’ to case markers then to switch-reference markers. I propose a similar developmental process of the Hualapai -k and -m and support the argument using the framework of grammaticization (Heine, Claudi and Hünemeyer 1991; Hopper and Traugott 1993). Grammaticization is a dynamic process by which a lexical item assumes a grammatical function or a grammatical item assumes a more grammatical function. Based on observations of many instances of grammaticization in typologically diverse languages, a set of universal principles underlying the process have been identiﬁed. Based on these principles, multiple functions of a certain linguistic form can be arranged into a hypothesized order of development. One of the basic principles of grammaticization is the unidirectionality of the process. As summarized in (21) below, the changes which occur during the grammaticization process tend to proceed in only one direction within various aspects of grammar. First, the meaning tends to change from concrete and speciﬁc to more abstract and general (this process is often referred to as ‘semantic bleaching’ or ‘generalization’). While the semantic content of a form may be reduced, its pragmatic meaning tends to increase, in that a form with largely propositional meaning gains textual (cohesion-making) and/or expressive (modal, and other pragmatic) meanings (‘pragmatic strengthening’ or ‘subjectiﬁcation’) (Traugott 1982, 1986, 1989). At the same time, a form which was used only in a certain grammatical context comes to appear in a wider set of contexts (Bybee, Perkins and Pagliuca 1994). (21) Unidirectionality in grammaticization a. semantic bleaching: concrete abstract textual b. pragmatic strengthening: propositional expressive c. range of syntactic applicability: narrow wider When considering the diﬀerent functions of the Hualapai -k and -m in terms of these parameters, we are able to project possible grammaticization pathways in the development of the morphemes. Among the diﬀerent functions of the morphemes, as suggested by Jacobsen (1979, 1983), the usage as directional suﬃxes on verbs is considered as representing the earliest/original stage of the development of the morphemes -k and -m in Hualapai. In this function, the morphemes express more concrete meaning, the one concerning the physical location of the speaker. The other parameters of grammaticization also suggest the earliest development of the function. The morphemes express propositional meanings rather than textual or expressive ones. In terms of ‘range of syntactic applicability’, the morphemes in this function have limited range and only attach to certain motion verbs. The fact that the morphemes are not used productively and have been rather lexicalized or ‘fossilized’ as components of those verbs indicates that they are in the terminal or ‘old age’ phase in life of linguistic forms (cf. Lehmann 1991).

A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai

While the morphemes still express concrete and propositional meanings concerning the physical location of the entity expressed by the noun to which they are aﬃxed, their function as locative/directional case markers is hypothesized to be a later development. The syntactic range of application is considered expanded from a limited number of verbs to potentially any number of nouns or noun phrases expressing some kind of location. In this function, the morphemes are in no way lexicalized but may be used productively. The evidential function of the morphemes is considered to show the next stage of development. It shows rather abstract and pragmatically expressive meaning by indicating the speaker’s judgment or commitment toward the denoted event. Its syntactic range is a whole statement rather than a lexical item or a phrase. Finally, the switch-reference usage of the morphemes is considered as the latest development. It shows abstract meaning and textual function in that the morphemes are used by the speaker as devices for event or discourse organization. The syntactic range in this usage is accordingly the widest: it now concerns a certain stretch of discourse rather than a single lexical item, phrase, or sentence. This hypothesized grammaticization process of the development of the morphemes -k and -m in Hualapai is summarized in (22) below: (22) Proposed grammaticization process of -k and -m in Hualapai Directional Locative/Directional Evidential Switch-reference Although we lack data for a comprehensive diachronic analysis of Hualapai as well as other Yuman languages, all the parameters in the unidirectionality of grammaticization suggest the developmental order of directional > locative/directional case > evidential > switch-reference functions of the morphemes in Hualapai.

6. Conclusions In this chapter I argued that the various usages of the morphemes -k and -m in Hualapai can be explained in a uniﬁed way in terms of their basic functions of indicating the direction or distance from the ‘focal point’. These morphemes give diﬀerent readings in the language not because they have many distinct meanings. These readings simply represent diﬀerent manifestations of their basic meanings depending on what is taken to be the ‘focal point’. When they appear with nouns or verbal stems, they express physical movement in(to) or away from the focal point, i.e. the location expressed by the nouns or the speaker’s location. When they appear at the end of sentences, they indicate a relationship between the focal point, i.e. the speaker’s psychological domain, and the statement. When they are used to combine clauses, they reﬂect the speaker’s conceptualization of the relationship between the expressed participants or events. Furthermore, it is argued that each of these functions represents diﬀerent stages of the developmental process of the morphemes in Hualapai. On the basis of unidirectionality principles in the theory

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of grammaticization, we can suggest a possible grammaticization pathway in the development of the morphemes -k and -m from concrete directional functions to more abstract pragmatic/discourse functions.

Notes * I would like to thank Marianne Mithun and Sandra A. Thompson for their invaluable comments on an earlier version of this chapter. This study was supported by the Japanese Ministry of Education, Science and Culture (grant nos. 04041011 and 07041013), American Philosophical Society (Phillips Fund for Native American Studies, 1994), and Whatcom Museum, Washington (Jacobs Funds, 1995). 1. Hualapai examples cited in this study are from Watahomigie, Bender, and Yamamoto (1982) unless otherwise noted. Orthographies used in each source have been preserved: ch=[čh] but [č] as a subject marker; ny=[ñ]; đ=[t̪]; ’=[ʔ]. Abbreviations: #/#: subject/object person indexing; 1: 1st person; 2: 2nd person; 3: 3rd person; AUX: auxiliary verb; CAUS: causative; COM: comitative; COT: cotemporal; DEF: deﬁnitizer; DEM: demonstrative; DISTR: distributive; DJ: disjunctive; DS: diﬀerent subject marker; EV: epenthetic vowel; EMPH: emphatic; FACT: factitive; INST: instrumental; LOC: locative; PAST: past tense; PL: plural; PL.OBJ: plural object; PERF: perfective; PRET: pretemporal; Q: interrogative; RECIP: reciprocal; REL: relativizer; SS: same subject marker; SUB: subject marker. 2. The ‘same subject marker’ -k also appears between the main and auxiliary verbs when the subject is the third person. The auxiliary verbs in Hualapai still show the morphological characteristics of the full-ﬂedged verbs from which they originated in that they follow the main verb after the ‘same subject marker’ (because the main verb and the auxiliary verb share the same subject) and they themselves take the personal preﬁx. While the third person preﬁx is ‘zero’ marked, in the cases of the ﬁrst and second person subjects, the sequence of the ‘same subject marker’ and the ﬁrst or second person preﬁx has undergone phonological changes and the ‘same subject marker’ -k is no longer apparent. 3. When more than one clause is combined in Hualapai, only the last predicate takes the ﬁnite form, that is, is followed by the auxiliary and other inﬂectional suﬃxes. 4. The occurrence of the distributive marker -j in (19) (but not in (20)) might also support this ‘discontinuous’ interpretation of the expression.

References Bybee, Joan, Perkins, Revere and Pagliuca, William. 1994. The Evolution of Grammar: Tense, Aspect, and Modality in the Languages of the World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Chafe, Wallace. 1976. “Givenness, contrastiveness, deﬁniteness, subjects, topics, and point of view.” In Subject and Topic, Charles N. Li (ed.), 25–56. New York: Academic Press. Chafe, Wallace. 1994. Discourse, Consciousness, and Time. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Haiman, John and Munro, Pamela (eds.) 1983. Switch Reference and Universal Grammar. Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Heine, Bernd, Claudi, Ulrike and Hünemeyer, Friederike. 1991. Grammaticalization: a Conceptual Framework. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

A uniﬁed account of -k and -m in Hualapai Hopper, Paul J. and Traugott, Elizabeth Closs. 1993. Grammaticalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jacobsen, William H., Jr. 1979. “Hokan inter-branch comparisons.” In The Languages of Native America, Lyle Campbell and Marianne Mithun (eds.), 545–591. Austin and London: University of Texas Press. Jacobsen, William H., Jr. 1983. “Typological and genetic notes on switch-reference systems in North American Indian languages.” In Haiman and Munro (eds.) 1983, 151–183. Kendall, Martha B. 1975. “The /-k/, /-m/ problem in Yavapai syntax.” International Journal of American Linguistics 41: 1–9. Langdon, Margaret. 1970. A Grammar of Diegueño: the Mesa Grande Dialect [University of California publications in linguistics 66]. Berkeley: University of California Press. Langdon, Margaret and Munro, Pamela. 1979. “Subject and (switch-) reference in Yuman.” Folia Linguistica 13: 321–344. Lehmann, Christian. 1991. “Grammaticalization and related changes in contemporary German.” In Approaches to Grammaticalization, volume II, Elizabeth Closs Traugott and Bernd Heine (eds.), 491–535. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Mithun, Marianne. 1993. “ ‘Switch reference’: clause combining in Central Pomo.” International Journal of American Linguistics 59(2): 119–136. Munro, Pamela. 1976. Mojave Syntax. New York and London: Garland Publishing. Redden, James E. 1980. “On Walapai /-k/ and /-m/.” In Proceedings of the 1979 Hokan Languages Workshop [Occasional Papers in Linguistics 7], James E. Redden (ed.), 68–71. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University. Traugott, Elizabeth Closs. 1982. “From propositional to textual and expressive meanings: some semantic-pragmatic aspects of grammaticalization.” In Perspectives in Historical Linguistics, Winfred P. Lehmann and Yakov Malkiel (eds.), 245–271. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Traugott, Elizabeth Closs. 1986. “From polysemy to internal semantic reconstruction.” Berkeley Linguistics Society 12: 539–550. Traugott, Elizabeth Closs. 1989. “On the rise of epistemic meanings in English: an example of subjectiﬁcation in semantic change.” Language 65(1): 31–55. Watahomigie, Lucille J., Bender, Jorigine and Yamamoto, Akira Y. 1982. Hualapai Reference Grammar. Los Angeles: American Indian Studies Center, UCLA. Watahomigie, Lucille J., Bender, Jorigine, Watahomigie, Philbert, Sr. and Yamamoto, Akira Y. 2001. Hualapai Reference Grammar (Revised and Expanded Edition). Endangered Languages of the Paciﬁc Rim (ELPR) Publications Series A2–003. Watkins, Laurel J. 1993. “The discourse functions of Kiowa switch-reference.” International Journal of American Linguistics 59(2).137–64. Winter, Werner and Butcher, Christal Jarr. 1976. “Robber’s roost — a Walapai tale.” In Yuman Texts [IJAL-NATS3], Margaret Langdon (ed.), 61–67. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Winter, Werner. 1976. “Switch reference in Yuman languages.” In Hokan Studies [Janua Linguarum, Series practica, 181], Margaret Langdon and Shirley Silver (eds.), 165–175. The Hague: Mouton. Yamamoto, Akira. 1976. “Notes on the interpretation of /-m/ and /-k/ in Walapai.” In Proceedings of the First Yuman Languages Workshop [University museum studies 7], James E. Redden (ed.), 149–152. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University.

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PART IV

Below and above the level of the sign

CHAPTER 11

Interaction of physiology and communication in the makeup and distribution of stops in Lucknow Urdu* Shabana Hameed Aligarh Muslim University

1. Introduction This chapter is a case study applying the theoretical framework of Columbia School phonology¹ to the analysis of the stop phonemes in Lucknow Urdu.² here we seek to explain that the paradigmatic makeup (the traditional “inventory”) of the stop phonemes, and their syntagmatic skewings (the traditional “phonotactic distribution in words”), are motivated by ﬁve independently known and veriﬁable orienting principles of phonology — communication, human behavior, physiology, acoustics, and vision.³ Our explanation of the makeup and distribution of the stop phonemes here is however limited in that it is based on the interaction of only two of these ﬁve phonological principles, namely, physiology and communication. It may also be noted that the phonological analysis of the stops presented here is primarily based on an exhaustive collection of monosyllabic words of Urdu as spoken by the artisans and craftsmen living in the various localities of the culturally rich city of Lucknow in Uttar Pradesh. A total of ﬁve informants (artisans and skilled laborers) were selected for the collection of the data. Out of the ﬁve informants, four were females and one was a male. They belonged to the lower strata of the Urdu speaking community, lacking any kind of formal education. For uniformity and homogeneity of the data, all informants were selected from the same socioeconomic class. The data collected for the study is based on face to face interviews running into hours.⁴ In Section 2, we introduce the stop consonants of Lucknow Urdu and categorize them according to the active articulators used to produce them as the relative aperture of the vocal tract, showing their relationship in terms of degree of complexity. In Section 3, we establish a hierarchy of adroitness of the lingual articulators to show that the varying degrees of adroitness have a signiﬁcant impact on the makeup and distribution of the stop consonants in Lucknow Urdu. In Section 4, the stop consonants are compared in the initial and ﬁnal positions of the word. The skewings encountered in the distribution of stops in the two word positions are attributed to the joint interaction of physiology and communication with vision.

Shabana Hameed

2. The paradigmatic makeup of stops in Lucknow Urdu There are 21 stop phonemes in Lucknow Urdu. The paradigmatic makeup of these phonemes is systematically presented in the excerpt of the phonological grid in Figure 1.⁵ Whereas the 21 stop phonemes of Urdu, as presented in Figure 1, are organized in terms of the physiologically-based articulators and apertures (to be taken up shortly), it is noteworthy that these phonemes are established by communicative contrast through minimal pairs. As communication is a fundamental orienting principle of linguistic analysis in the Columbia School theory, we formally resort to the use of meaning in the discovery of phonemes.⁶ They are in fact the elemental units of communication in language. The communicative contrast in the minimal pairs is ﬁrst presented in terms of articulators, as seen in Word list 1.⁷ The four-way contrast among the Urdu stops in terms of the traditional features of “voicing” and “aspiration” is also established through minimal pairs as presented in Word list 2. As demonstrated through the two word lists, the 21 stop phonemes are established in terms of minimal distinctiveness justiﬁed by the principle of communication. However, it is the physiologico-acoustic substance of these phonemes that justiﬁes their particular projection on the phonological grid of Lucknow Urdu. As seen in Figure 1, the phonological grid is basically organized in terms of the physiology of the vocal tract. There are two main physiological parameters, namely, the articulators and the apertures. It is noteworthy that both of them represent devices for producing speech sounds. The articulators are the adroit organs of the vocal tract that play a signiﬁcant role in shaping and exciting the vocal cavity for the production of speech sounds. Whereas the glottal articulator, i.e., the larynx or the glottis, only excites the vocal cavity, the supraglottal articulators, such as the various parts of the tongue and the lips, can both shape and/or excite the cavity. Rather than following the traditional classiﬁcation of consonants by passive “points of articulation”, our classiﬁcation of

p b ph bh

t d th dh

  h h

c ɟ ch ɟh

k g kh gh

q □ □ □

Glottis

Aperture ϕ:Stops Voiceless unaspirated Voiced unaspirated Voiceless aspirated Voiced aspirated

Front dorsum Post dorsum

Supraglottal

Apertures Medium

Articulators Apex ↓ teeth Apex ↓ palate

Apertures

Labium

278

Glottal

□ ←V ←A ←h

Not relevant 1 2 1½

Figure 1. Excerpt of the phonological grid of Lucknow Urdu: the stops

Stops in Lucknow Urdu Apex ↓ teeth Apex ↓ palate

Labium pa:l(Vt) ‘bring up’

ta:l (Nm) ‘lake’

a:l (Nm;f ) ‘ﬁrewood store’

Medium

Front dorsum Post dorsum

ca:l (Nf ) ‘gait’

ka:l (Nm) ‘famine’

□

kUI (Adj) ‘total’

qUl (Nm) ‘ﬁrst word of some suras’

ba:l (Nm) ‘hair’

da:l (Nf ) ‘pulse’

a:l (Nf ) ‘branch’

ɟa:l (Nm) ‘net’

ga:l (Nm) ‘cheek’

phAk (Nm) ‘momentariness’

thAk (Vi) ‘be tired’

h Ak (Nf ) ‘sound of knocking’

chAk (Vi) ‘be tricked’

□

chIl (Vi) ‘be peeled’

khIl (Vi) ‘bloom’

ɟhAk (Nf ) ‘foolish talk’

□

ɟho:l (Nm) ‘puckering’

gho:l (Nm) ‘solution’

bhAk (Nm) ‘blast’

dhAk (Nf ) ‘small louse’

hAk (Vt;i) ‘cover’

Figure 2. Word list 1: minimal pairs in terms of articulators

stop consonants is physiologically based on the sound-producing articulators. As shown in Figure 1, there are ﬁve supraglottal articulators — labium, apex, medium, front dorsum, post dorsum — that are used in the production of Urdu Voiceless unaspirated

Voiced unaspirated

Voiceless aspirated

Voiced aspirated

pAk (Vi) ‘be cooked’

bak (Vt;i) ‘babble’

phAk (Nm) ‘momentariness’

bhAk (Nm) ‘blast’

ta:l (Nm) ‘lake’

da:l (Nf ) ‘pulse’

tha:l (Nf ) ‘platter’

□

tha:r (Nm) ‘name of a desert’

dha:r (Nf ) ‘edge’

□

ha:l (Nf ) ‘shield’

hAk (Nf ) ‘sound of knocking’

hAk (Vt;i) ‘cover’

a:l (Nm;f ) ‘ﬁrewood store’

a:l (Nf ) ‘branch’

ca:l (Nf ) ‘gait’

ɟa:l (Nm) ‘net’

cha:l (Nf ) ‘bark’

ɟha:l (Nm) ‘pungency’

kUl (Adj) ‘total’

gUl (Nm) ‘ﬂower’

khUl (Vi) ‘open’

ghUl (Vi) ‘be dissolved’

Figure 3. Word list 2: minimal pairs in terms of voicing and aspiration

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280 Shabana Hameed

stop consonants, i.e., labial (“bilabial” in traditional terms), apico-dental (“dental”), apico-palatal (“retroﬂex”), medial (“palatal”), front dorsal (“velar”), and post dorsal (“uvular”). It is noteworthy that the apex, unlike other articulators, forms two orders of stops. This asymmetrical formation of apical stops is discussed in Section 3. As discussed below, the glottis as the glottal articulator is also intricately involved in the production of stop consonants in Lucknow Urdu. As seen in the ﬁgure, the four types of Urdu stops (voiceless unaspirated, voiced unaspirated, voiceless aspirated, voiced aspirated) are diﬀerentiated from one another in terms of both glottal apertures and supraglottal apertures. The supraglottal (oral) apertures are reference points for the vertical closings and openings of the vocal tract by the upward and downward movement of the lower jaw. The apertures range from total closure, i.e., aperture ϕ (zero), for the stops, to maximum openings, i.e., larger apertures, for the vowels. The articulators act as a controlling factor for the formation of apertures. As a matter of fact, the vocal cavity formed in the production of individual speech sounds is jointly determined by the articulators and the relevant apertures.⁸ Thus, the stops are produced by a complete closure (aperture ϕ) of the air passage by various articulators, build up of pressure in the vocal cavity, and excitation produced by explosion. In Urdu and all its dialects, three glottal apertures are formed at the larynx — 1, 2, and 1½. Aperture 1, a narrow slit at the glottis formed by the vocal folds, produces the sound traditionally known as “voice”, and is represented in the ﬁgure by V under glottis as the articulator. Aperture 2, a triangular conﬁguration of the glottis by the vocal folds, produces “voiceless aspiration” indicated by the A on the ﬁgure. Aperture 1½, a narrow triangular conﬁguration, about half the size of aperture 2, produces voiced h, indicated by h on the ﬁgure. Here it must be pointed out that neither V nor A is realized as an independent phoneme in Urdu. However, it is noteworthy that these two glottal sounds are accorded the status of phonological units. For, as highly abstract component entities,⁹ they both combine with simple supraglottal phonemes, such as p, t, k, (to be deﬁned below), to produce complex phonemes, such as b, d, g, and ph, th, kh, respectively. The voiced h produced by the glottal articulator at aperture 1½ does occur as an independent phoneme in Urdu. Its inclusion in the phonological grid for the stops here is signiﬁcant. For this glottal phoneme is also used in combination with simple supraglottal phonemes — p, t, k, etc. — to produce complex phonemes — bh, dh, gh, etc. As manifest in our discussion above, the four-way classiﬁcation of stops in Urdu is primarily based on the glottal articulation. Of the four types of Urdu stops, the voiceless unaspirated (p, t, k, etc.) are the simplest. For, as shown in the ﬁgure, the glottal aperture is not relevant to the formation of these stops; they are produced at supraglottal aperture ϕ by the oral articulators alone. The other three stop types (voiced unaspirated, voiceless aspirated, voiced aspirated) are all more complex in that their production is brought about by the glottis as an additional articulator. Whereas the three latter types of stops are equally complex in terms of the number of articulators, they are diﬀerentiated from one another in that they are produced

Stops in Lucknow Urdu

by progressively more complex glottal apertures. Among these latter types, the voiced unaspirated (b, d, g, etc.) are produced in combination with V(oice) by the glottal articulator at aperture 1. The voiceless aspirated stops (ph, th, kh, etc.) are produced in combination with A(spiration) by the glottal articulator at aperture 2. But as the generation of A(spiration) requires a rush of air from the lungs, this extra effort in the production of the voiceless aspirated stops makes them more complex than the voiced unaspirated stops. Of the three complex stops types, the voiced aspirated stops (bh, dh, gh, etc.) are the most complex in that they are produced in combination with the voiced h, which is formed with an unusual and diﬃcult conﬁguration by the glottal articulator at aperture 1½. The rush of air coming from the lungs must now go through a narrowed triangular passage at the glottis. In fact, in view of their diﬃcult glottal articulation, the voiced h and the voiced aspirates (bh, dh, gh, etc.) are rarely used in language. It appears that the use of these extraordinarily complex speech sounds as phonemes is conﬁned to only Urdu and some other Indic languages.¹⁰

3. The impact of the hierarchy of adroitness of articulators: the makeup and distribution of stops As we have noted in the previous section, the articulators are the adroit organs of speech that produce speech sounds in contact with the places of articulation. But it is noteworthy that the articulators are not uniform in terms of their adroitness. And as we ﬁnd, their relative adroitness has a direct bearing on the makeup and distribution of phonological units in Lucknow Urdu. Of all the supraglottal articulators, namely, the lower lip, the tongue, the velum, and the pharynx, the tongue is the most important in the production of speech sounds. For in terms of its musculature, the tongue can be divided into four parts, namely, the apex, the medium, the dorsum, and the post dorsum. The four parts of the tongue are clearly distinguishable from each other by their varying adroitness. As such, these four parts may be conveniently placed on the scale of adroitness of lingual articulators, as presented in Figure 4. We may say a few words to justify this scale of adroitness. The apex of the tongue is the most adroit because it is physiologically light in weight, it is triangular in shape, and it is placed at the free end of the tongue such that it can be moved freely along the length and breadth of the oral cavity. Apex Dorsum Medium Post dorsum

Most adroit More adroit Less adroit Least adroit

Figure 4. Scale of adroitness of the lingual articulators

28

282

Shabana Hameed

The post dorsum is the ﬁxed portion of the tongue, with thick musculature, which is why it is the least adroit on the scale of adroitness. It acts as a hilt for the tongue in its entirety in general, and for the dorsum in particular. The medium-dorsum mass is rectangular in shape, and physiologically more massive than the apex. But the dorsum and the medium are not uniform in their adroitness. The physiology of the tongue is such that the musculature of the medium is more closely tied with that of both the apex and the dorsum. Further, the medium acts as a hilt to the apex. In view of the physiological factors outlined above, it is reasonable to place the post dorsum below the medium, the medium below the dorsum, and the dorsum below the apex in terms of the adroitness of lingual articulators. In addition to the tongue, the lower lip, being an adroit articulator, also plays an important role in the production of speech sounds. Given the musculature of the lower lip and the mobility of the lower jaw, it will be generally agreed that the labium occupies a place below the apex and above the medium in terms of degree of adroitness. Further, it can reasonably be argued that the labium occupies a place close to the dorsum in terms of the relative adroitness of articulators. Since both labium and dorsum appear to fall somewhere between apex (most adroit) and medium (less adroit) they are arbitrarily assigned to the same position on the scale of adroitness for the purposes of this study. In terms of the scale of adroitness of articulators, we may expect that in a language or a dialect, the most adroit apex will be most productively utilized in the formation of the consonantal units in the phonological paradigm and in the syntagmatic distribution of these units in the word. On the other hand, it is reasonable to expect that the least adroit post dorsum may only occasionally be utilized in a language to form a consonantal unit, such as the post dorsal q in Lucknow Urdu. At the same time, we may expect that such a post dorsal unit may be underutilized in the formation of morphemes and words in Lucknow Urdu, as in any other language or dialect. Further, in terms of the scale relationship, we may expect the labial-dorsal and the medial consonants to occupy a middle ground in the number of units and their frequency of usage in the word. With a view to gauging the impact of the scale of adroitness of articulators, we now present the actual distribution of the apical, labial, dorsal, medial, and post dorsal stops, both in terms of the number of units and the frequency of their combinatory usage in the monosyllabic words in Lucknow Urdu, in Table 1. Comments on Table 1: First, as shown in Column A of Table 1, the number of stops formed by the apex, labium, dorsum, medium, post dorsum, are 8, 4, 4, 4, 1, respectively. A clear manifestation of the extraordinary adroitness of the apex can be seen in the formation of two orders of stops, the apico-dental and the apico-palatal, in Urdu and in some other Indian languages. Further, as seen in this column, there are only two inequalities in the number of units. The most adroit apex forms 8 units, whereas the least adroit post dorsum articulates only 1 unit. This distribution fully conforms to our expectation in terms of the relative adroitness of articulators.

Stops in Lucknow Urdu Table 1. Makeup and distribution of stops in the monosyllabic words in terms of hierarchy of adroitness of articulators

Articulators

A

B

C

Units

Frequency of usage Number

Percentage

Apex → Teeth Apex → Palate

4 4

384 324

54.24 45.76

Apex Labium Dorsum Medium Post Dorsum

8 4 4 4 1

708 521 543 401 11

32.42 23.85 24.86 18.36 00.51

21

2,184

Total

100

Finally, as seen in the table, there is a parity in the number of units (4 each) for the labial, dorsal and medial stops. Whereas the parity between the labial and the dorsal stops is fully justiﬁed in terms of the parallel placement of the dorsal-labial articulators on the scale of the adroitness of articulators, the number of units formed by the less adroit medial articulator is contrary to our expectation. The parity for the medial stops observed here is brought about by the impact of communication for a fuller utilization of the intersections on the paradigm. There is a tendency in terms of the communicative factor to ﬁll all intersections of the phonological grid. For the larger the number of phonemes, the greater will be their potential to build an extensive inventory of meaningful units, both grammatical and lexical. However, the principle of communication is here in conﬂict with the physiology of the vocal tract. For, in terms of the hierarchy of the adroitness of articulators, the medial stops should be less favored vis-à-vis the labial or the dorsal stops. The opposing forces of physiology and communication are balanced in conformity with our expectation when the medial stop phonemes are realized at all intersections of the grid, whereas these phonemes are markedly disfavored, vis-à-vis their labial or dorsal counterparts, in the frequency of their usage in the word in Lucknow Urdu. Thus, in Column B of Table 1, when we look at the frequency of occurrence of the ﬁve stop types among monosyllabic words, we ﬁnd the skewings in the ﬁgures to be fully in conformity with our expectation. From the top down, in the order of decreasing adroitness of the articulators, the numbers are 708, 521, 543, 401, and 11. In fact, the most favored apical type (708) appears in a ratio of over 64 to 1 over the least favored post dorsal type (11). As expected, the labial stops (521) and the dorsal stops (543) compete well with each other. At the same time, the two stop types are far below in their frequency of occurrence in comparison with the apical stops.

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284 Shabana Hameed

Further, as predicted, the less favored medial stops (401) appear less frequently than the more favored labial-dorsal stops, and occur more frequently than the least favored post dorsal stops. We may therefore conclude this section by observing that whereas a fuller utilization of the labial, the dorsal, and the medial stops in the phonological paradigm of Lucknow Urdu caters to the communicative need for a greater number of distinctive units, the marked skewings in the frequency of usage for the ﬁve stop types in the syntagmatic organisation of the word, responds to the degrees of preference based on the hierarchy of adroitness of articulators in the production of these stops.

4. Asymmetrical distribution of stops in word initial and ﬁnal positions In the preceding section, we established a norm in terms of the hierarchy of adroitness of articulators for the relative preference in the syntagmatic distribution of the apical, labial, dorsal, medial, and post dorsal stops, irrespective of where they occur in monosyllabic words in Lucknow Urdu. But when we examine the distribution of the ﬁve stop types in initial and ﬁnal positions of these words, we ﬁnd that there is an additional bias in comparison with their normal, across-the-word distribution. This additional skewing is mainly brought about by the communicative factor. It will be readily agreed that the beginning of the word carries a greater communicative load than does the end of the word. As a matter of fact, there is a graded decrease in the communicative load of phonological units, as we move from the initial position to the ﬁnal position of the word. Here it must be pointed out that the principle of decreased communicative load at the end of the word was articulated by G. K. Zipf in 1949. In consequence of this communicative rationale, we expect that there should be a competitive, more productive utilization of all relevant phonological units in word initial position. On the other hand, we expect the phonological units to be selectively underutilized in word ﬁnal position. In Table 2, we present the frequency count for the ﬁve stop types in the initial and ﬁnal positions of monosyllabic words. The total ﬁgures shown in Column C of Table 2 (apicals 708, labials 521, dorsals 543, medials 401, and post dorsals 11), represent the preferential norm for the ﬁve types of stops in terms of the hierarchy of adroitness of articulators, as already discussed in Section 3. But as seen at a glance in the table, the normal usage of the ﬁve stop types is signiﬁcantly skewed in the initial and ﬁnal positions of the word. As will be seen below, this skewing in the two positions of the word is brought about by the interaction of physiology with both communication and vision. As seen in Column A of the table, of the 1243 occurrences of stops in word initial position, there are 323 apicals, 384 labials, 265 dorsals, 260 medials, and 11 post

Stops in Lucknow Urdu

dorsals. Thus, in comparison with the norm, there is a substantial decrease in the frequency of usage for the physiologically favored apical stops (32.42 to 25.99), and dorsal stops (24.86 to 21.32), whereas there is a signiﬁcant increase in the frequency of usage for the less favored medial stops (18.36 to 20.92) and the least favored post dorsal stop (0.51 to 0.88). This competitive usage of the four lingual stop types is motivated by the heavy communicative load carried by the ﬁrst phonological unit in the word. Further, it is reasonable to expect that the frequency of occurrence of the labial stops should be on a par with that of the dorsal stops, in terms of physiology and communication. However, we ﬁnd that there is an extraordinary bias in favor of the labial stops, vis-à-vis the other stop types, in the initial position of the word. In fact, as seen in the table, the frequency of usage for the labials (384) is even higher than that of the apicals (323) in this position of the word. The extraordinary preference for the labial stops in word initial position can only be explained by the visibility factor of the labial articulator. That is, there is an interaction of physiology and communication with vision as an orienting principle in this visually important position of the word. The process is reversed in the communicatively less important ﬁnal position of the word. As seen in Column B of the table, there is an additional increase, in comparison with the norm, in the frequency of usage for the favored apical stops (32.42 to 40.92), and dorsal stops (24.86 to 29.54), whereas there is an additional decrease in the frequency of usage for the less favored medial stops (18.36 to 14.98), and a total skewing against the post dorsal stop (0.51 to 0.00). It is noteworthy that the physiologically disfavored post dorsal q, a rarely used phoneme in Lucknow Urdu, appears in only the communicatively most important word initial position. This selective utilization in favor of the apicals and dorsals and against the medials and Table 2. Frequency of stops in the initial and ﬁnal positions of the monosyllabic words in terms of the hierarchy of adroitness of articulators Stop types in terms of articulators Apico-dental Apico-palatal Apical Labial Dorsal Medial Post dorsal Total

A

B

Initial Number 194 129 323 384 265 260 11 1,243

C

Final Percentage Number

Total Percentage Number

Percentage

60.06 39.94 25.99 30.89 21.32 20.92 00.88

190 195 385 137 278 141 0.00

49.35 50.65 40.92 14.56 29.54 14.98 00.00

54.24 45.76 32.42 23.85 24.86 18.36 00.51

100

941

100

384 324 708 521 543 401 11 2,184

100

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post dorsal is motivated by the low communicative load carried by the last phonological unit in the word. Finally, we expect that the frequency of occurrence of the labial stops should be on a par with that of the dorsal stops, in terms of physiology and communication. However, we ﬁnd that there is an extraordinary reduction in the frequency of usage of the labial stops in word ﬁnal position. In fact, as seen in the table, the frequency for the labials (137) is far below that of the apicals (385) and dorsals (278), and is even lower than that of the medials (141). This drastic tilt in the frequency of occurrence against the labial stops is brought about by the subordination of the role of vision in the communicatively less important ﬁnal position of the word.

5. Concluding remarks In this chapter we have brieﬂy provided a motivated rationale in terms of physiology and communication, for the paradigmatic relations and the syntagmatic skewings of the stop phonemes in Lucknow Urdu. In Section 2, we have presented oppositions of the Urdu stops as a paradigm of phonological units representing their interrelationships. The 21 stop phonemes are established in terms of communicative contrast through minimal pairs. At the same time, the opposing units are justiﬁed in the phonological grid in terms of their physiologico-acoustic substance. However, our partial justiﬁcation of the grid is based on physiology alone. In Section 3, we set up a scale of adroitness of the supraglottal articulators. It is argued that in terms of the physiological musculature, the apex is the most adroit articulator, followed by the labium-dorsum, the medium, and the post dorsum, in that order. It is also argued that the adroit apex should be most productively utilized in the formation of consonantal units in the paradigm and in their frequency of usage in the word. It has been demonstrated through statistical support that the number of units for the apical, labial, dorsal, medial, and post-dorsal stops, and their across-the-word distribution, fully conform to our expectations in terms of the scale relationship. In Section 4, we compared the distribution of the ﬁve stop types in the initial and ﬁnal positions of the word with the across-the-word norm . It has been shown that in consequence of the interaction with communication and vision, the normal usage of these stop types is signiﬁcantly skewed in the initial and ﬁnal positions of the word. It has been argued that the competitive usage of the ﬁve stop types in word initial position and the selective utilization of these stop types in word ﬁnal position, are brought about by the interaction of physiology and communication. It is further argued that the drastic skewing in favor of the labial stops in word initial position and against these stops in word ﬁnal position, is brought about by vision, in interaction with physiology and communication.

Stops in Lucknow Urdu

Notes * This is a revised and expanded version of the paper read at the Sixth International Columbia School Conference on Linguistics, Rutgers University, New Brunswick, NJ, October 9–11, 1999. I am grateful for the valuable comments and criticism of the earlier draft of this chapter by the editors of this volume, especially Prof. Ellen Contini-Morava and Prof. Betsy Rodriguez-Bachiller. Words cannot suﬃce to express my profound gratitude to my teacher Prof. Abdul Azim without whose moral support, personal attention, and invaluable academic guidance, this chapter would not have been possible. 1. The distinction of Phonology versus Grammar in Columbia School theory is based, with some modiﬁcations, on André Martinet’ s concept of the double articulation of language.For details, see Azim (1978: 18–20); Martinet (1965: 21–35). 2. For a classic account of Urdu consonants and vowels in the “phonematic” structure of the word in terms of the phonological concepts developed by the Prague and French Schools of Linguistics, see Husain (1955). 3. For a conclusive account of the Columbia School phonological theory, see Diver (1995: 43– 72); for classic phonological analyses in terms of the ﬁve principles, see Diver (1974, 1979, 1992), Davis (1987), Azim (1992, 2002), and Jabeen (1993). For a book-length treatment of Columbia School phonology, see Tobin (1997). 4. Data collection was done in two parts: non-selective collection of data was done where all kinds of words, phrases, and sentences were assembled without any reference to word list etc. Selective collection of data was done by keeping in view the potential slots in a graph based on combination of all the phonological units, plotted both vertically and horizontally, for actual realization of the words. 5. Whereas the traditional “phonemic inventory” is basically a statement of the total number of phonemes in a language, our phonological grid is a network of phonological units (phonemes) representing their interrelationships. 6. Even in traditional phonemic analysis, the phonemes are generally set up in terms of contrast through minimal pairs. However, they are formally established through distributionalsubstitutional criteria. 7. A note on transcription: /I/ is a high front unrounded short vowel; /U/ is a high back rounded short vowel; /A/ = schwa. 8. It may be pointed out that the apertures used for the production of consonants (stops, spirants, semi-vowels) are traditionally referred to as “manners of articulation”. 9. Of the two highly abstract units (V and A), A , that is, the voiceless h, does occur as an independent phoneme in many languages, as in Arabic and English. However, we know of no language that has V as an independent phoneme. Nevertheless, V(oicing), a necessary concomitant of all vowels and all voiced consonants in language, must be postulated as a glottal unit at a higher level of abstraction. 10. For a deeper understanding of the anatomy of the glottal articulation in Urdu, see Azim (2002: 278–283).

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References Aaronson, Doris and Robert W. Rieber (eds.). 1979. Psycholinguistic Research: Implications and Applications. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Azim, Abdul 1978. Systems of the Verb in Classical Urdu. Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University. Ann Arbor, Michigan, University Microﬁlms (Publication No. 79–8577). Azim, Abdul 1992.“Phonological and communicative asymmetry in modern standard Urdu”. (Paper presented at the International Seminar: The Role of Communication in Linguistic Theory, held at the Aligarh Muslim University, Aligarh, U. P., India) Azim, Abdul 2002. “Problems of aspiration in modern standard Urdu”. In Reid, Otheguy and Stern (eds.), 273–307. Contini-Morava, Ellen and Barbara Sussman Goldberg (eds.). 1995. Meaning as Explanation: Advances in Linguistic Sign Theory. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter. Davis, Joseph 1987. “A combinatory phonology of Italian”, Columbia University Working Papers in Linguistics 8: 1–99. Diver, William 1974. “Substance and value in linguistic analysis”, Semiotext (e) 1: 11–30. Diver, William 1979. “Phonology as human behavior”. In Aaronson and Rieber (eds.), 161– 186. Diver, William 1992. “The communicative motivation for the Centum-Satem split”. (Paper presented at the International Seminar: The Role of Communication in Linguistic Theory, held at the Aligarh Muslim University, Aligarh, U. P., India.) Diver, William 1995. “Theory”. In Contini-Morava and Goldberg (eds.), 43–114. Husain, Masud 1955. A Phonetic and Phonological Study of the Word in Urdu. Aligarh: Aligarh Muslim University, Department of Urdu, Studies 1. Jabeen, Shazi Shah 1993. Economy of Articulation in the Phonology of Bihar Urdu (as spoken in and around Gaya). Ph.D. dissertation, Aligarh Muslim University, Aligarh, U. P., India. Martinet, André 1965. La Linguistique Synchronique: Études et Recherches. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Reid, Wallis, Ricardo Otheguy and Nancy Stern (eds.). 2002. Signal, Meaning, and Message: Perspectives on Sign-Based Linguistics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Tobin, Yishai 1997. Phonology as Human Behavior: Theoretical Implications and Clinical Applications. Durham: Duke University Press. Zipf, George Kingsley 1949. Human Behavior and the Principle of Least Eﬀort: An Introduction to Human Ecology. Cambridge, MA: Addison-Wesley. 1965, Facsimile of 1949 edition. New York and London: Hafner.

CHAPTER 12

Between phonology and lexicon The Hebrew triconsonantal (CCC) root system revolving around /r/ (C-r-C)* Yishai Tobin Ben-Gurion University of the Negev

The notion of “semiological economy” has been one of the most fundamental and fruitful notions produced by functional semiology. . . . Given the well-founded assumption that, in general, inventories of items are more readily learned, digested and recalled when their items are sub-categorised . . . (Hervey 1985: 141, 155) Given that, formulated in a preliminarily intuitive way, “mnemonic economy” of a semiotic system is a memory-saving device — i.e. a way of cutting down the amount of eﬀort required for memorising and remembering all the well-formed elements of a system . . . If, . . . the objects to which the ﬁgurae bear some similarity are closely connected with the semantic content of the signa in whose expression these ﬁgurae are used, the interrelatedness achieved by this similarity will also make the memorisation of the signa (and their appropriate form-meaning associations considerably more economical). (Hervey 1988: 27, 32)

1. Introduction In this chapter I will explore the connection between the triconsonantal (CCC) Hebrew roots containing the phoneme /r/ as C-II (C-r-C) and the various semantically related systems and sub-systems they may form in what appears to be a pattern of interconnected semantic ﬁelds revolving around these C-r-C roots (where the other consonants “ﬂanking” /r/ (Diver 1995) belong to similar phonological classes): i.e. I will postulate a direct “classiﬁcational” connection between phonology and the lexicon as an example of “economy and motivation in semiotic systems” in the form of “mnemonic-classiﬁcatory economy” (Hervey 1985, 1988). I will ﬁrst illustrate these functional, isomorphic, and synergetic semiotic concepts in examples (1–16) where a semantic ﬁeld reﬂecting the general notion of “A Change In Structure” is postulated for a partial set of the C-r-C roots of the /p-r-C/ pattern:¹

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(1) /p-r-m/ ‘unstitch, undo stitches, untie, unbutton, rip; tear open, rend (clothes), rip, cut, chop’ (2) /p-r-f/ ‘fasten together (with a pin), pin up (hair), button’ (3) /p-r-t/ ‘expand, extend’ (4) /p-r-t’/ ‘divide into small parts; split, make change (‘break a dollar’); separate, specify, itemize, detail, divide’ (5) /p-r-d/ ‘separate, branch oﬀ, disintegrate, loosen, decompose, depart, divide, divorce’ (6) /p-r-s/ ‘slice (break, cut bread), spread, deploy, fan out, be divided, broken’ (7) /p-r-S/ ‘spread, cast, stretch out, expand, extend, unfurl’ (8) /p-r-z/ ‘exaggerate, overdo, overstate, be excessive, spread the ﬁngers’ (9) /p-r-ts/ ‘break, break through, demolish; erupt, make a breach, crack, destroy; burst, rush upon; spread, increase, overﬂow, break out’ (10) /p-r-r/ ‘crumb, crumble, break into crumbs; shatter, undermine’ (11) /p-r-q/ ‘unload; deliver, set free, extricate; break, remove, dislodge, dismantle, disassemble, decompose, disjoint, demolish, liquidate, take apart, wind up, solve, resolve, crack’ (12) /p-r-x/ ‘crush, break, crumble; smash’ (13) /p-r-ħ ‘blossom, bloom, burst forth, burgeon, sprout; ﬂourish, prosper, thrive, spread out’ (14) /p-r-ʔ/ ‘uncover (esp. hair), be dishevelled, disordered, unkempt; wildlooking’ (15) /p-r-ʕ/ ‘bring forth, bear, yield (fruit), bloom’ (16) /p-r-h/ ‘grow, produce, reproduce, be fruitful (fertile), thrive, ﬂourish’ This general semantic ﬁeld of “A Change in Structure” is reﬂected in this particular partial set of phonologically related roots in the following polaric processes: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (1) /p-r-m/ ‘unstitch; . . . cut, chop’ (4) /pr-t’/ ‘divide; split, make change (‘money’) . . . ’, (5) /p-r-d/ ‘separate . . . disintegrate . . . decompose, depart, divide, divorce’, (10) /p-r-r/ ‘crumb, crumble; shatter . . . ’, (11) /pr-q/ ‘unload; . . . break, . . . dismantle, disassemble, decompose, disjoint, demolish, . . . take apart, crack’, (12) /p-r-x/ ‘crush, break, crumble; smash’; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (3) /p-r-t/ ‘expand, extend’, (7) /p-r-S/ ‘spread, cast, stretch out, expand, extend, unfurl’, (p-r-z/ ‘exaggerate, overdo, overstate, be excessive, spread the ﬁngers’, (13) /p-r-ħ/ ‘blossom, bloom, burst forth, burgeon, sprout; . . . spread out . . . ’, (15) /p-r-ʔ/ ‘bring forth, bear, yield (fruit), bloom’, (16) /p-r-h/ ‘grow, produce, reproduce, be fruitful (fertile), thrive, ﬂourish’; or: (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes in a single root (what Abel 1884 and Freud 1910, 1958, 1976 referred to as der Gegensinn der Urworte in general and Ben-Ezra

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

1921, Blau 1928, Gordis 1936, Landau 1896, Morrison 1954 and Noeldoeke 1910 applied to Hebrew) that I have referred to elsewhere as “polaric semiology” (Aphek and Tobin 1988: ch. 5,7, 1989, 1991): (6) /p-r-s/ ‘slice (break, cut bread), spread, deploy, fan out, be divided, broken’, (9) /p-r-ts/ ‘break, break through, demolish; erupt, make a breach, crack, destroy; burst, rush upon; spread, increase, overﬂow, break out’; and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole”: (2) /p-r-f/ ‘fasten together (with a pin), pin up (hair), button’, (14) /p-rʔʃ / ‘uncover (esp. hair), be dishevelled, disordered, unkempt; wild-looking’. I will further elaborate upon my hypothesis of the p-r-C pattern and present the other sets of C-r-C roots and the related semantic ﬁelds they may represent as part of a larger interrelated classiﬁcation system from a sign-oriented perspective inspired by the work of linguists such as: Ferdinand de Saussure (1916/1959), Roman Jakobson (1941/1969, 1970), and William Diver (1974, 1975), and further exempliﬁed in Andrews and Tobin (1996), Contini-Morava and Sussman Goldberg (1995), Contini-Morava and Tobin (2000), Jakobson and Waugh (1979), Klein-Andreu (1983), Reid, Otheguy and Stern (2002), Tobin (1988a, 1989a), and Waugh and Rudy (1991). I have also discussed similar isomorphic phonological-lexical classiﬁcation systems elsewhere, including so-called irregular verbs in English, a phonologically exceptional inﬁnitive class (‘defective’ I-NUN) in Hebrew, in the alternative inﬁnitive endings of Spanish (-ar/-er/-ir), French (-er/-oir/-re/-ir) and Italian (-are/ere/-ire), and in a system of Hebrew particles revolving around the bilateral root ayin-dalet (Tobin (1989b, 1991a-b, 1993: ch. 12).

2. Deﬁning language semiotically and synergetically Every linguistic theory is the direct result of a speciﬁc set of theoretical and methodological assumptions which are related to how the linguist: (i) deﬁnes language; (ii) deﬁnes a linguistic problem; (iii) determines the source, kind, and amount of data to be selected and analyzed; (iv) chooses a methodology to select and analyze the data; and (v) evaluates, compares, and contrasts analyses in light of all the above. These ﬁve criteria basically serve to describe how and what the particular linguist views as the goals of linguistic research. In other words, the way a linguist deﬁnes language is very often the ﬁrst step of a linguistic analysis from which the other theoretical and methodological assumptions naturally follow. The semiotic or sign-oriented orientation to be applied in this study deﬁnes language in the following way: Language: a system of systems composed of various sub-systems (revolving around the notion of the linguistic sign) which are organized internally and systematically related to each other and used by human beings to communicate (Tobin 1990a: ch. 3, 1994/1995: ch. 1, 1997a: ch. 1). Theoretically, this deﬁnition of language implies the dichotomy between: (a) langue: an abstract code composed of signals and invariant meanings (i.e. lin-

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guistic signs) and their paradigmatic, associative or syntagmatic relationships: a complex abstract code shared by a community of speakers), versus (b) parole: the concrete and seemingly chaotic realization of this abstract code exploited by individual speakers to communicate speciﬁc discourse messages in diﬀerent linguistic and situational contexts. Methodologically, this semiotic or sign-oriented theoretical outlook implies: (a) an explicit respect for and reliance on concrete language data taken from both spoken and written discourse in diﬀerent linguistic and situational contexts (as well as introspective language data) and (b) at least an implicit commitment to deal with the “human factor” (i.e. the cognitive, perceptual, linguistic and non-linguistic behavior of human beings). This particular deﬁnition of language and its theoretical and methodological implications provide a holistic view of language based on following two fundamental orientations: the communication factor and the human factor. Both of these orientations can be further related to the larger isomorphic concept of language synergesis deﬁned as: “the cooperative action of discrete agencies such that the total eﬀect is greater than the sum of the discrete eﬀects taken independently” (Tobin 1990a: 48, 1994/1995: 11, 1997a: 19). Put more simply, language (the linguistic whole) is greater than the sum of its individual parts (e.g. linguistic signs and systems such as the C–C–C and C-r-C root systems and sub-systems and their attached lexical meanings, morphemes, words, etc.). The human factor inherent in these deﬁnitions includes the following basic principles: (i) Human Intelligence - human beings can draw far-reaching conclusions from minimal cues, i.e. through the cognitive process of inference; (ii) Human Eﬃciency – Zipf ’s/Manzerath’s/Mandelbrot’s/Krylov’s/Bëothy’s Laws related to the investment of minimal eﬀort to achieve maximal results in the semiotic communication process; (iii) Memory Limitations - human beings have large but limited memories which can be related to (i) and (ii) above. Zipf (1949) established the fundamental synergetic principle of “least eﬀort” (or “economy”) in all domains of language, the principle which leads language users to uniﬁcations or diversiﬁcations of the properties of language units in order to alleviate their physical and mental eﬀort. Some of the more obvious examples of Zipf ’s law regarding the lexicon include the relationship between the frequency and length of words and the number of possible “meanings” or “messages” (dictionary meanings or contextual messages) they convey. According to Zipf, the frequency of a use of a word results in a reduction in its size on the one hand and an increase in the number of messages it may convey on the other. Thus, from the point of view of the encoder, linguistic economy is best realized by a highly compressed lexicon composed exclusively of short words conveying a multiplicity of messages (dictionary meanings and contextual messages), or what Zipf calls The Force of Uniﬁcation.

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

From the point of view of the decoder, on the other hand, linguistic economy is best realized by a lexicon composed of words maximally distinct in form and restricted to one exclusive message, or what Zipf refers to as The Force of Diversiﬁcation. Mandelbrot (1953) further reﬁned Zipf ’s law by formulating that the encoder’s “economy of eﬀort” is subject to the constraint imposed by the need to eﬀectively communicate information to the decoder. The most obvious example of Mandelbrot’s law concerning the lexicon is related to the number of messages which can be assigned to a single word. The more messages a word conveys, the more “economical” it is. However, if over-eﬃcient encoders limit themselves only to the exclusive repetition of the “most economical words conveying most messages”, they defeat the very essence of the purpose of communication. The least amount of information would be conveyed by the limited and predictable repetition of the same words. Consequently, the decoders would then be forced to augment their role in the cooperative eﬀort needed for successful communication. Thus, Mandelbrot points out a “check and balance system” concerning the minimal average amount of information needed by an encoder to a decoder. In other words, there is a “balance of forces” between the ideal uniﬁcation desired by the encoder and ideal diversiﬁcation desired by the decoder. Menzerath (1954) discussed the synergetic principles regarding the quantitative relationships between a whole and its parts: “the greater the whole, the smaller its parts.” One of the more obvious examples of Manzerath’s law concerning the lexicon is the relationship between the length of words and syllables. The longer the word, the shorter its syllables. Menzerath’s law can also be extended to other realms within the lexicon: e.g. the synergetic relationship between the length of words and the number of morphemes they contain as well as the complexity of their meanings. The longer a word, the more morphemes it may contain and the more speciﬁc and complex its meaning. Zipf and Menzerath’s laws can be further applied to all the interrelated levels of language in general and to the concept of the reduplicated root patterns in Hebrew in particular. Krylov (1982) has shown that the distribution of meanings over the words in the lexicon follows a stochastic law restricting the process of polysemy — or the force of diversiﬁcation — within the lexicon. Krylov’s Law of Polysemy or Polylexy further conﬁrms Zipf ’s law linking an increase of the number of messages (dictionary meanings and contextual messages) conveyed by a word with an increase in its frequency. Krylov’s work also supports the basic hypothesis of Menzerath’s law by showing that the number of messages conveyed by a word depends directly on its length: the longer the word the more speciﬁc or complex its meaning and the fewer its potential contextual discourse messages. While Krylov’s law may be applied to the lexicon as a whole, similar ﬁndings concerning the heterogeneous frequencies of the diﬀerent messages (and grammatical functions) which can be attributed to the same word were found by Beöthy (Beöthy and Altman 1984a, b). Like all the synergetic laws previously discussed, Beöthy’s law also represents the interplay of the opposed Zipﬁan forces of “encoder-oriented

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uniﬁcation” versus “decoder-oriented diversiﬁcation”. All of these synergetic laws of human eﬃciency related to the lexicon dealt with words and the potential number of their messages (dictionary meanings and contextual messages) and grammatical functions. The same implications and results can be extended to the Hebrew root system and the Hebrew lexicon concerning the postulation of a direct classiﬁcational connection between phonology and the lexicon in the Hebrew C–C–C root system in general and the C-r-C sub-system in particular as an example of economy and motivation in semiotic systems in the form of mnemonic–Classiﬁcatory economy.

3. Hebrew roots and structures Hebrew, like other Semitic languages, has a fundamentally diﬀerent structure than the Indo-European languages. In the Semitic languages, the isomorphic connections between phonology, morphology, syntax and semantics are much more overt. The vast majority of the words of the language can be analyzed into consonantal roots signalling broad semantic ﬁelds which are combined with ﬁxed morphophonemic patterns for what are traditionally called nominal (miʃkalim ‘weights/scales’), verbal and adjectival (binjanim ‘building blocks’) forms. More often than not, the connections and relationships between the root and these ﬁxed morphophonemic patterns are rather transparent. The relatively transparent connection between lexical roots and the ﬁxed morphophonemic nominal, verbal, or adjectival patterns may be brieﬂy illustrated for the triliteral (CCC) consonantal root K-T-V ‘write’ as follows: KoTeV ‘writes, writer’; KaTaV ‘wrote, reporter, correspondent’; niKTaV ‘was written’; KiTeV ‘inscribed’; KuTaV ‘was inscribed’; hiKTiV ‘dictated’, huKTaV ‘was dictated’; hitKaTeV ‘corresponded, wrote letters’; nitKaTeV ‘was written in a correspondence, letter’; KaTaVa ‘article’; KToVet ‘address’; KiTuVit ‘title, subtitle’; KTuVa ‘contract’; KtaV ‘handwriting’; miKTaV ‘letter’; miKTAVa ‘writing desk’; haKTaVa ‘dictation’; hitKaTVut ‘correspondence’; KTiV ‘spelling, orthography’; KaTVan ‘typist, scribe’; KaTVanut ‘typing’; KaTuV ‘was written, biblical verse, passage, text’; KTaVim ‘works, writings’; ʃiKTuV ‘rewrite’; etc. It should be clear from the above examples, that on the most fundamental level, the Hebrew lexicon is primarily based on (usually triliteral (CCC)) consonantal roots.2 Studies of the triliteral (CCC) consonantal root system, particularly the combinatory phonotactic distribution of the consonants within this system based on the theory of Phonology as Human Behavior can be found in Tobin (1990b-c; 1997a:ch. 4).3 These lexical roots pass through elaborate conjugational, inﬂectional and derivational patterns and systems in order to form words. Some of these grammatical conjugational and inﬂectional patterns (mʃikalim/binjanin) are signaled by alternating vocalic and consonantal --vocalic aﬃxes (preﬁxes, inﬁxes, suﬃxes). Different synthetic semantic and syntactic forms are systematically created through

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

these miʃkalim/binjanim some of which are analyzed in Tobin (1994/1995: ch. 8, 1996) from the points of view of isomorphism and iconicity. The underlying theoretical and methodological points underlying the interaction between consonantal roots and miʃkalim/binjanim from the sign-oriented approach of this chapter are the following: (i) The Hebrew root — the integral connection between a set of acoustic signals, a sound pattern and a concept of invariant meaning — represent a classic example of the linguistic sign. (ii) Each miʃkal/binjan may also be viewed as a linguistic sign: i.e. an integral connection between a sound pattern (inﬁx, preﬁx + inﬁx) and a concept (invariant meaning) or set of concepts (a set of invariant meanings belonging to interlocked systems). (iii) The interaction between a root and a miʃkal/binjan serves the communicative function of identifying, conceptualizing, and classifying diﬀerent kinds of entities, qualities, actions, states, and events. (iv) The lexical root presents the general semantic ﬁeld of the entity, quality, action, state, and event where the miʃkal/binjan deictically conceptualizes and categorizes diﬀerent ways of perceiving these entities, qualities, actions, states, and events in a way similar to nominal, verbal and adjectival categories among other syntactic or grammatical and semantic or pragmatic categories. (vi) This categorization of entities, qualities, actions, states, and events is based on the orientation of the encoder at the here-and-now point of encoding. The relationship between roots and words, as well as the connection between the Cr-C roots and the associated semantic ﬁelds postulated here, support the concept of language synergy discussed above. The fundamental implications of isomorphic synergesis in language as a semiotic system are that the simpler the form, the more general the meaning and the greater its potential use and frequency while the more complex the form, the more speciﬁc its meaning, and the more limited its potential use and frequency.

4. The /C-r-C/ root system In the rest of this chapter I will present a fairly exhaustive list of all the /C-r-C/ roots and show how they can be attributed to the general semantic ﬁeld of “A Change in Structure” as part of a functional, isomorphic and synergetic classiﬁcational system. These roots have literal, as well as possible ﬁgurative, and potential metaphoric connections to the concept of structural change which vary according to contexts ranging from the most transparent, and obvious physical or concrete connection to the less apparent and more abstract temporal, existential and associative connections. This spatio-temporal-existential gradation or cline has been illustrated elsewhere for “small words” such as prepositions in general and the preposition in in particu-

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lar (Tobin 1990a: 61): Small words (such as the preposition in) may often begin as locatives (in the room), are extended metaphorically from concrete spatial messages to the more abstract realm of temporal messages (in the morning), to the even more abstract realm of existential messages (in trouble, in pieces), to the point at which they may be nominalized (to be ‘in’) or made into adjectives (the ‘in-group’) [or even inny/outy in the context of navels]. Indeed, there may very well be a universal semantic development of linguistic forms on a universal spatio-temporal-existential cline going from the most concrete spatial messages to the more abstract temporal, to the most abstract existential kinds of messages. This spatio-temporal-existential cline has been considered a cognitive universal (e.g. Givón 1979, Traugott 1978, Wierzbicka 1972, 1980). It has been applied to the historical development of language in general and in the development of pidgins and creoles in particular (e.g., Traugott 1975); various word classes such as copulas, prepositions, and particles (Aphek and Tobin 1988, García, van Putte and Tobin 1987, Traugott 1975, 1978); ﬁrst language acquisition (Traugott 1974, Clark 1973); the origin and development of idioms in general (Pike 1976) and the development of phrasal verb idioms in particular (Makkai 1972). These studies provide additional evidence for Kronasser’s Law (Kronasser 1952, Kovaćs 1961) which claims that semantic change tends overwhelmingly to move from the concrete to the abstract. It should also be remembered that the data presented in this chapter are prelexical /C–C–C/ roots and what is good for the ‘small word’ goose is probably even better for the triliteral Hebrew root gander.

4.1 Bilabial /C-r-C/ roots 4.1.1 The /p-r-C/ root system revisited

The largest set of /C-r-C/ roots is the /p-r-C/ system partially exempliﬁed in examples (1)-(16) in the introduction. In addition to those sixteen /p-r-C/ roots previously introduced, I also have included here all the /p-r-C/ roots listed in standard dictionaries (e.g. Alcalay 1979), some of which share the same root and are listed separately as “homonyms” in dictionaries (that I will add to the original p-r-C1 with subscripts p-r-C2 , p-r-C3) . . . ⁴ (1) /p-r-m/ ‘unstitch, undo stitches, untie, unbutton, rip; tear open, rend (clothes), rip, cut, chop’ (2) /p-r-f/ ‘fasten together (with a pin), pin up (hair), button’ (3) /p-r-n/ ‘cut, divide, assign, provide, endow, pay a dowry’ (4) /p-r-t/ ‘expand, extend’ (5) /p-r-t’1/ ‘divide into small parts; split, make change (‘break a dollar’); separate, specify, itemize, detail, divide’ (6) /p-r-t’2/ ‘play (piano, stringed instrument), pluck, pinch’ (7) /p-r-d/ ‘separate, branch oﬀ, disintegrate, loosen, decompose, depart, divide, divorce’

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

(8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16)

/p-r-s1/ /p-r-s2/ /p-r-s3/ /p-r-s4/ /p-r-S1/ /p-r-S2/ /p-r-z1/ /p-r-z2/ /p-r-ts1/

(17) (18) (19) (20)

/p-r-ts2/ /p-r-r/ /p-r-ʃ1/ /p-r-ʃ2/

(21) /p-r-g/ (22) /p-r-x/ (23) /p-r-q/ (24) /p-r-ħ1/ (25) (26) (27) (28)

/p-r-ħ2/ /p-r-ʕ1/ /p-r-ʕ2/ /p-r-ʕ3/

(29) /p-r-ʔ1/ (30) /p-r-ʔ2/ (31) /p-r-h/

‘slice (break, cut bread)’ ‘spread, deploy, fan out, be divided, broken’ ‘have (cloven) hoofs, tread with hoofs’ ‘declare in public, make public’ ‘spread, cast, stretch out, expand, extend, unfurl’ ‘slice (break, cut bread)’ ‘demilitarize, declare an open city’ ‘exaggerate, overdo, overstate, be excessive, spread the ﬁngers’ ‘break, break through, demolish; erupt, make a breach, crack, destroy; burst, rush upon; spread, increase, overﬂow, break out’ ‘entreat, urge, press, plead, beg’ ‘crumb, crumble, break into crumbs; shatter, undermine’ ‘explain, clarify, distinguish, specify’ ‘retire, go into retreat, seclude (withdraw oneself), keep aloof from, withdraw; set out (to sea), sail’ ‘change for the worse, worsen, deteriorate’ ‘crush, break, crumble; smash’, ‘unload; deliver, set free, extricate; break, remove, dislodge, dismantle, disassemble, decompose, disjoint, demolish, liquidate, take apart, wind up, solve, resolve, crack’ ‘blossom, bloom, burst forth, burgeon, sprout; ﬂourish, prosper, thrive, spread out’ ‘ﬂy, disappear, vanish’ ‘riot, make a pogrom, cause disturbance; abandon, reject’ ‘pay, defray; reward, repay, punish; revenge, avenge’ ‘uncover (esp. hair), be dishevelled, disordered, unkempt, wildlooking’ ‘bring forth, bear, yield (fruit), bloom’ ‘become savage, grow (run) wild’ ‘grow, produce, reproduce, be fruitful (fertile), thrive, ﬂourish’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /p-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (1) /p-r-m/ ‘unstitch; . . . cut, chop [cloth]’, (3) /p-r-n/ - ‘cut, divide, [a dowry]’, (7) /p-r-d/ ‘separate . . . disintegrate . . . decompose, depart, divide, divorce’, (18) /p-r-r/ ‘crumb, crumble, break into crumbs; shatter, undermine’, (22) /p-r-x/ ‘crush, break, crumble; smash’, (23) /p-r-q/ ‘unload; deliver, . . . extricate; break, remove, dislodge, dismantle, disassemble, decompose, disjoint, demolish, liquidate, take apart, wind up, solve, resolve, crack’; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the

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boundaries of a whole”: (4) /p-r-t/ ‘expand, extend’, (14) /p-r-z1/ ‘demilitarize, declare an open city’, (15) /p-r-z2/ ‘exaggerate, overdo, overstate, be excessive, spread the ﬁngers’ [open or extend physical or discourse boundaries], (24) /p-r-ħ1/ ‘blossom, bloom, burst forth, burgeon, sprout; ﬂourish, prosper, thrive, spread out’, (25) /p-r-ħ2/ ‘ﬂy, disappear, vanish’ [removal or extension of borders or boundaries], (26) /p-r-ʕ1/ ‘riot, make a pogrom, cause disturbance; abandon, reject’, (27) /p-r-ʕ2/ ‘pay, defray; reward, repay, punish; revenge, avenge’ [extension or opening of physical or monetary boundaries], (31) /p-r-h/ ‘grow, produce, reproduce, be fruitful (fertile), thrive, ﬂourish’; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (5) /p-r-t’1/ ‘divide into small parts; split, make change (‘break a dollar’)’; separate, specify, itemize, detail, divide’, (6) /p-r-t’2/ ‘play (piano, stringed instrument), pluck, pinch’ [decreasing or change of shape in internal structure], (8) /p-r-s1/ ‘slice (break, cut bread)’ [decreasing], (9) /p-r-s2/ ‘spread, deploy, fan out, be divided, broken’ [increasing/decreasing], (10) /p-r-s3/ ‘have (cloven) hoofs, tread with hoofs’ [internal structure/extension of boundaries], (11) /p-r-s4/ ‘declare in public, make public’ [extension of boundaries], (12) /p-r-S1/ ‘spread, cast, stretch out, expand, extend, unfurl’ [increasing], (13) /p-r-S2/ ‘slice (break, cut bread)’ [decreasing], (16) /p-r-ts1/ ‘break, break through, demolish; erupt, make a breach, crack, destroy, burst, rush upon; spread, increase, overﬂow, break out’, (17) /p-r-ts2/ ‘entreat, urge, press, plead, beg’ [increasing and/or decreasing physical boundaries or discourse boundaries], (19) /p-r-ʃ1/ ‘explain, clarify, distinguish, specify’ [division or separation in discourse boundaries], (20) /p-r-ʃ2/ - retire, go into retreat, seclude (withdraw oneself), keep aloof from, withdraw; set out (to sea), sail’ [internal change and opening of boundaries], (21) /p-r-g/ ‘change for the worse, worsen, deteriorate’ [internal change],(28) /p-r-ʕ3/ ‘uncover (esp. hair), be dishevelled, disordered, unkempt, wild-looking’ [internal change and/or extension of boundary], (29) /p-r-ʔ1/ ‘bring forth, bear, yield (fruit), bloom’, (30) /p-r-ʔ2/ ‘become savage, grow (run) wild’ [extension of boundaries and/or internal change].

4.1.2 /b-r-C/ roots

There are seventeen single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /b-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

/b-r-d/ /b-r-s/ /b-r-z/ /b-r-ts/ /b-r-r/

‘hail, shower, storm’ ‘bray like a donkey’ ‘tap (faucet), bore; close the tap’ ‘overﬂow, run (brim) over, spill’ ‘select, choose, pick, prove, separate; examine, investigate; cleanse, purify, swift’

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/ 299

(6) (7) (8) (9) (10)

/b-r-ʃ / /b-r-g/ /b-r-x1/ /b-r-x2/ /b-r-q/

(11) /b-r-ħ1/ (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17)

/b-r-ħ2/ /b-r-ʔ1/ /b-r-ʔ2/ /b-r-ʔ3/ /b-r-h1/ /b-r-h2/

‘brush, be brushed’ ‘screw, fasten with screws’ ‘kneel, bend the knee, genuﬂect’ ‘bless, greet, congratulate, praise, thank; curse (euph.)’ ‘ﬂash (lightning), send forth lightning, glitter, polish, shine, fulminate, brighten, become blind (dazzled)’ ‘run away, ﬂee, take to one’s heels, escape, elope, abscond, make haste’ ‘go through, bolt, fasten with a bolt, make fast’ ‘create, form, shape, make, produce’ ‘cut down, fell (trees), deforest’ ‘recover (from illness), recuperate’ ‘eat, taste, feed, give food (to a mourner)’ ‘choose, select’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /b-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (3) /b-r-z/ ‘tap (faucet), bore; close the tap’; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (4) /b-r-ts/ ‘overﬂow, run (brim) over, spill’, (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /b-r-d/ ‘hail, shower, storm’ [change in weather], (2) /b-r-s/ ‘bray like a donkey’ [internal modiﬁcation or change in discourse boundary], (5) /b-r-r/ ‘select, choose, pick, prove, separate; examine, investigate; cleanse, purify, swift’ [diminishing/separation and internal change], (6) /b-r-ʃ / ‘brush, be brushed’, (7) /b-rg/ ‘screw, fasten with screws’, (8) /b-r-x1/ ‘kneel, bend the knee, genuﬂect’ [modiﬁcation of whole], (9) /b-r-x2/ ‘bless, greet, congratulate, praise, thank; curse (euph.)’ [extension of discourse boundary], (10) /b-r-q/ ‘ﬂash (lightning), send forth lightning, glitter, polish, shine, fulminate, brighten, become blind (dazzled)’ [external change in weather or internal modiﬁcation] (11) /b-r-ħ1/ ‘run away, ﬂee, take to one’s heels, escape, elope, abscond, make haste’, (12) /b-r-ħ2/ ‘go through, bolt, fasten with a bolt, make fast’ [extension of boundary or internal modiﬁcation], (13) /b-r-ʔ1/ ‘create, form, shape, make, produce’ [extend boundaries], (14) /b-r-ʔ2/ ‘cut down, fell (trees), deforest’ [diminish boundaries], (15) /b-r-ʔ3/ ‘recover (from illness), recuperate’ [internal modiﬁcation], (16) /b-r-h1/ ‘eat, taste, feed, give food (to a mourner)’ [internal modiﬁcation and/or extension of boundaries], (17) /b-r-h2/ ‘choose, select’ [decreasing/separation].

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4.1.3 /m-r-C/ roots There are fourteen single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /m-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14)

/m-r-t’/ /m-r-d1/ /m-r-d2/ /m-r-s1/ /m-r-s2/ /m-r-ts/

‘pluck, pull (feather, hair), polish, sharpen’ ‘rebel, revolt’ ‘ache, discharge matter’ ‘mix, stir, squeeze’ ‘fester, suppurate, discharge pus ’ ‘urge, stir, encourage, hearten, energize, force, goad, egg on, spur, stimulate’ /m-r-r/ ‘cause bitterness, embitter, grieve, distress’ /m-r-k/ ‘polish, rub, scrub, scour; cleanse’ /m-r-g/ ‘thresh’ /m-r-x/ ‘soften, intimidate’ /m-r-ħ/ ‘rub in, smear, plaster, anoint, spread’ /m-r-ʔ/ ‘ﬂy, take oﬀ; soar’ /m-r-h1/ ‘rebel against, disobey’ /m-r-h2/ ‘fatten’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /m-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as: (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (12) /m-r-ʔ/ ‘ﬂy, take oﬀ; soar’, and (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (i) physical modiﬁcations: (1) /m-r-t’/ ‘pluck, pull (feather, hair), polish, sharpen’, (3) /m-r-d2/ ‘ache, discharge matter’, (4) /m-r-s1/ ‘mix, stir, squeeze’, (5) /m-rs2/ ‘fester, suppurate, discharge pus’ (8) /m-r-k/ ‘polish, rub, scrub, scour; cleanse’, (9) /m-r-g/ ‘thresh’, (10) /m-r-x/ ‘soften, intimidate’, (11) /m-r-ħ/ ‘rub in, smear, plaster, anoint, spread’, or (ii) a change in social or emotional structure: (2) /m-r-d1/ ‘rebel, revolt’, (6) /m-r-ts/ ‘urge, stir, encourage, hearten, energize, force, goad, egg on, spur, stimulate’, (7) /m-r-r/ ‘cause bitterness, embitter, grieve, distress’, (13) /m-r-h1/ ‘rebel against, disobey’.

4.1.4 /w-r-C/ roots

(1) /w-r-d/ - ‘rose, make rose-colored, paint pink This root may indicate “a modiﬁcation of the color of a whole”.5

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

4.2 Apical /C-r-C/ roots 4.2.1 /t-r-C/ roots

There are ten single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /t-r-C/ pattern: (1) /t-r-m/ (2) /t-r-f/ (3) /t-r-s1/ (4) /t-r-s2/ (5) /t-r-z/ (6) /t-r-ts/ (7) /t-r-n/ (8) /t-r-g/ (9) /t-r-ʕ/ (10) /t-r-h/

‘contribute, donate; lift, remove (ashes from the altar), separate (priestly dues) ‘weaken, soften’ ‘contradict, oppose, dispute, debate, protest against; (also) shield, protect’ ‘shutter’ (open and close) ‘have diarrhoea’ ‘explain a diﬃculty, give a pretext (an excuse), reply to a question’ ‘mast, hoist a mast’ ‘brighten, yellow, stain with citron-color, feed on citrons’ ‘sound the trumpet, blow the horn; warn, sound the alarm; cry bitterly, protest against’ ‘warn, forewarn’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /t-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (9) /t-r-ʕ/ ‘sound the trumpet, blow the horn; warn, sound the alarm; cry bitterly, protest against’, (10) /t-r-h/ ‘warn, forewarn’ [opening of discourse boundaries], (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /t-r-m/ ‘contribute, donate; lift, remove (ashes from the altar), separate (priestly dues) [both opening and closing borders: giving/ taking increasing/decreasing], (2) /t-r-f/ ‘weaken, soften’ [internal change/modiﬁcation], (3) /t-r-s1/ ‘contradict, oppose, dispute, debate, protest against; (also) shield, protect’ [opening/closing of boundaries discourse and physical], (4) /t-r-s2/ ‘shutter’ (open and close) [modiﬁcation of structure of window], (5) /t-r-z/ ‘have diarrhoea’ [opening of boundary, internal change], (6) /t-r-ts/ ‘explain a diﬃculty, give a pretext (an excuse), reply to a question’ [separate or maneuver discourse boundaries], (7) /t-r-n/ ‘mast, hoist a mast’ [modiﬁcation of structure of a boat], (8) /t-rg/ ‘brighten, yellow, stain with citron-color, feed on citrons’ [“a modiﬁcation of the color of a whole”],

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4.2.2 /t’-r-C/ roots

There are seven single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /t’-r-C/ pattern: (1) /t’-r-m/ (2) /t’-r-f1/ (3) /t’-r-f2/ (4) /t’-r-d/ (5) /t’-r-q/ (6) /t’-r-ħ/ (7) /t’-r-h/

‘do before, anticipate, precede, forestall, be anticipated, forestalled’ ‘prey upon, tear to pieces, rend’ (of wild best or bird of prey) seize (for prey); declare ritually unﬁt for food, knock, strike beat (eggs), wound, prevent, scramble’ ‘mix, confuse, shuﬄe (cards), beat up (whip) (eggs), stir, scramble’ ‘drive out, drive away, expel; push; trouble, perturb, disturb, distress, bother, annoy, harass, heckle’ ‘bang, slam ‘take pains, take trouble, trouble oneself ’ ‘(Aramaic) throw’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /t’-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (1) /t’-r-m/ ‘do before, anticipate, precede, forestall, be anticipated, forestalled’ [close the border before it begins]; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (4) /t’-r-d/ - ‘drive out, drive away, expel; push; trouble, perturb, disturb, distress, bother, annoy, harass, heckle’ [open physical and discourse boundaries], (7) /t’-r-h/ ‘(Aramaic) throw’; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (2) /t’-r-f1/ - ‘prey upon, tear to pieces, rend (of wild best or bird of prey), seize (for prey); declare ritually unﬁt for food, knock, strike beat (eggs), wound, prevent, scramble’; (3) /t’-r-f2/ ‘mix, confuse, shuﬄe (cards), beat up (whip) (eggs), stir, scramble’ [decrease, separate, and internal modiﬁcation of whole], (5) /t’-r-q/ ‘bang, slam’, (6) /t’-r-ħ/ ‘take pains, take trouble, trouble oneself ’ [internal modiﬁcation].

4.2.3 /d-r-C/ roots There are six single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /d-r-C/ pattern: (1) /d-r-m/ ‘go south, face south’ (2) /d-r-s/ ‘trample, tread underfoot; prey upon, seize (prey), sink claws into (prey), tear, rend; press; slaughter (by pressing the knife on the throat of the animal)’

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

(3) /d-r-r/ (4) /d-r-g/ (5) /d-r-ʃ / (6) /d-r-x/

‘liberate, free, release from servitude (slavery), emancipate, enfranchise, manumit’ ‘make steps, stairs, degrees; terrace (mountain slopes); grade, gradate, graduate’ ‘claim, ask, demand, investigate, require, request, enquire; lecture, preach; explain, expound, interpret, discourse’ ‘step, walk, go, march; press, tread down; trample on; bend (bow)’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /d-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (1) /d-r-m/ ‘go south, face south’, (2) /d-r-s/ ‘trample, tread underfoot; prey upon, seize (prey), sink claws into (prey), tear, rend; press; slaughter (by pressing the knife on the throat of the animal)’ [decreasing boundaries]; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (3) /d-r-r/ ‘liberate, free, release from servitude (slavery), emancipate, enfranchise, manumit’ [opening of boundaries]; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (4) /d-r-g/ ‘make steps, stairs, degrees; terrace (mountain slopes); grade, gradate, graduate’ [modiﬁcation of internal structure], (5) /d-r-ʃ / ‘claim, ask, demand, investigate, require, request, enquire; lecture, preach; explain, expound, interpret, discourse’ [opening and closing of discourse borders], (6) /d-r-x/ ‘step, walk, go, march; press, tread down; trample on; bend (bow)’ [opening of boundaries and internal modiﬁcation].6

4.2.4 /s-r-C/ roots

There are eleven single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /s-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

/s-r-f/ /s-r-v/ /s-r-t’/ /s-r-s/ /s-r-r/ /s-r-g/

(7) /s-r-x/ (8) /s-r-q1/ (9) /s-r-q2/

‘cremate, cover with resin’ ‘refuse, decline, urge; (also) assume importance’ ‘make a ﬁlm’ ‘castrate, emasculate, geld; distort’ ‘disobey, rebel; be stubborn, deﬁant, rebellious, mutinous’ ‘knit; make a net, lace, interlace, plait; Talmudical, also) gird, strap’ ‘be dragged, adhere, join’ ‘comb (also ﬁg.); card; scratch, lacerate’ ‘paint red, rouge’

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(10) /s-r-ħ1/ (11) /s-r-ħ2/

‘stink; sin, corrupt’ ‘stretch, spread out, hang over, be dragged’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /s-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /s-r-f/ ‘cremate, cover with resin’, (2) /s-r-v/ ‘refuse, decline, urge; (also) assume importance’ [diminish, close boundaries and modiﬁcation of structure], (3) /s-r-t’/ ‘make a ﬁlm’ [reﬂect or modify a structure], (4) /s-r-s/ ‘castrate, emasculate, geld; distort’ [modify a structure], (5) /s-r-r/ ‘disobey, rebel; be stubborn, deﬁant, rebellious, mutinous’ [open boundaries or internal modiﬁcation], (6) /s-r-g/ ‘knit; make a net, lace, interlace, plait; Talmudical, also) gird, strap’ [internal modiﬁcation of structure], (7) /s-r-x/ ‘be dragged, adhere, join’ [open borders and internal modiﬁcation], (8) /s-r-q1/ - ‘comb (also ﬁg.); card; scratch, lacerate’, (9) /s-r-q2/ ‘paint red, rouge’ [internal modiﬁcation], (10) /s-r-ħ1/ ‘stink; sin, corrupt’, (11) /s-r-ħ2/ ‘stretch, spread out, hang over, be dragged’ [internal modiﬁcation and opening of borders].

4.2.5 /S-r-C/ roots

There are eleven single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /S-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

/S-r-f1/ /S-r-f2/ /S-r-f3/ /S-r-t’/ /S-r-d/ /S-r-g/

(7) /S-r-r/ (8) /S-r-x/ (9) /S-r-q/ (10) /S-r-ʕ/ (11) /S-r-h/

‘burn, destroy by ﬁre’ ‘sip, quaﬀ, suck (from Aramaic)’ ‘cover with resin’ ‘scratch, lacerate; make an incision’ ‘remain, escape, survive, be left’ ‘twine, interweave, interlace, be intertwined, interwoven, interlaced’ ‘rule, reign, prevail, dominate, domineer’ ‘twist, traverse; turn aside; deviate (from the right path); twine, entangle; lace’ ‘whistle; hiss’ ‘stretch oneself, extend’ ‘struggle, strive, contend; be a ruler’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /S-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows:

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

(a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (7) /S-r-r/ ‘rule, reign, prevail, dominate, domineer’ [close borders]; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (9) /S-r-q/ ‘whistle; hiss’ [open discourse borders], (10) /S-rʕ/ ‘stretch oneself, extend’; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /S-r-f1/ ‘burn, destroy by ﬁre’ [diminish, internal modiﬁcation], (2) /S-r-f2/ ‘sip, quaﬀ, suck (from Aramaic)’ [diminish], (3) /S-r-f3/ ‘cover with resin’ [modiﬁcation of a whole], (4) /S-r-t’/ ‘scratch, lacerate; make an incision’ [modiﬁcation], (5) /S-r-d/ ‘remain, escape, survive, be left’ [open borders/modiﬁcation], (6) /S-r-g/ ‘twine, interweave, interlace, be intertwined, interwoven, interlaced’ [internal modiﬁcation], (8) /S-r-x/ ‘twist, traverse; turn aside; deviate (from the right path); twine, entangle; lace’ [open borders/internal modiﬁcation], (11) /S-r-h/ ‘struggle, strive, contend; be a ruler’ [internal modiﬁcation, close borders].

4.2.6 /z-r-C/ roots

There are eleven single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /z-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

/z-r-m/ /z-r-v/ /z-r-t/ /z-r-d1/ /z-r-d2/ /z-r-z/

(7) (8) (9) (10) (11)

/z-r-r/ /z-r-q/ /z-r-ħ/ /z-r-ʕ/ /z-r-h/

‘ﬂow, pour down, stream; sweep away, ﬂood’ ‘be made to ﬂow; be heated’ ‘span’ ‘sprout, grow up, trim (young shoots)’ ‘howl, whine, roar’ ‘speed up, accelerate, urge, hurry, spur, hasten, expedite, stimulate, encourage, goad; catalyze (chem.)’ ‘sneeze’ ‘throw, toss, pitch, ﬂing, hurl, dash; sprinkle’ ‘shine, rise (sun), glow, appear, bloom, phosphoresce’ ‘sow, seed, scatter’ ‘scatter, disperse, fab out, winnow, sprinkle’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /z-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (1) /z-r-m/ ‘ﬂow, pour down, stream; sweep away, ﬂood’, (3) /z-r-t/ ‘span’, [open physical borders], (6) /z-r-z/ ‘speed up, accelerate, urge, hurry, spur, hasten, expedite, stimulate, encourage, goad; catalyze (chem.)’ [open borders],

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(8) /z-r-q/ ‘throw, toss, pitch, ﬂing, hurl, dash; sprinkle’, (10) /z-r-ʕ/ ‘sow, seed, scatter’, (11) /z-r-h/ ‘scatter, disperse, fan out, winnow, sprinkle’ [opening of borders]; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (2) /z-r-v/ ‘be made to ﬂow; be heated’ [open borders/internal modiﬁcation], (4) /z-r-d1/ ‘sprout, grow up, trim (young shoots)’, (5) /z-r-d2/ ‘howl, whine, roar’ [open and close physical borders / open discourse boundaries], (7) /z-rr/ ‘sneeze’ [internal modiﬁcation], (9) /z-r-ħ/ ‘shine, rise (sun), glow, appear, bloom, phosphoresce’ [open borders/internal modiﬁcation].

4.2.7 /ts-r-C/ roots

There are eleven single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /ts-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4)

/ts-r-m/ /ts-r-f1/ /ts-r-f2/ /ts-r-v/

(5) /ts-r-d/ (6) /ts-r-r1/ (7) /ts-r-r2/ (8) (9) (10) (11)

/ts-r-x/ /ts-r-ħ1/ /ts-r-ħ1/ /ts-r-ʕ/

‘grate (on the ears), injure, split’ ‘reﬁne, purify; (ﬁg.) test; burn’ ‘attach, annex, join, unite, combine; change (money)’ ‘burn, scorch, scald; be mordant; cauterize; corrode; stain (wood); cause heartburn’ ‘become hoarse, be husky, raucous, lose one’s voice’ ‘pack, tie, wrap, bind, parcel up’ ‘be hostile (inimical) towards; discord (mus.); be in distressed, pressed, in anguish, in dire straits’ ‘need, require; consume’ ‘scream, yell, cry, shriek, shout’ ‘castle (in chess)’ ‘be leprous, become leprous’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /ts-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (9) /ts-r-ħ1/ - ‘scream, yell, cry, shriek, shout’, (10) /ts-r-ħ1/ ‘castle (in chess)’ [opening borders discourse and physical]; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /ts-r-m/ ‘grate (on the ears), injure, split’, (2) /ts-r-f1/ ‘reﬁne, purify; (ﬁg.) test; burn’, (3) /ts-r-f2/ ‘attach, annex, join, unite, combine; change (money)’, (4) /ts-r-v/ ‘burn, scorch, scald; be mordant; cauterize; corrode; stain (wood); cause heartburn’, (5) /ts-r-d/ ‘become hoarse, be husky, raucous, lose one’s voice’ [internal modiﬁcation/closure of borders], (6) /ts-r-r1/ ‘pack, tie, wrap, bind, parcel up’,

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

(7) /ts-r-r2/ ‘be hostile (inimical) towards; discord (mus.); be in distressed, pressed, in anguish, in dire straits’, (8) /ts-r-x/ ‘need, require; consume’ [close borders/internal modiﬁcation], (11) /ts-r-ʕ/ ‘be leprous, become leprous’ [internal modiﬁcation].7

4.3 Anterodorsal /C-r-C/ roots 4.3.1 /ʃ-r-C/ roots

There are eleven single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /ʃ-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7)

/ʃ-r-v/ /ʃ-r-t/ /ʃ-r-r/ /ʃ-r-ts/ /ʃ-r-ʃ1/ /ʃ-r-ʃ2/ /ʃ-r-h1/

(8) (9) (10) (11)

/ʃ-r-h2/ /ʃ-r-h3/ /ʃ-r-h4/ /ʃ-r-h5/

‘be overcome by heat, get sunstroke’ ‘serve, oﬃciate, act as, ﬁll an oﬃce’ ‘validate’ ‘swarm, teem; abound, multiply, breed, pullulate’ ‘uproot, pluck, destroy, eradicate; extract a number’ ‘strike roots, implant, settle’ ‘immerse, soak, steep, saturate, drench, be immersed, soaked, saturated’ ‘prevail, rest, dwell’ ‘permit, allow’ ‘maintain, support’ ‘save, rescue, extricate’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /ʃ-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (4) /ʃ-r-ts/ ‘swarm, teem; abound, multiply, breed, pullulate’, (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /ʃ-r-v/ ‘be overcome by heat, get sunstroke’, (2) /ʃ-r-t/ ‘serve, oﬃciate, act as, ﬁll an oﬃce’, (3) /ʃ-r-r/ ‘validate’ [internal modiﬁcation/closure of borders], (5) /ʃ-r-ʃ1/ ‘uproot, pluck, destroy, eradicate; extract a number’, (6) /ʃ-r-ʃ2/ ‘strike roots, implant, settle’ [opening and closing of borders/internal modiﬁcation], (7) /ʃ-r-h1/ ‘immerse, soak, steep, saturate, drench, be immersed, soaked, saturated’, (8) /ʃ-r-h2/ ‘prevail, rest, dwell’, (9) /ʃ-r-h3/ ‘permit, allow’, (10) /ʃ-r-h4/ ‘maintain, support’, (11) /ʃr-h5/ ‘save, rescue, extricate’ [internal modiﬁcation/closing of borders].

4.3.2 /j-r-C/ roots

There are ten single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /j-r-C/ pattern: (1) /j-r-t’/ (2) /j-r-d/

‘be precipitate, rush; intercept (an airplane), force down’ ‘come (go) down, descend, decrease, diminish’

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(3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10)

/j-r-ʃ1/ /j-r-ʃ2/ /j-r-q1/ /j-r-q2/ /j-r-ʕ/ /j-r-ʔ/ /j-r-h1/ /j-r-h2/

‘inherit, take possession of, succeed, possess’ ‘be impoverished, become poor’ ‘spit, expectorate’ ‘become (turn) green; green’ ‘be afraid, tremble’ ‘fear, be afraid, apprehend; respect, stand in awe of, honor’ ‘shoot, ﬁre; throw; pour (water)’ ‘teach, instruct, direct, show, decide, enjoin, command’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /j-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (2) /j-r-d/ ‘come (go) down, descend, decrease, diminish’ [close boundaries]; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (1) /j-r-t’/ ‘be precipitate, rush; intercept (an airplane), force down’ [open boundaries], (9) /j-r-h1/ ‘shoot, ﬁre; throw; pour (water)’, (10) /j-r-h2/ ‘teach, instruct, direct, show, decide, enjoin, command’ [opening of boundaries]; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (3) /j-r-ʃ1/ ‘inherit, take possession of, succeed, possess’, (4) /j-r-ʃ2/ ‘be impoverished, become poor’, [close boundaries/internal change], (5) /j-r-q1/ ‘spit, expectorate’, (6) /j-r-q2/ ‘become (turn) green; green’ [open boundaries/internal change/modiﬁcation of color], (7) /j-r-ʕ/ ‘be afraid, tremble’ [internal modiﬁcation],8

4.4 Posterodorsal /C-r-C/ roots 4.4.1 /k-r-C/ roots

There are eleven single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /k-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

/k-r-m1/ /k-r-m2/ /k-r-v/ /k-r-t/ /k-r-z/ /k-r-x/

(7) /k-r-ħ/

‘work in a vineyard’ ‘heap, pile up’ ‘fallow, plough’ ‘cut, cut oﬀ (down), fell, destroy, root out, lop, excise’ ‘declare, announce, pronounce, make public, advertise’ ‘bind (a book), wrap up, wind around, connect, tie, roll in, combine’ ‘compel, force’

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/ 309

(8) (9) (10) (11)

/k-r-ʕ/ /k-r-h1/ /k-r-h2/ /k-r-h3/

‘kneel, bow, bow down, crouch; collapse, sink, writhe in pain’ ‘dig’ ‘buy, trade, bargain’ ‘give a banquet, make a feast’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /k-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (4) /k-r-t/ ‘cut, cut oﬀ (down), fell, destroy, root out, lop, excise’ [closing of boundaries]; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (5) /k-r-z/ ‘declare, announce, pronounce, make public, advertise’ [opening of discourse boundaries], (7) /k-r-ħ/ ‘compel, force’ [opening of boundaries], (9) /k-r-h1/ ‘dig’, (10) /k-r-h2/ ‘buy, trade, bargain’, (11) /k-r-h3/ ‘give a banquet, make a feast’; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /k-r-m1/ ‘work in a vineyard’, (2) /k-r-m2/ ‘heap, pile up’ [closure of boundaries/internal modiﬁcation], (3) /k-r-v/ ‘fallow, plough’ [internal change], (6) /k-r-x/ ‘bind (a book), wrap up, wind around, connect, tie, roll in, combine’, (8) /kr-ʕ/ ‘kneel, bow, bow down, crouch; collapse, sink, writhe in pain’ [closing of boundaries/internal modiﬁcation].

4.4.2 /q-r-C/ roots

There are twenty-one single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /q-r-C/ pattern: (1) /q-r-m/ ‘crust, cover with crust, put on (overlay) with skin’ (2) /q-r-v/ ‘come (draw) near, approach, near; be sacriﬁced’ (3) /q-r-d/ ‘scrape, defur, remove the fur deposit (in kettle), be scraped, defurred’ (4) /q-r-s1/ ‘kneel, bend, bow (sink) down, writhe’ (5) /q-r-s2/ ‘become (turn) sour’ (6) /q-r-s3/ ‘be cracked’ (7) /q-r-ts1/ ‘wink’ (8) /q-r-ts2/ ‘cut, cut out shape (dough), pinch oﬀ; form, shape, mould, fashion’ (9) /q-r-n1/ ‘radiate, beam, shine’ (10) /q-r-n2/ ‘grow (have) horns’ (11) /q-r-r1/ ‘cool, chill, be cooled, chilled’

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(12) (13) (14) (15) (16)

/q-r-r2/ /q-r-ʃ / /q-r-ħ1/ /q-r-ħ2/ /q-r-ʕ/

(17) /q-r-ʔ1/ (18) /q-r-ʔ2/ (19) /q-r-h1/ (20) /q-r-h2/ (21) /q-r-h3/

‘well (gush) forth, ﬂow, cause to well forth, make ﬂow’ ‘freeze, congeal’ ‘make bald, shear, pluck, uproot’ ‘turn into ice’ ‘tear, tear to pieces (asunder), rend, rend a garment in mourning; split, divide; cancel abolish’ ‘read, call (cry) out; proclaim, pronounce, preach; name, call by name; study (the Bible), recite; summon, invite, assemble, convene; implore’ ‘happen, take place, occur’ ‘happen, chance, occur, come about, transpire, come to pass; encounter, meet unexpectedly; (also read /q-r-?/’ ‘roof, cover with rafters, be roofed, covered with rafters’ ‘have night pollution’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /q-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (1) /q-r-m/ ‘crust, cover with crust, put on (overlay) with skin’, (16) /q-r-ʕ/ ‘tear, tear to pieces (asunder), rend, rend a garment in mourning; split, divide; cancel abolish’, (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (2) /q-r-v/ ‘come (draw) near, approach, near; be sacriﬁced’ [closure of boundaries/internal modiﬁcation], (3) /q-r-d/ ‘scrape, defur, remove the fur deposit (in kettle), be scraped, defurred’ [closure of boundaries/internal modiﬁcation], (4) /q-r-s1/ ‘kneel, bend, bow (sink) down, writhe’, (5) /q-r-s2/ ‘become (turn) sour’, (6) /q-r-s3/ ‘be cracked’ [internal modiﬁcation], (7) /q-r-ts1/ ‘wink’, (8) /q-r-ts2/ ‘cut, cut out shape (dough), pinch oﬀ; form, shape, mould, fashion’ [closure of boundaries/ internal modiﬁcation], (9) /q-r-n1/ ‘radiate, beam, shine’, (10) /q-r-n2/ ‘grow (have) horns’, (11) /q-r-r1/ ‘cool, chill, be cooled, chilled’, (12) /q-r-r2/ ‘well (gush) forth, ﬂow, cause to well forth, make ﬂow’ [internal change/opening of borders], (13) /q-r-ʃ / ‘freeze, congeal’, (14) /q-r-ħ1/ ‘make bald, shear, pluck, uproot’, (15) /q-r-ħ2/ ‘turn into ice’ [closure of borders/internal modiﬁcation], (17) /q-r-ʔ1/ ‘read, call (cry) out; proclaim, pronounce, preach; name, call by name; study (the Bible), recite; summon, invite, assemble, convene; implore’, (18) /q-r-ʔ2/ ‘happen, take place, occur’ [opening/closing of borders/internal change], (19) /q-r-h1/ ‘happen, chance, occur, come about, transpire, come to pass; encounter, meet unexpectedly; (also read /q-r-ʔ/)’, (20) /q-r-h2/ ‘roof, cover with rafters, be roofed, covered with rafters’ (21) /q-r-h3/ ‘have night pollution’ [opening/closing of boundaries/ internal modiﬁcation].

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

4.4.3 /g-r-C/ roots

There are seventeen single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /g-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9)

/g-r-m1/ /g-r-m2/ /g-r-m3/ /g-r-f/ /g-r-v/ /g-r-d1/ /g-r-d2/ /g-r-s1/ /g-r-s2/

‘cause, bring about’ ‘break bones, gnaw, bone, ﬁlet’ ‘kill, slaughter (an animal)’ ‘sweep, sweep away, clean, shovel, blow (the nose), collect’ ‘wear a stocking, rob’ ‘scratch, scrabble, scrape’ ‘plait, weave, braid’ ‘crush, pound, mill, grind, make grits; be crushed, pounded’ ‘learn, study, read (the meaning of), determine, maintain, lay down’ (10) /g-r-n1/ ‘laryngize’ (11) /g-r-n2/ ‘make a threshing ﬂoor, gather’ (12) /g-r-n3/ ‘be sent to the threshing ﬂoor, gathered’ (13) /g-r-r/ ‘drag, tow, tug, draw, pull along; involve, bring about; chew the cud; grate, saw’ (14) /g-r-l/ ‘cast (draw) lots, raﬄe’ (15) /g-r-ʃ / ‘drive out, expel, evict, deport’ (16) /g-r-ʕ/ ‘lessen, reduce, subtract, deduct, diminish, detract (derogate from), trim (beard), shear’ (17) /g-r-h/ ‘excite, provoke, irritate, stimulate, incite, tease, stir up, egg on’ The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /g-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (5) /g-r-v/ ‘wear a stocking, rob’, (8) /g-r-s1/ ‘crush, pound, mill, grind, make grits; be crushed, pounded’, (9) /g-r-s2/ ‘learn, study, read (the meaning of), determine, maintain, lay down’, (16) /g-r-ʕ/ ‘lessen, reduce, subtract, deduct, diminish, detract (derogate from), trim (beard), shear’; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (14) /g-r-l/ ‘cast (draw) lots, raﬄe’, (15) /g-r-ʃ / ‘drive out, expel, evict, deport’, (17) /g-r-h/ ‘excite, provoke, irritate, stimulate, incite, tease, stir up, egg on’; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /g-r-m1/ ‘cause, bring about’, (2) /g-r-m2/ ‘break bones, gnaw, bone, ﬁlet’, (3) /g-r-m3/ ‘kill, slaughter (an animal)’ [opening/closing of boundaries], (4)

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/g-r-f/ ‘sweep, sweep away, clean, shovel, blow (the nose), collect’ [open boundaries/ internal change], (6) /g-r-d1/ ‘scratch, scrabble, scrape’, (7) /g-r-d2/ ‘plait, weave, braid’ [internal modiﬁcation of structure], (10) /g-r-n1/ ‘laryngize’, (11) /g-r-n2/ ‘make a threshing ﬂoor, gather’, (12) /g-r-n3/ ‘be sent to the threshing ﬂoor, gathered’ [internal change/closing of boundaries], (13) /g-r-r/ ‘drag, tow, tug, draw, pull along; involve, bring about; chew the cud; grate, saw’ [opening of boundaries/internal change].9

4.5 Pharyngeal /C-r-C/ roots 4.5.1 /ħ-r-C/ roots

There are twenty-ﬁve single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /ħ-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

/ħ-r-m1/ /ħ-r-m2/ /ħ-r-f1/ /ħ-r-f2/ /ħ-r-f3/

(6) /ħ-r-f4/ (7) /ħ-r-v/ (8) /ħ-r-t/ (9) /ħ-r-t’1/ (10) /ħ-r-t’2/ (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25)

/ħ-r-d/ /ħ-r-z1/ /ħ-r-z2/ /ħ-r-ts1/ /ħ-r-ts2/ /ħ-r-r1/ /ħ-r-r2/ /ħ-r-r3/ /ħ-r-l/ /ħ-r-ʃ1/ /ħ-r-ʃ2/ /ħ-r-q/ /ħ-r-g/ /ħ-r-x/ /ħ-r-h/

‘swear, vow, conﬁscate, forfeit, ban, ostracize’ ‘spread a (ﬁshing) net’ ‘winter, spend the winter, hibernate’ ‘insult, abuse, reproach’ ‘become more serious, become aggravated, be made worse, grow more acute; aggravate, worsen, exacerbate’ ‘be betrothed, aﬃanced’ ‘be destroyed, ravaged, desolate, waste; dry up; destroy’ ‘engrave, inscribe, carve, incise, print, imprint, be engraved, inscribed, carved, incised’ ‘chisel, engrave, carve, etch, turn’ ‘repent, regret, feel remorse, change one’s mind (originally scratch oneself in regret’ ‘be afraid, tremble, be anxious, worried, feel uneasy, hurry’ ‘string (together), thread, arrange, array’ ‘rhyme, versify’ ‘cut, notch, nick; decide, resolve, determine’ ‘be diligent, alert, industrious’ ‘make a hole, bore through’ ‘be hot, be dry, burn, glow, overbake’ ‘set at liberty, free, set free’ ‘be covered with thorns’ ‘plough, devise’ ‘be silent, keep silence; be deaf ’ ‘grate, rattle, scratch, squeak, crackle, grind, gnash, cut’ ‘leap, spring forth; deviate, digress’ ‘singe, scorch, burn, char’ ‘be angry, grieved, vexed; burn, be kindled (of anger), glow (with anger)’

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /ħ-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (7) /ħ-r-v/ ‘be destroyed, ravaged, desolate, waste; dry up; destroy’, (8) /ħ-r-t/ ‘engrave, inscribe, carve, incise, print, imprint, be engraved, inscribed, carved, incised’, (22) /ħ-r-q/ ‘grate, rattle, scratch, squeak, crackle, grind, gnash, cut’; (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (23) /ħ-r-g/ ‘leap, spring forth; deviate, digress’; (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /ħ-r-m1/ ‘swear, vow, conﬁscate, forfeit, ban, ostracize’, (2) /ħr-m2/ ‘spread a (ﬁshing) net’ [opening/closing of boundaries], (3) /ħ-r-f1/ ‘winter, spend the winter, hibernate’, [closing borders/internal change], (4) /ħ-r-f2/ ‘insult, abuse, reproach’, [opening discourse borders], (5) /ħ-r-f3/ ‘become more serious, become aggravated, be made worse, grow more acute; aggravate, worsen, exacerbate’, (6) /ħ-r-f4/ ‘be betrothed, aﬃanced’ [internal modiﬁcation], (9) /ħ-r-t’1/ ‘chisel, engrave, carve, etch, turn’, (10) /ħ-r-t’2/ ‘repent, regret, feel remorse, change one’s mind (originally scratch oneself in regret’ [closure of borders/internal change], (11) /ħr-d/ ‘be afraid, tremble, be anxious, worried, feel uneasy, hurry’, (12) /ħ-r-z1/ ‘string (together), thread, arrange, array’, (13) /ħ-r-z2/ ‘rhyme, versify’ [change in internal structure], (14) /ħ-r-ts1/ ‘cut, notch, nick; decide, resolve, determine’, (15) /ħ-r-ts2/ ‘be diligent, alert, industrious’ [closure of boundaries/internal modiﬁcation], (16) / ħ-r-r1/ ‘make a hole, bore through’, (17) /ħ-r-r2/ ‘be hot, be dry, burn, glow, overbake’ [internal modiﬁcation], (18) /ħ-r-r3/ ‘set at liberty, free, set free’ [opening of boundaries’], (19) /ħ-r-l/ ‘be covered with thorns’, (20) /ħ-r-ʃ1/ ‘plough, devise’, (21) /ħ-r-ʃ2/ ‘be silent, keep silence; be deaf ’ [change in internal structure], (24) /ħ-r-x/ ‘singe, scorch, burn, char’, (25) /ħ-r-h/ ‘be angry, grieved, vexed; burn, be kindled (of anger), glow (with anger)’ [internal modiﬁcation].

4.5.2 /ʕ-r-C/ roots

There are twenty-three single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /ʕ-r-C/ pattern: (1) /ʕ-r-m1/ ‘heap, pile, amass, stack, accumulate’ (2) /ʕ-r-m2/ ‘be cunning, crafty, shrewd; become wise, acquire knowledge, act prudently; fool, act cunningly, shrewdly, astutely, deceitfully; intrigue, make wise, impart knowledge’ (3) /ʕ-r-m3/ ‘denude, uncover lay bare’ (4) /ʕ-r-f1/ ‘break the neck, decapitate, behead, guillotine; demolish, destroy’

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(5) /ʕ-r-f2/ (6) /ʕ-r-v1/ (7) /ʕ-r-v2/ (8) (9) (10) (11) (12)

/ʕ-r-v3/ /ʕ-r-v4/ /ʕ-r-d1/ /ʕ-r-d2/ /ʕ-r-s1/

(13) /ʕ-r-s2/ (14) /ʕ-r-ts/ (15) /ʕ-r-r/ (16) /ʕ-r-l1/ (17) /ʕ-r-l2/ (18) /ʕ-r-q/ (19) /ʕ-r-x/ (20) /ʕ-r-g1/ (21) /ʕ-r-g2/ (22) /ʕ-r-h1/ (23) /ʕ-r-h2/

‘drip, shower, drop down’ ‘be dark, grow dark, become evening, be obscured (dusky), become gloomy’ ‘guarantee, stand surety, go bail for, be responsible, vouch for; pawn, pledge’ ‘mix, confuse, intermingle, assimilate, interfere, meddle’ ‘be agreeable, pleasant, sweet’ ‘expel, drive out, stir up’ ‘crumble’ ‘trail (branches of vine), intertwine, braid, form an arbour ((trellis; pergola)’ ‘roll (dough), mix dough’ ‘terrify, frighten, intimidate; destroy; fear, be afraid, adore, worship’ ‘appeal, contest’ ‘treat as unclean, leave uncircumcised, cast away as profane, count as forbidden’ ‘be poisoned’ ‘ﬂee, escape, desert (esp. from army)’ ‘arrange, array, draw up, put (set) in order, lay (a table), prepare; organize, hold; muster, marshal (troops); edit; roll (dough); compare; be equal (comparable) to’ ‘long (pant) for, yearn, languish’ ‘make beds, divide into (ﬂower) beds’ ‘lay bare, uncover, expose, strip, denude; empty, infuse, transfuse; pour out, decant; raze, destroy, demolish, spill’ ‘stick, attach, join, be stuck, attached, joined; be deeply rooted in’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /ʕ-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (a) the “diminishing/decreasing”, or “the closing of borders”, or “the division/separation of a whole into its component parts”: (14) /ʕ-r-ts/ ‘terrify, frighten, intimidate; destroy; fear, be afraid, adore, worship’, (15) /ʕ-r-r/ ‘appeal, contest’ [close borders] (b) the “enlarging/increasing”, or “the opening of borders”, or “the extension of the boundaries of a whole”: (18) /ʕ-r-q/ ‘ﬂee, escape, desert (esp. from army)’ (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /ʕ-r-m1/ ‘heap, pile, amass, stack, accumulate’ [modiﬁcation of internal structure], (2) /ʕ-r-m2/ ‘be cunning, crafty, shrewd; become wise, acquire knowledge, act prudently; fool, act cunningly, shrewdly, astutely, deceit-

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

fully; intrigue, make wise, impart knowledge’ [internal modiﬁcation/opening of boundaries], (3) /ʕ-r-m3/ ‘denude, uncover lay bare’ [internal modiﬁcation], (4) /ʕ-r-f1/ ‘break the neck, decapitate, behead, guillotine; demolish, destroy’ [closing of boundaries], (5) /ʕ-r-f2/ ‘drip, shower, drop down’ [opening of boundaries], (6) /ʕ-rv1/ ‘be dark, grow dark, become evening, be obscured (dusky), become gloomy’, (7) /ʕ-r-v2/ ‘guarantee, stand surety, go bail for, be responsible, vouch for; pawn, pledge’, (8) /ʕ-r-v3/ ‘mix, confuse, intermingle, assimilate, interfere, meddle’, (9) /ʕ-r-v4/ ‘be agreeable, pleasant, sweet’ [internal modiﬁcation/closure of borders], (10) /ʕ-r-d1/ ‘expel, drive out, stir up’ [opening of borders], (11) /ʕ-r-d2/ ‘crumble’ [closing of borders], (12) /ʕ-r-s1/ ‘trail (branches of vine), intertwine, braid, form an arbour (trellis; pergola)’, (13) /ʕ-r-s2/ ‘roll (dough), mix dough’ [internal modiﬁcation], (16) /ʕ-r-l1/ ‘treat as unclean, leave uncircumcised, cast away as profane, count as forbidden’, (17) /ʕ-r-l2/ ‘be poisoned’ [internal modiﬁcation/ opening/closing of borders], (19) /ʕ-rx/ ‘arrange, array, draw up, put (set) in order, lay (a table), prepare; organize, hold; muster, marshal (troops); edit; roll (dough); compare; be equal (comparable) to’ [internal modiﬁcation/closure of borders], (20) /ʕ-r-g1/ ‘long (pant) for, yearn, languish’ [internal modiﬁcation], (21) /ʕ-r-g2/ ‘make beds, divide into (ﬂower) beds’ [internal modiﬁcation/closing of borders], (22) /ʕ-r-h1/ ‘lay bare, uncover, expose, strip, denude; empty, infuse, transfuse; pour out, decant; raze, destroy, demolish, spill’ [closing/opening of borders], (23) /ʕ-r-h2/ ‘stick, attach, join, be stuck, attached, joined; be deeply rooted in’ [internal modiﬁcation of structure].10

4.6 Laryngeal /C-r-C/ roots 4.6.1 /ʔ-r-C/ roots

There are twelve single roots or so-called homonymous roots of the /ʔ-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9)

/ʔ-r-v/ /ʔ-r-d/ /ʔ-r-s1/ /ʔ-r-s2/ /ʔ-r-z/ /ʔ-r-r/ /ʔ-r-q/ /ʔ-r-g/ /ʔ-r-x/

(10) /ʔ-r-ħ/ (11) /ʔ-r-ʕ/ (12) /ʔ-r-h/

‘lie in wait, lurk, ambush, waylay’ ‘bronze’ ‘be a tenant; lease’ ‘be betrothed, be engaged (aﬃanced) to’ ‘pack, tie’ ‘curse’ ‘earth, ground, be earthed, grounded’ ‘weave, be woven’ ‘be long, continue, last, endure, be protracted, extend, stretch, prolong’ ‘travel, wander, join the group, accommodate, entertain’ ‘happen, occur, take place, befall’ ‘pick, pluck, gather’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /ʔ-r-C/ roots according to the

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previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /ʔ-r-v/ ‘lie in wait, lurk, ambush, waylay’ [internal modiﬁcation/closure of boundaries], (2) /ʔ-r-d/ ‘bronze’, (3) /ʔ-r-s1/ ‘be a tenant; lease’, (4) /ʔ-r-s2/ ‘be betrothed, be engaged (aﬃanced) to’, (5) /ʔ-r-z/ ‘pack, tie’ [internal change in structure/ closure of borders], (6) /ʔ-r-r/ ‘curse’, (7) /ʔ-r-q/ ‘earth, ground, be earthed, grounded’, (8) /ʔ-r-g/ ‘weave, be woven’ [internal change in structure/closure of borders], (10) /ʔ-r-ħ/ ‘travel, wander, join the group, accommodate, entertain’ [opening of borders/ internal modiﬁcation], (11) /ħ-r-ʕ/ ‘happen, occur, take place, befall’ [opening/closing of borders/internal modiﬁcation].

4.6.2 /h-r-C/ roots

There are four single roots of the /h-r-C/ pattern: (1) (2) (3) (4)

/h-r-g/ /h-r-s/ /h-r-r/ /h-r-h/

‘kill, destroy, slay, murder’ ‘destroy, ruin, demolish, pull down; dare to be destroyed, ruined’ ‘rise like a mountain’ ‘conceive, be pregnant’

The semantic ﬁeld of “A Change In Structure” is reﬂected directly or indirectly, (i.e. literally, or ﬁguratively, or metaphorically) in all the /h-r-C/ roots according to the previously mentioned polaric processes as they function in speciﬁc contexts found in the universal spatio-temporal-existential as follows: (c) “A Change in Structure” that includes either or both the antonymous or antithetical meanings of these polaric processes and/or (d) “a modiﬁcation of the size, shape or proportions of a whole” either in a single root or in a set of so-called homonymous roots: (1) /h-r-g/ ‘kill, destroy, slay, murder’, (2) /h-r-s/ ‘destroy, ruin, demolish, pull down; dare to be destroyed, ruined’ [closing of borders/internal modiﬁcation], (3) /h-r-r/ ‘rise like a mountain’, (4) /h-r-h/ ‘conceive, be pregnant’ [internal change in structure].11

5. Summary and conclusions The general semantic ﬁeld of “A Change in Structure” can be further divided into various related contextual sub-ﬁelds in the following descending order of the approximate number of /C-r-C/ roots they contain: Physical Changes (40), Extensions (general) (40), Extensions over Territory (20), Divisions (30), Border Changes (18), Heat Changes (12), Surface Changes (12), Mental State Changes (12), Connections (12), Control (10), Food/Health (8) Covering (7), Cloth (7) Collecting (3).

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/

This study represents only a very ﬁrst tenuous step in exploring the hypothesis that there may be a functional, isomorphic and synergetic connection between the phonology of the /C–C–C/ root system and the semantic ﬁelds to which they may be interrelated and connected in the formation of the basic Hebrew lexicon. There may very well be additional generalizations connecting certain initial C-I and ﬁnal C-III root consonants (pharyngeals, laryngeals, or other active articulators and/or stops, fricatives, aﬀricates or other manners of articulation) with certain semantic ﬁelds for the present data. There may also be an iconic connection between the trilled/vibrant/mobile /r/ phoneme and the semantic ﬁeld of “A Change in Structure”. Other phonological classes of C–C–C roots such as /C-l-C/ which is a continuant/stable phoneme should also be explored to further investigate this possible iconic connection with their semantic ﬁeld: “A Process Leading to a Permanent/Stable Change”. I have limited this exploratory study to tricononsonantal C–C–C roots and additional studies may include biconsonantal C–C or larger C–C–C–C roots as well. It is my hope that this and future studies will support the hypothesis that although the signals and meanings of individual linguistic signs may be fundamentally arbitrary, there may be systematic and synergetic communication- and humanoriented forces connecting signals and meanings in a non-arbitrary way to make their classiﬁcation more economical and motivated.

Notes * The title of this chapter is a variation of the name of the volume I co-edited with Ellen Contini-Morava: Between Grammar and Lexicon (Contini-Morava and Tobin 2000) focusing on the close interaction between grammar and lexicon. Much of the data was collected for a seminar in Language and Communication at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev by my student Iris Einhorn. The idea of postulating a functional connection between phonologically related triconsonantal (CCC) roots and semantically related lexical systems underlying this chapter was inspired by the work of my late friend and colleague, Sàndor G. J. Hervey of the University of Saint Andrews, semiotician and linguist par excellence, whose “semiotic perspectives” include the notions of “economy and motivation in semiotic systems” as well as “mnemonic-classiﬁcatory economy” (Hervey 1982, 1985, 1988). I would like to dedicate this chapter to his memory. 1. I am presenting an (oversimpliﬁed) panchronic view of Hebrew phonetics and phonology whereby certain unavoidable diachronic, orthographic and dialectal inconsistencies are present. These include the biblical occlusive-spirant allophonic (today basically phonemic) alternations [p-f, b-v, k-x] (which have also been partially maintained in Israeli Hebrew), which I will transcribe as six separate phonemes, as well as the similar [g–ɣ, d–ð, t–θ ] alternations which have been lost and will be transcribed as stop phonemes only. Orthographically, each pair is represented by a single letter in the Hebrew consonantal syllabary writing system. I will also maintain the pharyngeal consonants het /ħ/, ayin /ʕ/ and the glottal stop aleph /ʔ/, which do not necessarily appear in Israeli Hebrew, and the (lip + posterodorsal) or (postero-dorsal + uvula) phonemes /w, q/, even though /w/ has been replaced by /v/ and /k/ and /q/ have merged into /k/. I transcribe emphatic ‘tet’ and non-emphatic ‘taf’

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Yishai Tobin as /t’-t/, and ‘samekh’ and ‘sin’ are represented as /s, S/ respectively and ‘ʃin is transcribed as /ʃ /. It also should be noted that I have viewed the historical (and Oriental or Sephardic) Hebrew /r/ phoneme as an apical trill although in Israeli Hebrew it usually is pronounced as a voiced posterodorsal fricative /ɣ/. I also feel that there may be an iconic connection between the trilled/vibrant/mobile /r/ phoneme and the concept of “A Change in Structure” and it may very well be possible that stable phonemes such as /l/ may be related to diﬀerent semantic ﬁelds in an iconic way as well. 2. The central role of the C–C–C root in the structure of, and in the process of word formation in the Hebrew language, is a well-known and recognized phenomenon (e.g. Berman 1987, Ephratt 1997, Ravid 1995, Rosén 1977). Linguists and psycholinguists diﬀer regarding the “mental representation” they postulate for roots versus words and the role they play in the acquisition, perception, and productivity of the Hebrew lexicon (e.g. Aronoﬀ 1976, Bat-El 1994, Bolozkoy 1978, 1999, Feldman et al 1995, Frost et al 1997, 2000, Schwarzwald 1984, Shimron (2003), Walden 1982). Although I am limiting this study to C–C–C roots it may be possible to explore this phenomenon in biconsonantal C–C or quadriconsonantal C–C–C–C roots as well. 3. The theory of Phonology as Human Behavior was developed by William Diver (1979) in an analysis of the non-random distribution of certain classes of initial consonant clusters in English which he later expanded to explain the non-random combinations of vowels and consonants in English and in language in general (Diver 1995). The theory has been extended further to explain the combinatory phonology of consonant and vowel phonemes in other languages such as Italian (1987), Hebrew (Tobin 1990b,c), Urdu (Aronoﬀ 2002, Hameed (this volume), Jabeen 1993), Mewati (Fatihi 1987) and Spanish (Flores 1997). The theory has also been employed to explain the non-random distribution of initial consonant clusters in forty-two diﬀerent languages representing diverse language families (Tobin 2002a), phonological reduplication in Hebrew roots, applied to the areas of developmental and clinical phonology and prosody in Finnish (Moore 1991a, b, 1993, Moore and Korpijaakko-Huuhka 1996, Moore and Rosenberg-Wolf 1998), Japanese (Tobin and Mikado 2001), and Hebrew, and compared and contrasted to other functional and quantitative oriented phonological theories (Tobin 1988b, 1995, 1997a, b, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002b). 4. I will not deal with the issue of whether these additional and separate dictionary entries actually represent the same sign or “legitimate” homonyms here. I will only hypothesize if they are suitable for the semantic ﬁeld of “A Change in Structure” postulated for the (C-r-C) root system. 5. From the point of view of the theory of Phonology as Human Behavior the number of roots in the sets of bilabial /C–C–C/ root patterns is directly proportionate with the eﬀort needed to produce them: /p/ which requires the control of only one set of articulators has the most roots (31) followed by /b/ (17) which requires the control of two sets of articulators, followed by /m/ (14) and /w/ (1) which require the control of three sets of articulators. 6. From the point of view of the theory of Phonology as Human Behavior the number of roots in the sets of mobile apical stop /C–C–C/ root patterns is directly proportionate with the eﬀort needed to produce them: /t/ which requires the control of only one set of articulators has the most roots (10) followed by /t’/ (7) and /d/ (6) which require the control of two sets of articulators. There are no nasal apical C-r-C/ which require the control of three sets of articulators. In Israeli Hebrew both /t/ and the historical ejective /t’/ have merged to nonejective /t/ even further supporting the theory.

Hebrew triconsonantal roots revolving around /r/ 7. From the point of view of the theory of Phonology as Human Behavior the number of roots in the sets of stable apical fricatives and the sole voiceless apical aﬀricate in the /C–C– C/ root patterns is directly proportionate with the eﬀort needed to produce them: /s/ (11) and /S/ (11) which require the control of only one set of articulators have the most roots (22) while the less favored voiced /z/ which requires the control of two sets of articulators and the disfavored aﬀricate /ts/ each have 11 instances respectively. 8. From the point of view of the theory of Phonology as Human Behavior the number of roots in the sets of the anterodorsal stable voiceless fricative and the sole voiced anterodorsal glide in the /C–C–C/ root patterns is directly proportionate with the eﬀort needed to produce them: /ʃ / (11) which requires the control of only one set of articulators is slightly favored (11) while the less favored voiced glide /j/ which requires the control of two sets of articulators but is easier to make has 10 instances. 9. From the point of view of the theory of Phonology as Human Behavior the number of roots in the sets of the posterodorsal mobile voiceless stops and the sole voiced posterodorsal mobile stop in the /C–C–C/ root patterns is directly proportionate with the eﬀort needed to produce them: /k/ (11) and /q/ (21) which require the control of only one set of articulators are favored (32) over the voiced stop /g/ which requires the control of two sets of articulators and has 17 instances. In Israeli Hebrew both /