Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition (Language Learning & Language Teaching, 8)

Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition

Language Learning and Language Teaching The LL< monograph series publishes monographs as well as edited volumes on applied and methodological issues in the field of language pedagogy. The focus of the series is on subjects such as classroom discourse and interaction; language diversity in educational settings; bilingual education; language testing and language assessment; teaching methods and teaching performance; learning trajectories in second language acquisition; and written language learning in educational settings.

Series editors Birgit Harley Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, University of Toronto

Jan H. Hulstijn Department of Second Language Acquisition, University of Amsterdam

Volume 8 Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition by Geoff Jordan

Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition

Geoff Jordan

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam
/
Philadelphia

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TM

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 Jordan, Geoff Theory construction in second language acquisition / Geoff Jordan. p. cm. (Language Learning and Language Teaching, issn 1569–9471 ; v. 8) Includes bibliographical references and indexes. 1.Second language acquisition--Philosophy P118.2 J67 2004 418-dc21 isbn 90 272 1705 X (Eur.) / 1 58811 481 3 (US) (Hb; alk. paper) isbn 90 272 1706 8 (Eur.) / 1 58811 482 1 (US) (Pb; alk. paper)

2003070868

© 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

To Judy

Table of contents

Acknowledgements Abstract The Guidelines (Abridged) Part 1 Some fundamental issues concerning the construction and assessment of theories of SLA Chapter 1 Key terms and current problems in SLA 1.1 SLA Theory: Key terms5 1.1.1 Phenomena5 1.1.2 Language5 1.1.2.1 Chomsky’s Linguistic Competence6 1.1.2.2 Halliday: “Language as social semiotic”6 1.1.2.3 Bachman’s Communicative Language Ability Framework7 1.1.3 Acquisition10 1.1.4 Explanation11 1.2 Problems confronting current theories of SLA12 1.2.1 Proliferation12 1.2.2 Objectives14 1.2.3 The domain of SLA15 1.2.4 Contradictions16 1.3 Conclusion17

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Chapter 2 Research methodology: Rationalism and its critics 2.1 Introduction19 2.2 Rationalists and Empiricists19 2.3 Positivists27 2.4 Popper29 2.5 Problems with the Falsifiability Criterion33 2.6 Kuhn37 2.7 Feyerabend40 2.8 Lakatos41 2.9 Laudan43 2.10 Conclusion46 Chapter 3 Recent relativists 3.1 Introduction51 3.2 The sociology of science51 3.3 Postmodernism54 3.3.1 Derrida57 3.3.2 Foucault61 3.3.3 Conclusion63 3.4 Constructivism64 Chapter 4 In defence of rationalism 4.1 Introduction69 4.2 Against relativism69 4.2.1 There is no one “scientific method”69 4.2.2 Underdetermination71 4.2.3 Kuhn and Feyerabend72 4.2.4 Postmodernists and constructivists77 4.3 The rationalist case81 4.3.1 Critical rationalism82 4.3.2 Observing a real world83 4.3.3 The practice of science84

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Chapter 5 The construction and assessment of theories of SLA 5.1 Science and SLA87 5.2 Phenomena and data90 5.3 Explanation91 5.4 Theory assessment95 5.5 Four views on constructing and assessing theories of SLA97 5.5.1 The relativist approach97 5.5.1.1 Discussion99 5.5.2 Strictly science101 5.5.2.1 Discussion107 5.5.3 Theory types and theory assessment110 5.5.4 General rational requirements for a theory of SLA112 5.6 Guidelines for a critical rationalist approach towards theory construction in SLA114 5.6.1 Preamble114 5.6.2 The guidelines115 5.7 Conclusion118 Part 2 A critical rationalist review of some hypotheses, models and theories of SLA Chapter 6 Chomsky 6.1 Introduction123 6.2 Chomsky’s Generative Grammar123 6.3 Chomsky’s theory of UG: Principles and parameters128 6.4 The Minimalist Program133 6.5 Internalism137 6.6 UG remains the relevant theory138 6.7 Chomsky’s critics139 6.7.1 Jean Piaget140 6.7.2 Geoffrey Sampson141 6.7.3 Elizabeth Bates147 6.8 Conclusion149

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Chapter 7 The role of UG in an explanation of SLA 7.1 Introduction151 7.2 Evaluating UG151 7.3 UG and SLA156 7.4 Discussion158

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Chapter 8 Approaches to SLA that offend the guidelines 167 8.1 Introduction167 8.2 Contrastive analysis168 8.2.1 Discussion170 8.3 The ethnography of communication, and hermeneutic research172 8.3.1 Discussion176 8.4 Krashen’s 5 hypotheses: The Monitor Model178 8.4.1 Discussion180 8.5 Variable competence models183 8.5.1 Tarone183 8.5.2 Ellis184 8.5.3 Discussion184 8.6 The acculturalisation/pidginisation approach188 8.6.1 Discussion190 8.7 Theories of aptitude and motivation191 8.7.1 Aptitude192 8.7.1.1 Discussion193 8.7.2 Motivation and attitude197 8.7.2.1 Discussion200 Chapter 9 Signs of progress 9.1 Introduction203 9.2 Error analysis204 9.2.1 Discussion205 9.3 The morpheme order studies205 9.3.1 Discussion206 9.4 Other early staged development studies207 9.4.1 Discussion207

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9.5 Processing approaches: Introductory remarks209 9.5.1 McLaughlin: Automaticity and restructuring210 9.5.1.1 Discussion211 9.5.2 Schmidt: Noticing213 9.5.2.1 Discussion216 9.5.3 Long’s Interaction Hypothesis219 9.5.3.1 Discussion220 9.5.4 Pienemann’s Processability Theory221 9.5.4.1 Discussion225 9.6 Towell and Hawkins’ Model of SLA227 9.6.1 Discussion232 9.7 The Competition Model235 9.7.1 Discussion239 9.8 Emergentism243 9.8.1 Discussion246 Chapter 10 Explaining SLA 10.1 Introduction251 10.2 The domain of theories of SLA252 10.3 Theories of SLA260 10.4 Conclusion265

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Bibliography

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Name index

287

Subject index

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Acknowledgements

First and foremost, thanks to Mike Long for all his encouragement and help. I am also very grateful to Kevin Gregg, Guy Cook and Gerry Sweeney, to my habitual sparring partners Mick Carter, Conny O’Grady, and David Beavers, and to my editors Kees Vaes, Jan Hulstijn, Birgit Harley and Lisl Haldenwang. Thanks to everybody for their good-humour and patience in dealing with the awful vagaries of my writing.

Abstract

Whereas ten years ago most SLA researchers assumed a rationalist, even “scientific”, approach to theory construction, recently, growing numbers in the ranks have adopted relativist positions that strongly criticise the methods and authority of the rationalist/empiricist paradigm. Apart from the fundamental problem of research methodology, other problems make progress in the construction of a theory of SLA difficult: the proliferation of theories, contradictions among theories, and, most important of all, confusion about the domain and objectives of a theory of SLA. This book addresses the problems outlined above by returning to first principles and asking what it is that we can know about the world, whether there is any such thing as reliable knowledge, what is special about scientific methodology, and what the best way of tackling the complex task of explaining SLA might be. While previous surveys of SLA research exist, no previous attempt has been made to examine SLA research in terms of its epistemological underpinnings and its relation to scientific method, or to evaluate different research programmes and putative theories in terms of how they form part of, and contribute towards, a rational explanation of the phenomena of SLA. Having outlined basic terms and the main problems to be dealt with, I give a brief history of scientific method and explain the objections to a rationalist methodology that various relativists have raised. I then attempt to defend rationality against relativists’ attacks and suggest criteria that can guide a rationalist research programme in SLA. The questions of the domain of SLA theories, what counts as an explanation, and different theory types are examined. Having suggested guidelines for a rationalist approach to SLA theory construction, I examine different approaches to SLA in the history of SLA, assessing them in terms of the guidelines. Finally I suggest what the domain of a theory of SLA should be and discuss to what extent theories to date offer a satisfactory explanation of the phenomena within that domain.

Part 1

Some fundamental issues concerning the construction and assessment of theories of SLA

Introduction There is a “Science and Culture War” currently raging in academia, and it has spilled over into the field of Second Language Acquisition (SLA). When TESOL Quarterly devoted a special issue to research methods in SLA in 1990, and when Applied Linguistics followed with a special issue on theory construction in SLA in 1993, almost all of the articles in both journals assumed a rationalist approach to theory construction, based on logical reasoning and empirical research. But subsequently, and increasingly in the past few years, a growing number of researchers in SLA have adopted relativist positions of one sort or another, most frequently following the constructivist position of Lincoln (1990) and Guba (1990), or sometimes appealing directly to the work of such postmodernists as Derrida (1973, 1976) and Foucault (1980). Whatever their inspiration, what unites the rebels is their rejection of the methods, assumptions, and authority of the rationalist/empiricist approach to research and theory construction. Schumann (1983), and Candlin (1983) were early protesters. Widdowson (1992), while certainly not adopting a constructivist view, gave voice to a growing feeling among SLA researchers that a dominant, even bullying, group had somehow hijacked the SLA agenda. Widdowson chided those professing to use a rationalist, deductive research methodology for imposing their methods on others and being insensitive to “the possible validity of home-grown ways of thinking”. Markee (1994) joined the protesters and complained that “nomothetic” science, which “assumes a single, discoverable reality” and focuses on “explanation”, had established a stranglehold on SLA research. Markee suggested that this smothering nomothetic scientific approach should be replaced with “hermeneutic” science, which assumes that “multiple realities exist”, and which focuses on “understanding”.

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The grumbling soon turned to outright revolt. In a special edition of TESOL Quarterly in 1996 devoted to ethnographic, subjective research in SLA, the contributors argued for a position totally opposed to the rationalists, and presented research papers that struck the rationalists they were attacking as being almost incomprehensible. In Applied Linguistics, Block (1996) wrote a critique of the papers by Long, Beretta, Gregg, Crookes, and others which had appeared in a special issue of Applied Linguistics devoted to theory construction in SLA (1993), suggesting that they were guilty of “science envy”, that there was no need to recognise accepted findings, no need for replication studies, and an urgent need for SLA researchers to throw off the oppressively restricting constraints of the “scientific” approach, recommended by Long and others, so as to embrace a more relativist approach. Perhaps the most fully-developed relativist methodology is to be found in Lantolf ’s paper, suitably titled “Letting all the flowers bloom!” which offers “a postmodernist critical analysis of the SLA theory-building literature” as primarily represented in the writings of Beretta, Crookes, Eubank, Gregg, Long and to some extent Schumann. Lantolf argues that theories are metaphors and should be appreciated in more or less the same way as we appreciate pictures in an art gallery. As for scientific method, Lantolf has this to say: The greater the acceptance of and acquiescence to standard scientific language within a discipline, the greater the chances that the productivity of the scientific endeavour will diminish. (Lantolf, 1996a: 756)

Those in the rationalist camp were not slow to respond. Gregg, Long, Jordan and Beretta (1997), in a reply to Block, claimed that Block had demonstrated a striking ignorance of scientific practice, mischaracterised the role of evidence in scientific research, misread Kuhn, misunderstood theory assessment, and offered no support whatsoever for the relativistic SLA research programme he recommended. Long, in a reply to a paper by Firth and Wagner (1997), dismissed the paper as containing little more than strawman arguments, arguments by assertion, rather sweeping claims about the state of the field based on very limited data, and an unfortunate, irrelevant endorsement of Block’s confusions about philosophy of science issues. (Long, 1997a: 322)

Gregg, in his reply to the Lantolf “Letting all the flowers bloom!” (1996a) paper mentioned above, concludes (the conclusion is headed “Get real”) that Lantolf wants to replace scientific research in SLA with “a kaffeklatsch of solipsists who

Some fundamental issues concerning the construction and assessment of theories of SLA

do nothing but chat — or rather discourse — without actually doing anything” (Gregg, 2000: 6). There is obviously a problem here, and it is not, I suggest, simply a question of extremists at either ends of the spectrum screaming at each other in mutually exclusive terms, while the great majority get on with things. There are of course extremists at both ends, but there are also those with more moderate opinions who tend towards one position or another, and yet others who are not very clear about the issues involved. I suggest that the “realist/relativist” dispute is just the latest and most dramatic symptom of a long-standing problem among those in the SLA academic community: there is no consensus on the fundamental issues of what needs to be explained, what counts as an explanation, and what criteria should be used to assess different theories of SLA. To put it another way, there is not just a lot of disagreement among SLA academics, there is also confusion and misunderstanding about the underlying principles on which any research programme rests: how do we best construct a theory, and how do we go about the task of judging among rival theories of the same phenomena? In short, while Gregg and Lantolf may be seen as extremists arguing at opposite poles, the arguments between them raise important epistemological and methodological questions which need to be untangled and clarified. In an attempt to deal with these issues, I propose to go back to first principles and ask what it is that we can know about the world, whether or not there is any such thing as reliable knowledge, what if anything is special about scientific methodology, how researchers go about constructing theories, whether there is any optimum way of approaching the task of theory construction, and what the best way of tackling the complex task of explaining SLA might be. While there have been a number of surveys of SLA theories (Long, 1999, Mitchell and Myles, 1998, Ellis, 1994, Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991), I am not aware of any large scale attempt to examine SLA research and theories of SLA in terms of its epistemological underpinnings, and to then evaluate different research programmes and putative theories in terms of how they might form part of, and contribute towards, a rational theory of SLA which avoids the excesses of radical relativism and the restrictions of over-demanding “scientific” approaches. That is the aim of this book.

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Chapter 1

Key terms and current problems in SLA

1.1 SLA Theory: Key terms SLA theory attempts to explain the phenomena involved when a person acquires a second language. We observe that people whose native language is X acquire a second language Y: How do they do it? The point of this over-simplified description is to emphasise that any theory is an attempt to explain phenomena, and to highlight three key terms: phenomena, language, and explanation. 1.1.1

Phenomena

The term phenomena refers to things that we isolate, define, and then attempt to explain. Examples of phenomena are volcanoes, tides, genes, hallucinations, warts, steam, the second world war, car rage, the beginning of the universe. We should note immediately that phenomena are not always directly observable: genes and hallucinations are two examples from the foregoing list, the fundamental particles of physics and the force of gravity in Newtonian physics are two more. The distinction between phenomena and empirical data, the latter being by definition observable, is an important one for this book. 1.1.2 Language In SLA the phenomenon which interests us is people being able to speak languages other than their own native language/s. How one describes that phenomenon is crucial to the subsequent investigation. Those taking a Universal Grammar (UG) approach to SLA, for example, say that the phenomenon to be explained is a certain type of knowledge, namely linguistic competence, and their research consequently involves describing this knowledge and explaining how it is acquired. There are others in the field of SLA, however, who wish to take a much broader view of SLA, who wish to investigate “communicative competence”, and language use. As a result, a wider range of phenomena need to be explained

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by appeal to individual differences among learners, social and cultural factors, and so on. Let us look very briefly at three different approaches to language. 1.1.2.1Chomsky’s Linguistic Competence The distinction between performance and competence is most closely associated with Chomsky’s work on the universal features of language that Chomsky claims are shared by all languages. Chomsky argues that we need to distinguish between people’s language performance, what they say at any given moment (which may be influenced and explained by an enormous number of factors), and their competence, what they know about language. Chomsky concentrates exclusively on linguistic competence, which, in Bachman´s model (see below), is just one part of one component. We will examine Chomsky’s arguments, and their relevance to SLA, in some detail later, so suffice it to say for now that Chomsky’s approach to language assumes that language is a restricted psychological phenomenon. Chomsky takes language to be a complex, abstract system of rules, and Chomsky supposes that the job of a theory of language acquisition is to describe that system of knowledge and to explain how it is acquired. The question of language use, of what Chomsky has referred to as “the creative aspect of language… the ability of normal persons to produce speech that is appropriate to situations, though perhaps quite novel, and to understand when others do so” (Chomsky, 1980), lies completely outside the domain of Chomskian linguistics. To Chomsky, this question, and many others included in the Bachman model, are “mysteries” which simply lie beyond the reach of our minds, structured and organised as they are, either absolutely beyond those limits, or at so far a remove from anything we can comprehend with requisite facility that they will never be incorporated within explanatory theories intelligible to humans. (Chomsky, 1980: 136)

The issue of what sort of knowledge and abilities are involved in SLA, and the extent to which they can be adequately described and explained, is one of the most vexed issues in SLA research and theory construction. 1.1.2.2Halliday: “Language as social semiotic” While Chomsky’s UG approach sees language as a purely cognitive phenomenon, Halliday (1973, 1985) proposed a “systemic, functional” view of language which sees it in terms of the social functions it serves. According to Halliday, language is a systematic resource for expressing meaning in context, not the set of all possible grammatical sentences. Consequently, language should be

Key terms and current problems in SLA

analysed in terms of the ways language users go about the task of “the realisation of meaning in context”. As Widdowson says, “the emphasis here is on language not as genetic endowment, but as generic accomplishment” (Widdowson, 1996: 14). Halliday takes a functional, semantic view of language as opposed to the formal, syntactic view of Chomsky and others. He sees the text, rather than the sentence, as the object of language, and he defines its scope by reference to usage rather than grammaticality. As a consequence of his approach, Halliday explains language as developing according to the changing needs of human communities. The two main functions that language performs are what Halliday calls the “ideational function”, which allows people to deal with the external world, and “the interpersonal function”, which allows people to deal with each other. These two functions can be said to underlie all languages, and to afford a way of describing universal features of language in a systematic way which differs radically from Chomsky’s. Halliday makes it clear that language can be seen as both abstract knowledge and as human behaviour. 1.1.2.3Bachman’s Communicative Language Ability Framework Bachman (1990) provides a framework for Communicative Language Ability (CLA) which builds on the work of Hymes (1972), Canale and Swain (1980), and Widdowson (1989). The framework includes three components: – –

–

language competence: “a set of specific knowledge components that are utilised in communication via language” (Bachman, 1990: 66). strategic competence: “the mental capacity for implementing the components of language competence in contextualised communicative language use” (Bachman, 1990: 67). psychophysiological mechanisms: “the neurological and psychological processes involved in the actual execution of language as a physical phenomenon” (Bachman, 1990: 67).

The interaction of these components of CLA with the language use context and the language user’s general knowledge of the world is illustrated in Figure 1. Bachman divides language competence into the components in Figure 2. Bachman insists that the tree diagram is intended as a visual metaphor, not as a theoretical model; it represents the hierarchical relationships among the components at the expense of making them appear as if they are separate and independent of each other. However, in language use these components all interact with each other and with features of the language use situation. (Bachman, 1990: 86)

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KNOWLEDGE STRUCTURES Knowledge of the world

LANGUAGE COMPETENCE Knowledge of language

STRATEGIC COMPETENCE

PSYCHOPHYSIOLOGICAL MECHANISMS

CONTEXT OF SITUATION

Figure 1.Components of communicative language ability in communicative language use. From Bachman 1990: 41. Language Competence Organizational Competence Grammatical Competence

Textual Competence

Pragmatic Competence Illocutionary Competence

Sociolinguistic Competence

Figure 2.Components of language competence. Adapted from Bachman 1990: 67.

A brief description of the main components of Bachman’s model follows. Language Competence is composed of two components: Organisational Competence, divided into a. Grammatical competence: knowledge of vocabulary, morphology, syntax, and phonology/graphology. b. Textual competence: “includes the knowledge of the conventions for joining utterances together to form a text, which is essentially a unit of language — spoken or written — consisting of two or more utterances or

Key terms and current problems in SLA

sentences that are structured according to rules of cohesion and rhetorical organisation” (Bachman, 1990: 88). Pragmatic competence, which deals with the speaker’s or writer’s ability to achieve his purpose through his utterances. It consists of a. Illocutionary competence: the ability to express and interpret the function performed in saying something. For example, the statement “It’s cold in here” may function as an assertion, a warning, or a request to turn the heater on. The theory of speech acts makes a distinction between an utterance act (just saying something), a propositional act (referring to something), and an illocutionary act. The meaning of an utterance can thus be described in terms of its propositional content and its illocutionary force. b. Sociolinguistic competence: sensitivity to, or control of, the conventions of language use that are determined by the features of the specific language use context; it enables us to perform language functions in ways that are appropriate to that context. Strategic competence consists of three components: a. Assessment component: enables us to identify the information needed for a communicative goal, decide what resources to use, evaluate our interlocutor, and evaluate the outcome. b. Planning component: enables us to marshal the necessary items from language competence. c. Execution component: draws on the relevant psychophysiological mechanisms to implement the plan. Bachman’s objective in identifying the various types of competencies outlined here is to construct adequate tests of L2 learners’ proficiency; his re-organising and re-defining of the terms used previously by Hymes, Canale and Swain, and Widdowson is motivated by a desire to make the terms more testable. Thus, using Bachman’s framework to mark out the domain of a theory of SLA has its problems: measures of performance do not necessarily reflect well-defined competencies. A related issue is the difference between attempts to describe a given type of knowledge, and attempts to explain the process of learning or acquiring that knowledge. Nevertheless, the framework gives some idea of the possible scope of SLA and immediately suggests that very different types of knowledge and abilities are involved. Grammatical competence and sociolinguistic competence are, intentionally no doubt, the furthest apart in Bachman’s diagram, and would seem to need very different types of research, and theory development.

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1.1.3

Acquisition

If breaking down the term “language” into better-defined competencies is an important step towards describing what is acquired in SLA, then similarly, when we ask the question “How is a second language acquired?” we need to take a similarly close look at the process of acquisition. Long gives this description of SLA theory: SLA theory encompasses the simultaneous and sequential acquisition and loss of second, third, fourth, etc. languages and dialects by children and adults learning naturalistically or with the aid of instruction, as individuals or in groups, in second or foreign language settings. (Long, 1993: 225)

While Long’s description helps to give some idea of the breadth of SLA theory, it is useful to break the question of the process of acquisition down, so as to highlight the phenomena that we are interested in. I cite two, by no means definitive, lists. The first, by Towell and Hawkins (1994) identifies five core phenomena for which, they maintain, a theory of SLA must account: 1. Transfer — of grammatical properties from the L1 mental grammar into the mental grammar that learners construct for the L2. 2. Staged Development — L2 learners go through a series of “transitional stages” towards the target language, i.e. from the initial-state grammars that L2 learners construct (often heavily influenced by transfer) they subsequently go through stages of development towards the target language. 3. Systematicity — in the growth of L2 knowledge across learners, i.e. learners from different L1 backgrounds acquiring an L2 under different conditions of exposure — naturalistic versus classroom — often go through the same stages of development. 4. Variability — in learners’ intuitions about, and production of, the L2 at various stages of L2 development. These seem to allow for more than one variant for a given construction where the target language has only one form. 5. Incompleteness — most L2 learners do not achieve native-like competence. This phenomenon is referred to as fossilisation by Selinker (1972) and as incompleteness by Schachter (1990). (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 15) This list has a definite, explicit agenda, which is to argue for the key role played by Chomsky’s theory of UG. Towell and Hawkins argue that any approach to SLA that lacks “a sophisticated theory of the nature of grammatical structure” (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 55) will not be able to offer a satisfactory explanation of these five phenomena. These phenomena would certainly not be the

Key terms and current problems in SLA

(only) ones listed by many working in the field today. Behaviourists, for example, would question the assumption of a developing interlanguage, and even within the “linguistic” camp, there are some researchers, as we shall see, who would not agree with the inclusion of Variability in the list. Mitchell and Myles (1998), in their more general survey of SLA, describe the areas of interest in SLA research slightly differently, and identify four: 1. The role of internal mechanisms a. Language-specific: how similar are 1st. and 2nd language acquisition processes? (Is UG available?) b. Cognitive: is SLA similar to learning any other complex skill? 2. The role of the first language: the phenomenon of transfer. 3. The role of psychological variables: how do individual characteristics of the learner affect the learning process? 4. The role of social and environmental factors. (Mitchell and Myles, 1998:40) 1.1.4 Explanation Having introduced the issues of what language might consist of, and the types of phenomena that might interest SLA researchers, we come to the term “explanation”. An explanation is generally taken to be an answer to a “Why” or “How” question about phenomena; it involves causation or a causal mechanism. Why do most L2 learners not achieve native-like competence? How do L2 learners go through stages of development? Explanation is said to be the purpose of a theory, and one of the most important criteria for judging theories is their explanatory power. We will need to examine what is involved in an adequate explanation later, but for the moment we can note that the best theories are the ones that provide the most generally applicable explanations: if we could construct a theory of SLA that explained the way in which anybody, anywhere, at any time learned a second language, and if that theory did not clash with the facts, we would have a very strong theory indeed. It seems, then, that all we have to do is define the phenomena we want to explain, ask relevant questions, and then set about the search for the answers. While this may appear to be a straightforward task, and while it is all too frequent for researchers in this, as in other fields, to complicate the issues unnecessarily, the attempts to explain the phenomena of SLA have so far produced no satisfactory answer, i.e. there is no theory that covers all the phenomena, that fits the facts, and that is accepted by a majority of those working in the field.

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1.2 Problems confronting current theories of SLA 1.2.1 Proliferation In order to construct a theory of SLA that the majority of those working in the field agree on, there needs to be agreement on what phenomena are to be explained and what counts as an explanation. No such agreement exists. There is fundamental disagreement on both of these issues, and, as a consequence, SLA research is conducted under the “umbrella” of a wide range of theories. Long (1993) estimates that “there are between 40 and 60 theories of SLA”, and he goes on to give an outline of the diversity. He notes that the two main forms these theories take are “causal-process” (e.g., Gardner, 1985) and “set-of-laws” (e.g., Spolsky, 1989), and that there are three basic types: nativist, both specific (e.g., White, 1989) and general (e.g., Wolfe-Quintero, 1992), environmentalist (e.g., Schumann, 1986), and interactionist (e.g., Pienemann and Johnston, 1987). Long then indicates the variety of sources of SLA theories, and the wideranging, different domains they cover. SLA theories also differ in source drawing upon work in linguistics (Cook 1988), pidgin & Creole studies (Schumann 1978), sociolinguistics (Tarone 1983), psychology (Clahsen 1987), neurolinguistics (Lamendella 1977), cognitive science (Gasser 1990), social psychology (Giles & Byrne 1982), and combinations thereof (Hatch, Flashner & Hunt 1986). They also differ in scope, or the range of data they attempt to explain. Some address naturalistic acquisition only (Schumann 1978), some instructed only (Ellis 1990), some both (Krashen 1985); some children (Wong-Fillmore 1991), some adults (Bley-Vroman 1989), some a specific cognitive capacity, such as metalinguistic awareness (Bialystok 1991); some a specific psychological process, such as transfer (Eckman 1985), restructuring (McLaughlin 1990), or implicit learning (Hulstijn 1989); some a specific linguistic system, such as phonology (Major 1987) or the lexicon (Hudson 1989), some a specific subsystem, such as word order (Meisel, Clahsen, & Pienemann 1981), speech act behaviour (Wolfson 1988), or interrogative structures (Eckman, Moravcsik, & Wirth 1989). (Long 1993: 226–227)

Beretta (1991) makes a similar point by drawing attention to which theories various prominent researchers in the field have focused on: McLaughlin (1987) evaluated five of them; Larsen-Freeman (1983) 4; LarsenFreeman and Long (1991) 5. Ellis (1986) identified seven key areas of SLA research: the acculturation model (Andersen, 1981, 1983; Schumann, 1978,

Key terms and current problems in SLA

1978b), accommodation theory (Giles & Byrne, 1982), discourse theory (Hatch, 1978), the monitor model (Krashen 1982, 1985), the variable competence model (Ellis, 1984; Tarone 1983), universal grammar hypotheses (Flynn 1984; White 1987), a neurofunctional theory (Lamendella, 1977). (Beretta 1991: 452)

The question is: Is such theory proliferation a problem? Since SLA is such a broad field perhaps we need a proliferation of theories to break down the vast areas. The need for some description of language in terms of forms and functions, syntax and grammar, discourse and pragmatics, etc., is a wide enough area in itself, and scope enough for a tremendous variety of approaches. But in order to explain how someone acquires a second language, we need to investigate even further: questions of cognition, of individual will, and of social influences are all relevant. Surely we cannot expect one theory to explain all this to the satisfaction of all. To the extent that the various theories do not overlap, and that they are complementary not oppositional, there should be no problem. Some, like Ellis (1986), Selinker and Lamendella (1978), Schumann (1983), McLaughlin (1987), take this optimistic view, and indeed Ellis, in a complement to his 1986 list (above), later looked at seven different teaching methods, and then outlined a theory of teaching which, in his view, was “consistent with the theoretical positions and research discussed in previous chapters” (Ellis 1990: 174). Others, however, like Long (1993, 1997a, 1998), Gregg (1993, 1997, 2000), Crookes (1992), and Beretta (1991), are convinced that there is a problem, or rather, various problems. The first problem is that of proliferation itself. To date, there is no complete theory of SLA that a majority of researchers in the field accept, or even any group of theories that between them make up some coherent picture. Widdowson (1992) described the current state of applied linguistics as “a patchwork of insights stitched together”, a description that many researchers think applies equally to the field of SLA today. These researchers argue that while much good work has been done in various areas, little progress has been made towards any unified theory, or any coherent group of theories. At the moment, in their opinion, SLA research draws on many methods from many disciplines, but there are contradictions, overlaps, and incommensurable approaches that make progress towards a unified research programme difficult, to say the least. I reject the demand for any unified research programme, and I will pursue this point later. For now, let us examine the obstacles to progress towards a satisfactory theory of SLA.

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Problematic areas which are assumed to present obstacles to progress towards a theory of SLA can be grouped (perhaps “shoe-horned” is a better word, since the grouping is somewhat forced in an attempt to clarify a complex problem) under four main headings: objectives, domain, contradictions within a limited domain, and research methods. 1.2.2 Objectives What should be the objective of a theory of SLA? Two main questions need attention. First, while most academics would agree that the main objective of a theory of SLA should be to explain the phenomena under investigation, the question remains: What counts as an explanation of SLA? This question, already briefly touched on above, permeates any discussion of theory construction; it involves issues such as research methodology, domain, and what might be appropriate questions for SLA researchers to ask. Some researchers, like Tarone and Ellis, regard their work as essentially descriptive: they observe classroom behaviour, for example, and their objective is to find ways of providing an adequate description of what they observe. This essentially inductive approach to research is shared by many researchers in a wide range of fields; its conservative, methodical, painstaking approach is one of the most pervasive in the history of science. The objectives of a theory are seen, from this view, as discovering (uncovering), describing, making sense of the data. A different perspective, that taken in the field of SLA by researchers such as McLaughlin, Eubank, Skehan, Chaudron, and Gass, is that the objective of any theory is to provide a more general causal explanation of the phenomena. From such a perspective, without a causal explanation there is no theory, just (empirical) data and taxonomies. Second, should an SLA theory aim to inform language teaching practice, or ignore such considerations? Again, the question greatly influences the way researchers approach theory construction. While this book is solely concerned with SLA, which is just one part of the broader field of applied linguistics, van Lier’s comment echoes the concerns of many researchers in SLA: The linguistics in AL has veered off in the direction of theory, …leaving pedagogy to cope with the practical side of things. There has occurred a sort of “double split” — linguistics (and SLA) with theory in one direction, and education with practice in another — and this split needs to be resolved before we can once again speak of a healthy AL. (van Lier, 1994: 30)

Key terms and current problems in SLA

There are those who would argue that no such split exists (pointing to Robinson 2001, for example), and on the other hand, many researchers, particularly those working in a UG framework, argue that they have no necessary obligation to look for pedagogical pay-offs, and that their real purpose is to describe and explain certain phenomena. Long’s position seems the most sensible. Long (1998) recognised the social responsibility researchers have to help improve the efficaciousness of classroom teaching and to forge a more liberal language policy, but at the same time defended the right of scholars to pursue “pure” research, where no practical payoff is foreseen. A related issue is to what extent one adopts a “realist” or an “instrumentalist” view of explanations. 1.2.3 The domain of SLA One of the main arguments among SLA researchers concerns what an SLA theory should or should not consist of, i.e. its domain. The choice of different domains reveals fundamental incompatibility. An example is Gregg’s attack (1990) on variable competence models (Tarone, 1988; Ellis, 1989), which Gregg thinks are totally mistaken because they confuse performance and competence, data and the phenomena to be explained. From Gregg’s UG perspective the domain of Tarone’s and Ellis’ models is irrelevant since performance is the data, and cannot possibly form part of the phenomena which a theory of SLA should explain. Another increasingly important disagreement about domain concerns the role of sociolinguistics. Firth and Wagner (1997) have criticised SLA research for “ignoring social context”, and suggest that SLA research should give up its preoccupation with what goes on in the learner’s mind and pay more attention to social factors. Lurking behind this criticism is the related question of research methodology, as we shall see. In fact, questions of the scope of an SLA theory are probably the most central to the research programme. What is the “L” in SLA? What is the competence that we seek to describe or explain? What is the role of UG? What else, apart from grammatical competence, should be included? What is the end state of SLA? What is the process of SLA? Do we need two theories to deal with the “L” and the “A” of SLA? Should an SLA theory attempt some overall explanation of an agreed list of phenomena like, for example, those already referred to, or should it shun the overall theory in favour of some partial explanation, concentrating on, for example, linguistic competence, or variability, and developing its own separate constructs and hypotheses?

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1.2.4 Contradictions Even within a particular domain, there are contradictory theories. Long gives some examples: – Krashen’s Input Hypothesis (1980) (learners can only acquire new structures that are “one step ahead” of their current stage of development) clashes with Pienemann (1984, 1992), who made essentially the same claim in his Learnability and Teachability Hypotheses, but criticised Krashen on the grounds that the Input Hypothesis was not predictable or testable. – Krashen’s dichotomous model versus several continuum models of interlanguage variation (see Tarone, 1983a, for discussion). – Conflicting views about access to principles of UG in adult SLA (BleyVroman 1989, Schwartz 1990). – Sociolinguistically-based and cognitivist accounts of interlanguage variation (Sato 1984, Tarone 1988, 1989, Crookes 1989, Hulstijn 1989, Selinker and Douglas 1989). – Linguistic and cognitivist explanations for observed developmental sequences (data on Swedish SL negation Hyltenstam 1977, 1982; Jordens 1980, 1982.) (Long 1993: 148)

Beretta (1993) agrees with Long, and argues that while complementary theories (theories operating in different domains and each providing answers to different parts of the SLA puzzle) are no problem (provided the complementarity is theoretically coherent), oppositional theories are a problem, since they offer theoretically incompatible, mutually exclusive explanations of the same facts. Moreover, like Long, Beretta sympathises with the view that different researchers from different traditions find it difficult to communicate with each other or to appreciate the significance of the questions being addressed. On this view, different theories are not just oppositional: they are, in Kuhn’s (1962) sense, incommensurable. The three basic types of theories that Beretta sees as mutually exclusive are those dealing with cognitive, affective, or linguistic factors, respectively. Long and Beretta both believe that multiple theories like these indicate a very serious problem, since the theories are oppositional, and indicate that SLA theory construction is still immature — in what Kuhn (1962) would call a “pre-paradigm stage”. Long suggests that some culling is needed, firstly because we need to make progress so as to solve pressing social problems the appropriacy of different kinds of SL teaching or SL educational programs for learners of different ages and different L1 & L2 proficiencies currently have to be based in large part on SLA theory (Long, 1993: 229),

Key terms and current problems in SLA

and secondly because, following Kuhn (1962), the history of science shows that successful sciences are those which work (for most of the time) under a paradigm, or at least a very small number of dominant theories. As has already been mentioned, even these two points are controversial: many, like Gregg and Eubank, for example, do not agree that researchers have any duty to solve social problems, others, like Schumann and Davies, for example, do not think SLA should attempt to be a successful science, and others, Feyerabend, for example, do not agree with Kuhn’s account of the history of science or with the lesson which he draws from it.

1.3 Conclusion There is little agreement among researchers in SLA about fundamental questions concerning how to construct a theory of SLA. In the rest of this book I will attempt to unravel the various threads running through the disagreements that exist about first principles, and then suggest some ways in which those of us who agree to a minimally rationalist-realist approach can move forward.

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Chapter 2

Research methodology Rationalism and its critics

2.1 Introduction In Chapter 1, I suggested that a major problem facing theory construction in SLA is the disagreement among researchers working in the field about how research should be carried out. In this chapter I tackle the problem of research methodology in some depth. It is important to get the background to the current disputes and confusions clear, and so I begin by sketching the history of the philosophy of science, which includes the contributions of Kuhn and Feyerabend, who have so often been used by relativists to support their approach. Along the way, we must untangle the confusion about empiricist, positivist, and rationalist approaches.

2.2 Rationalists and Empiricists While the English philosopher Francis Bacon is said by many to have been the father of the philosophy of science, I want to take Rene Descartes, his French contemporary, as the starting point for our discussion. The arguments of both these philosophers are relevant, but Descartes’ work makes a more convenient starting place, since it is, in terms of modern western philosophy, the first exposition of the rationalist argument. In Discourse on Method Descartes (1969 [1637]) tells us how he, a hapless soldier, sat in an abandoned baking oven, sheltering from the cold, with a war going on around him, and how he played with a piece of wax. When he examined the wax initially, he detected certain properties of the wax: it had a shape, a colour, and a certain dimension. It had no smell, it made a dull thud when struck against the wall, and it felt cold. As Descartes and the wax warmed up, the wax started to melt in his hands, and everything his senses had told him

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about the wax turned to its opposite. The shape, colour and dimensions changed, it had a pungent odour, it made little sound and it felt hot. How then, asked Descartes, do I know that it is still a piece of wax? He decided to adopt a totally sceptical approach, and to suppose that a demon was at work, doing everything it could to delude him. Perhaps nothing he perceived or imagined was true. Perhaps it wasn’t snowing, perhaps it wasn’t cold, perhaps he wasn’t in a small dark space, perhaps it didn’t stink in there. And perhaps his name wasn’t Rene, perhaps no war was going on, perhaps it wasn’t Thursday. Was there anything that could escape the Demon hypothesis? Was there anything that Descartes could be sure he knew? His famous conclusion was that the demon could not deny that he thought, that he asked the question “What can I know?” Essentially, then, it was his capacity to think, to reason, that was the only reliable source of knowledge, and hence Descartes’ famous “Cogito ergo sum”. I think, therefore I am. From this first principle Descartes built his philosophical system, which was based on the innate ability of the thinking mind to reflect on and understand our world. We are, in Descartes’ opinion, unique in having the ability to reason, and it is this capacity to reason that allows us to understand the world. What is reasoning? Reasoning is the rational pursuit of an argument. It is not quite true to say that Spinoza and Leibniz (see Russell, 1961: 542–576) further developed Descartes’ rationalist approach, because so much separates them from him, but it is true enough that Descartes, Spinoza, and Leibniz are recognised as “the big three”, and that together they form an important part of the paradigm of the Enlightenment, a crucial plank in the ideological underpinnings of the so-called scientific revolution that took place in the 17th century. Mathematics (brilliant geometry in Descartes’ case) and logic (Spinoza was the most acute), were at the core of the rationalist approach, and the two false gods, maths and logic, were both given a specially privileged status by those seeking reliable knowledge. But equally important to the so-called scientific revolution (we are back at the start of the 17th century) was the empirical method adopted by scientists, a method that was most vigorously championed by Francis Bacon. In his most important work, The Advancement of Learning (Bacon, 1974 [1605]), Bacon attacked the triviality of medieval theologians and philosophers and, in common with Descartes after him, Bacon insisted that the crucial issue was that of reliable knowledge. Bacon criticised medieval philosophers for their preoccupation with petty scholastic squabbles (famously, how many angels could dance on the head of a pin) and blamed their silly thinking on the blind tradition

Research methodology

(established by the Greek philosophers from Socrates onwards) of giving preeminence to logical deduction. This, in Bacon’s opinion, had led to over five hundred years of sterile debate. Bacon proposed that empirical observation and formal experiments should take the place of scholastic conundrums, and become recognised as the real business of science. Bacon’s proposal, revolutionary in its time and profoundly rational in its intention, is obviously at odds with the (historically subsequent) rationalist arguments put forward by Descartes. It amounts to saying that induction, rather than deduction, should be at the heart of scientific method. Bacon recommends a bottom-up approach to theory construction: carefully conducted empirical observations should be the firm base on which a theory is built. Scientists should dispassionately observe, measure, and take note, in such a way that, step by careful step, checking continuously along the way that the measurements are accurate and that no unwarranted assumptions have crept in, they accumulate such an uncontroversial mass of evidence that they cannot fail to draw the right conclusions from it. Thus they finally arrive at a theory whose truth is guaranteed by the careful steps that led to it. In fact, if one actually stuck to such a strictly empirical programme, it would be impossible to arrive at any general theory (there is no logical way to derive generalisations from facts). With equal sureness we can assert that it is impossible to develop a rationalist epistemology from Descartes’ “Cogito ergo sum” (the existence of an external world does not follow). In both cases a sleight of hand was needed. Nevertheless, Bacon’s arguments were extremely influential with scientists, and the general association of empiricism with science became part of the popular explanation for the enormous successes of science. And spectacular advances were being made in science. Russell names the players: four great men — Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, and Newton — are preeminent in the creation of science. (Russell 1961: 512)1

Between them, these four remarkable men finally scotched the idea that the earth was at the centre of the universe, and Newton’s general law of gravitation, published in 1687, gave the first coherent explanation of the observed movements of the planets (see Russell, 1961: 512–525). At the same time, the invention of calculus by Newton and Leibniz laid the foundation for modern mathematics (see Russell 1961: 563–576). The eighteenth century saw the inevitable applications of the new scientific discoveries: an explosion of new and improved tools (telescopes, microscopes, thermometers, barometers, clocks,

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pumps, etc.), and the ability to harness energy, culminated in the industrial revolution (see Asimov, 1975a: 407–440). Scientific developments during the 18th century made it possible for far more general theories to emerge in the following century, including Dalton’s atomic theory of matter, the electromagnetic theories of Faraday and Maxwell, and the law of conservation of energy, developed by James Prescott Joule and others (see Asimov, 1975a: 358–398). And the predictive successes of Newtonian physics went from strength to strength, culminating in the discovery of the planet Neptune by Leverrier in the position he had predicted on the basis of Newton’s laws (see Asimov, 1975a: 381). Biology, geology and medicine also made similarly spectacular progress, starting somewhat later and flourishing particularly in the nineteenth century. Interestingly, in these three areas the Baconian methodology was particularly in evidence: the incredible collections of biological and geological specimens that accrued throughout Western Europe in the nineteenth century, leading to the building of national museums in which to house these collections, are evidence of this basically descriptive, linear, inductive approach to scientific research. Of course, Darwin’s theory of evolution was a huge exception to this tendency. The theory of evolution put forward by Charles Darwin in his On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, (1963 [1849]) (see Asimov 1975b: 134–5) was the most comprehensive of the biological theories, and provided a revolutionary, sweeping explanation which created perhaps even more controversy in its time than the work of Copernicus did in its time.2 We can see, then, that as early as the mid-seventeenth century two important strands of modern research methodology had already emerged. On the one hand, rational thought, with its reliance on deductive logic and mathematics, and on the other hand, empirical investigation, with its assumptions of observation and an inductive method. These two strands can subsequently be seen separately in two very different approaches to research and theory construction, the first based on generating explanations, and very often proceeding deductively, and the second based on descriptive generalisations. But they can also often be seen together, as different methodologies used at different stages of the development of a particular theory. Historically, in the development of scientific theories in the last three hundred years, the tensions between these two strands waxed and waned, yet for much of the time they managed to live quite comfortably together, as they often do today. In many research projects both inductive and deductive processes are involved, and, as I argue throughout this book, there is no need to choose between the two. Nevertheless, the tension

Research methodology

between inductive and deductive approaches, between the more conservative discoverers and the more radical inventors and “big theory” builders, can be seen throughout the development of modern science in general, and in the (much more recent and restricted) development of SLA theory in particular. Larsen-Freeman and Long (1991), for example talk about two research traditions in SLA: “research then theory”, and “theory then research”, and these obviously correspond to the inductive and deductive approaches respectively. It should now be clear that the claim in Chapter 1, that the best theories are those that provide the most generally applicable explanation, needs to be qualified. Much scientific progress has been made without the scientists involved having any pretensions to a generalised theory. Apart from the examples of biology and medicine, many nineteenth century advances in optics were made by scientists using experimental methods that had very little to do with the construction, testing, or comparison of theories. As Hacking says of Brewster, who discovered many new properties of light in the early nineteenth century, “Brewster was not testing or comparing theories at all. He was trying to find out how light behaves” (Hacking 1983: 157). The Baconian tradition, the investigation of the behaviour of matter in novel situations, or “twisting the lion’s tail” as Bacon himself put it, cannot be said to be based on a desire for general explanation, but rather on a desire to “see what happens” with the aim of controlling the physical world, and this remains an important aim of modern science. Nevertheless, the practical applications of particular experimental results depend on the ability to generalise: an engine designed in France could be improved in Germany thanks to the general theory of thermodynamics, Fresnel’s wave theory of light made it possible for those working in the field of optics to go much further than Brewster had managed. The theoretical generalisations of science obviously allow more universal application, and they are what make science so powerful. But it remains the case that it is far too simplistic to see theories as causal explanations. In linguistics, the division between “empiricist” and “rationalist” camps is noteworthy. The empiricists, who held sway, at least in the USA, until the 1950s, and whose most influential member was Bloomfield (see Bloomfield, 1933), saw their job as field work: accompanied by tape recorders and notebooks the researcher recorded thousands of hours of actual speech in a variety of situations and collected samples of written text. The data were then analysed in order to identify the linguistic patterns of a particular speech community. The emphasis was very much on description and classification, and on highlighting the differences between languages. We might call this the botanical

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approach, and its essentially descriptive, static, “naming of parts” methodology depended for its theoretical underpinnings on the “explanation” of how we acquire language provided by the behaviourists. Behaviourism was first developed in the early twentieth century by the American psychologist John B. Watson, who, influenced by the work of Pavlov and Bekhterev on conditioning of animals (see Toates and Slack, 1990: 255–262), attempted to make psychological research “scientific” by using only objective procedures, such as laboratory experiments which were designed to establish statistically significant results. Watson (see Toates and Slack, 1990: 252–253) formulated a stimulus-response theory of psychology according to which all complex forms of behaviour are explained in terms of simple muscular and glandular elements that can be observed and measured. No mental “reasoning”, no speculation about the workings of any “mind”, were allowed. Thousands of researchers adopted this methodology, and from the end of the first world war until the 1950s an enormous amount of research on learning in animals and in humans was conducted under this strict empiricist regime. In 1950 behaviourism could justly claim to have achieved paradigm status, and at that moment B. F. Skinner became its new champion. Skinner’s contribution to behaviourism was to challenge the stimulus-response idea at the heart of Watson’s work and replace it by a type of psychological conditioning known as reinforcement (see Skinner, 1957, and Toates and Slack, 1990: 268–278). Important as this modification was, it is Skinner’s insistence on a strict empiricist epistemology, and his claim that language is learned in just the same way as any other complex skill is learned, by social interaction, that is important to this book. In sharp contrast to the behaviourists and their rejection of “mentalistic” formulations is the rationalist approach to linguistics championed by Chomsky. Chomsky (in 1959 and subsequently, see below), argued that it is the similarities among languages, what they have in common, that is important, not their differences. In order to study these similarities we must allow the existence of unobservable mental structures and propose a theory of the acquisition of a certain type of knowledge. A top-down, rationalist, deductive approach is evident here. This particular conflict was resolved in very dramatic fashion, as we shall see later, but it is important to note three things. First, only very extreme forms of any particular epistemology or research methodology are completely incompatible; the behaviourists’ refusal to entertain any concept of “mind” is a good example, since it represents an extreme form of empiricism. Second,

Research methodology

there are stages in the development of theories, which often start with the accumulation of data and low-level generalisations, and later develop into general causal explanations. Third, there are obvious reasons why theories of different phenomena develop in different ways (a cognitive theory, or a theory of physics is likely to be top-down, a theory of the development of certain social customs is more likely to be bottom-up), but there is nothing necessary or inevitable about such a tendency, and nothing to prevent inductive and deductive processes from working together. In SLA research, psycholinguistics attracts a topdown approach, sociolinguistics encourages a more bottom-up methodology. There is no necessary conflict here; as with most modern research programmes, empirical field work can be combined with theoretical speculation. But I have, of course, jumped the gun. In order to appreciate what influenced Watson and Skinner to take such a radical epistemological position, we must return to our brief history of scientific method. In philosophical circles the rationalist arguments of Descartes et al. came under attack in the second half of the eighteenth century from a new movement in philosophy whose members were mostly drawn from the British Isles, and who were known as the empiricists.3 Three of the most influential empiricists of this period were Locke, Mill, and Hume (see Russell 1961: 577–651). In a much more radical, more epistemologically-formulated, statement of Bacon’s views, the British empiricists argued, in complete opposition to Descartes and the Rationalist school, that everything the mind knows comes through the senses. As Hume put it: “The mind has never anything present to it but the perceptions” (Hume, 1988 [1748]: 145). One of the conclusions Hume came to, the one that was so crucially to affect the development of research methodology, was that the elementary principles of scientific method were not justified, since predictions about the unobserved behaviour of objects could never be proved to be true or even probable. Starting from the premise that only “experience” (by which Hume meant that which we perceive through our senses) can help us to judge the truth or falsity of factual sentences, Hume argued that if we want to understand something, we must observe the relevant quantitative, measurable data in a dispassionate way. This is familiar territory — Bacon again, we might say — but the argument continues in a way that has dire consequences for rationalism. If, as Hume insists, knowledge rests entirely on observation, then there is no basis for our belief in natural laws: we believe in laws and regularities but this is only because of repetition, it is not rational. We believe the sun will rise tomorrow because it has repeatedly done so every 24 hours, but it is not rational

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to do so: it is an unwarranted inductive inference. As Hume so brilliantly pointed out, we cannot logically go from the particular to the general: no amount of cumulative instances can justify a generalisation. No matter how many times the sun rises in the East, or thunder follows lightening, or swans appear white, we will never know that the sun rises in the East, or that thunder follows lightning or that all swans are white. This is the famous “logical problem of induction”. Popper distinguishes between the logical problem and the consequent psychological problem: Why, nevertheless, do all reasonable people expect, and believe that instances of which they have no experience will conform to those of which they have experience?” Hume’s answer is: ‘Because of custom or habit’. (Popper, 1972: 4)

More devastating still was Hume’s answer to Descartes’ original question “How can I know whether my perceptions of the world accurately reflect reality?” Hume’s answer was “You can’t.” It is a question of fact whether the perceptions of the senses be produced by external objects resembling them: how shall this question be determined? By experience surely; as all questions of a like nature. But here experience is, and must be, entirely silent. The mind has never anything present to it but the perceptions, and cannot possibly reach any experience of their connection with objects. The supposition of such a connection is, therefore, without any foundation in reasoning. (Hume, 1988 [1748]: 253)

Thus, said Hume, Descartes was right to doubt his experiences, but, alas, experiences are all we have. Hume regarded this discovery about the limits of inductive reasoning as little more than an interesting puzzle; he never questioned that scientific laws and theories were useful, informative, the most reliable source of knowledge available, even; but he insisted that, to the extent that they told us about unobserved objects, they could not be known to be true on the basis of reason and experience. In contrast to Hume, others who became aware of the problem of induction later chose to pursue the argument, and to develop different varieties of relativism. Taken to its limit, Hume’s argument can easily lead to full-blown scepticism. If induction is in principle illogical, and if we cannot know the world directly, then no knowledge is objective: only historical accident, whim, social conventions, etc., decide what counts as an explanation and which theories gain acceptance.

Research methodology

2.3 Positivists Positivism refers to a particular form of empiricism, and the positivists were always, throughout the long history of the positivist movements, primarily concerned with the issue of reliable knowledge. Positivists were particularly concerned with Hume’s work on the limitations of empirical knowledge, and they saw their job as defending objective knowledge by establishing a reliable epistemological base. In his typically strict and unintentionally amusing style, Russell says: It is therefore important to discover whether there is any answer to Hume within a philosophy that is wholly or mainly empirical. If not, there is no intellectual difference between sanity and insanity. The lunatic who believes that he is a poached egg is to be condemned solely on the grounds that he is in a minority. (Russell, 1961: 698)

The third wave of positivists continued the job of cleaning up science, and argued that true science could only be achieved by: 1. Completely abandoning metaphysical speculation and any form of theology. According to the positivists such speculation only proposed and attempted to solve “pseudo-problems” which lacked any meaning since they were not supported by observable, measurable, experimental data. 2. Concentrating exclusively on the simple ordering of experimental data according to rules. By so doing, science would eventually dominate the world of experience: it was only a matter of time before all the secrets of this world were revealed and became “an open book” to the patient scientist. This implies that scientists should not speak of causes: there is no physical necessity forcing events to happen and all we have in the world are regularities between types of events. Furthermore, the positivists rejected the existence of, and thus any role for, unobservable or theoretical entities. This epistemology makes positivist science the only valid knowledge, to the exclusion of any other type of “understanding”. Apart from establishing a strict demarcation line between positivist science and everything else, the positivists shared the underlying pretension of achieving some kind of global unification of the sciences. Such a programme is obviously tremendously ambitious, and, many would say, equally arrogant. The approach was, to a large extent, a reaction to the Aristotelian approach in the middle ages, and more recently, it was against the idealism of Hegel and Heidegger. It represents, in my humble opinion, the biggest wrong turn philosophy ever took.

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Positivism represents a radical form of the “generalised description” approach to theory construction: it is totally opposed to causal “explanations”, and to most forms of philosophical argument. I choose an almost random anecdote to serve as an example of the positivist attitude. Einstein remarks in his autobiography (1979: 168) that he was very struck by the “dogmatic faith” that Mach had in positivism, and that, in his opinion, the worst thing about Mach’s approach, as a faithful positivist, was the belief that science consisted in the mere ordering of empirical data, and the denial that imagination or creativity had any place. For the positivists, science is a question of discovery, that is, of uncovering information, not of invention. Again, I have jumped the gun. The Vienna circle, which met in Vienna and elsewhere in the mid 1920s, represented the third wave of positivism. Comte is usually taken as the leader of the first wave, and invented the term. Comte argued that each branch of knowledge passes through “three different theoretical states: the theological or fictitious state; the metaphysical or abstract state; and, lastly, the scientific or positive state” (Comte, 1830, cited in Ryan, 1970: 36). At the theological stage, the will of God explains phenomena, at the metaphysical stage phenomena are explained by appealing to abstract philosophical categories, and at the scientific stage, any attempt at absolute explanations of causes is abandoned. Science focuses on how observational phenomena are related, and any generalisations are subjected to empirical verification. Mach, the Austrian philosopher and physicist, headed the second wave, which rooted out the “contradictory” religious elements in Comte’s work, and took advantage of the further progress made in the hard sciences to insist on purging all metaphysics from the scientific method (see Passmore, 1968: 320–321). There is, interestingly, a fifty-year gap between each of these three phases of positivism: like a bad penny, it kept coming back. In the social sciences, biology, psychology and linguistics, it continued to have a powerful influence on research methodology right up until the nineteen sixties. The development of behaviourism was inspired by positivist ideology, by the desire to rid psychology of speculative thought and to put it on a sound “scientific” footing, and the predominant tendency for linguistics at this time to eschew “mentalist” models also has its roots in positivism. The objective of the members of the Vienna Circle was to continue the work of their predecessors by giving empiricism a more rigorous formulation through the use of recent developments in mathematics and logic. The Vienna circle, which comprised Schlick,4 Carnap, Godel, and others, and had Russell, Whitehead and Wittgenstein,5 as interested parties (see Passmore, 1968: 367–368, and

Research methodology

Hacking, 1983: 42–44), developed a programme labelled Logical Positivism, which consisted first of cleaning up language so as to get rid of paradoxes,6 and then limiting science to strictly empirical statements: in the grand tradition of positivism they pledged to get rid of all speculations on “pseudo problems” and concentrate exclusively on empirical data. Ideas were to be seen as “designations”, terms or concepts, that were formulated in words that needed to be carefully defined in order that they be meaningful, rather than meaningless. The logical positivists are particularly well-known for their attempt to answer Hume’s criticism of induction through Probability Theory, which, crudely, proposed that while a finite number of confirming instances of a theory could not prove it, the more numerous the confirming instances, the more probability there was that the theory was true.

2.4 Popper Popper insisted that the Vienna circle had not answered Hume’s criticism and, what was more, probability theory quite simply did not work. There is no logical way of going from the particular to the general, and that is that: however probable a theory might claim to be, it can never be claimed to be true. Popper (1959, 1963, 1972) argued that the root of the problem of induction was the concern with certainty. In Popper’s opinion Descartes’ quest was misguided and had led to three hundred years of skewed debate. Popper claimed that the debate between the rationalists and the empiricists, with the idealists pitching in on either side, had led everybody on a wild goose chase — the elusive wild goose being “Truth”. From an interest in the status of human knowledge, philosophers and philosophers of science had asked which, if any, of our beliefs can be justified. The quest was for certainty, to vanquish doubt, and to impose reason. Popper suggested that rather than look for certainty, we should look for answers to problems, answers that stand up to rational scrutiny and empirical tests. Popper insists that in scientific investigation we start with problems, not with empirical observations, and that we then leap to a solution of the problem we have identified — in any way we like. This second anarchic stage is crucial to an understanding of Popper’s epistemology: when we are at the stage of coming up with explanations, with theories or hypotheses, then, in a very real sense, anything goes. Inspiration can come from lowering yourself into a bath of water, being hit on the head by an apple, or by imbibing narcotics. It is at the

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next stage of the theory-building process that empirical observation comes in, and, according to Popper, its role is not to provide data that confirm the theory, but rather to find data that test it. Empirical observations should be carried out in attempts to falsify the theory: we should search high and low for a non-white swan, for an example of the sun rising in the West, etc. The implication is that, at this crucial stage in theory construction, the theory has to be formulated in such a way as to allow for empirical tests to be carried out: there must be, at least in principle, some empirical observation that could clash with the explanations and predictions that the theory offers. If the theory survives repeated attempts to falsify it, then we can hold on to it tentatively, but we will never know for certain that it is true. The bolder the theory (i.e. the more it exposes itself to testing, the more wide-ranging its consequences, the riskier it is) the better. If the theory does not stand up to the tests, if it is falsified, then we need to re-define the problem, come up with an improved solution, a better theory, and then test it again to see if it stands up to empirical tests more successfully. These successive cycles are an indication of the growth of knowledge. Popper (1974: 105–106) gives the following diagram to explain his view: P1 Æ TT Æ EE Æ P2 P = problem TT = tentative theory EE = Error Elimination (empirical experiments to test the theory) We begin with a problem (P1), which we should articulate as well as possible. We then propose a tentative theory (TT), that tries to explain the problem. We can arrive at this theory in any way we choose, but we must formulate it in such a way that it leaves itself open to empirical tests. The empirical tests and experiments (EE) that we devise for the theory have the aim of trying to falsify it. These experiments usually generate further problems (P2) because they contradict other experimental findings, or they clash with the theory’s predictions, or they cause us to widen our questions. The new problems give rise to a new tentative theory and the need for more empirical testing. Popper thus gives empirical experiments and observation a completely different role: their job now is to test a theory, not to prove it, and since this is a deductive approach it escapes the problem of induction. Popper takes advantage of the asymmetry between verification and falsification: while no number of empirical observations can ever prove a theory is true, just one such

Research methodology

observation can prove that it is false. All you need is to find one black swan and the theory “All swans are white” is disproved. Falsifiability, said Popper, is the hallmark of a scientific theory, and allows us to make a demarcation line between science and non-science: if a theory does not make predictions that can be falsified, it is not scientific. According to such a demarcation, astronomy is scientific and astrology is not, since although there are millions of examples of true predictions made by astrologers, astrologers do not allow that false predictions constitute a challenge to their theory. It is important to note the fundamental differences that exist between Popper’s account of scientific method and that of the empiricists. In particular, Popper argues that good theories, good conjectures, will often be highly improbable in terms of current knowledge; he turns probability theory on its head. Rather than supporting the slow, careful, cautious, step-by-step approach favoured by Bacon and the inductivists, with their assumption that such caution is the best guarantee of arriving at the truth, Popper encourages scientists to make bold counter-intuitive conjectures which have little to do with things that have already been observed. Popper says that the inductive approach leads to theories that are safe (in terms of their fit with present knowledge), but uninformative. Having suggested a solution to the problem of induction, and, in the process, giving us his famous demarcation criterion between science and pseudo-science, Popper went on to apply his idea of falsification to the social sciences, politics, and ethics. In The Open Society and Its Enemies (1980),7 and the much earlier The Poverty of Historicism (1965)8 Popper attacked what he called “holistic thinking”, the grand plans of Marx for example, which claimed to have discovered the truth, and Popper argued that the best way to improve society was through “piecemeal social engineering”, which tackled specific, well-defined, and successive social problems. There are extremely serious shortcomings in Popper’s treatment of politics and the social sciences; claims by his followers that they provide powerful support for a rational, scientific approach to research in the so-called behavioural sciences are, I believe, unjustified. More successful, in my opinion, were Popper’s attempts to apply the asymmetry between verification and falsification to ethics. Popper suggested that in ethics, rather than trying to agree on what is morally right, we should tackle the much easier job of agreeing on what is wrong. While there is an infinite variety of opinions on what is morally right and good, there tends to be a far greater consensus about what is morally wrong and bad: most people would agree that torture, racism, religious intolerance, starvation, and cruelty to animals are wrong, for example.9

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Popper claimed that his research methodology, and the epistemology that informs it, is rationalist because it insists that we arrive at knowledge of the world, and in particular, that we build scientific theories to explain aspects of our world, by using our minds creatively. However, Popper also argues that we need to test these a priori ideas empirically. Hence, the two central premises of Popper’s argument are: – –

Knowledge advances by trying to solve problems in a rational way. The role of empirical data is to test theories.

At this stage I want to make two points relating to the arguments among SLA researchers about methodology, outlined in Chapter 1. First, “Positivism” in general, and as expounded in the writings of the Vienna Circle in particular, is, in my opinion, a good example of philosophers stubbornly marching up a blind alley. It is a fundamentally mistaken project as Popper has, I believe, shown, and as Wittgenstein himself recognised in his later work (see Wittgenstein, 1953). Those critics of mainstream SLA research who label their opponents “positivists”, or who argue against “positivist science”, are either ignorant of the history of positivism or are making a strawman case which no present-day researcher in the field of SLA adopting a rationalist position need defend. Second, empiricism as an epistemological system, if taken to its extreme, leads to radical scepticism and solipsism. The relativist critics of “scientific” SLA research who accuse their opponents of being “empiricists” are mistaking an outmoded and erroneous epistemological argument with an essential tool in a rationalist methodology. It is one thing to argue that there can be no such thing as mental states, and quite another thing to argue that theories need at least some theoretical content and to be tested by appeal to empirical observations. Let it be clear then that: 1. Positivism was not, and is not, a good way to characterise the rational development of research programmes and theories in science or in any other area of academic research. Postmodernists and other relativists who attack rationalists by calling them positivists, or by accusing them of adopting a “positivist” attitude to science, are mistaken. 2. Empiricism as an epistemological argument, if taken to its extreme, leads to radical scepticism. A clear distinction must be made between such an extreme philosophical position, and the insistence that theories must have some empirical content and be open to empirical tests. To return to the main argument, while Popper’s arguments seemed to solve

Research methodology

many of the problems about science and the growth of knowledge referred to above, it was his falsifiability criterion, his solution to Hume’s problem of induction, that unwittingly played a key role in promoting the relativist cause, and, even more strangely, in providing ammunition to those supporting a constructivist approach to SLA research.

2.5 Problems with the Falsifiability Criterion There are several problems with Popper’s falsifiability scheme. First, there is the issue of so-called confirmation of theories by data and experimental results. Popper notwithstanding, most scientists continue to believe that if a theory survives some well-constructed tests in risky circumstances, then it has been at least partially confirmed, and it is therefore more likely to be true. There are also philosophers of science who argue that purely deductive arguments will never provide causal explanations, and that some kind of inductive process is involved. Perhaps the best summary of these arguments is to be found in O’Hear (1989). Popper always refused to countenance either confirmation or probability, and believed that Hume’s answer to the problem of induction was right. While Popper’s critics complained that if we rely solely on deductive logic then we have no reason to believe that the sun will rise tomorrow, Popper replied that of course we can believe it, but we do not know that it is true. As long as we accept that it is a theory, and regard the fact that the sun rose yesterday as evidence that the theory has survived a test, then we are rationally entitled to go on believing the theory. There are, nevertheless, serious problems in insisting on the falsifiability criterion and denying the claims of probability and of supportive evidence in general. First, generalised statements can be proved. We can prove that existential generalisations, like “There are at least five kinds of vitamins”, or “bacteria exist”, are true. Furthermore, scientists do, in practice, rely on probability and they also regard replication studies that give the same results as the original tests as confirming evidence. But this is of little importance compared to the really important issue of what scientists accept as falsification. The second problem, then, is to do with falsification. In order to test a theory it is necessary to give a concrete example of the generalisation the theory makes. O’Hear (1989) gives the example of Newton’s Third Law: for every applied force, there is an equal and opposite reaction. This general statement needs to be applied to a concrete situation.

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if two spring balances are hooked together and pulled, we will be able to predict that the one will register the same force as the other. If the force registered by the second was not equal to the force registered by the first, we would then appear to have a disconfirmation of Newton’s Third Law. The first point to notice is that a general theory needs to be combined with some relevant particular observation statement before any prediction is yielded. Further, the actual effect will also have to be observed and recorded in another observation statement before there is an falsification of the theory. The significance of this role of observation statements in the actual testing and falsifying of a universal theory is that it is always possible to deflect criticism of a theory by questioning the truth of one or other of the observation statements involved in the testing. (O’Hear, 1989: 60–61)

Any big theory is a cluster of hypotheses, observational data, and measurement instruments, and one cannot know, so the argument goes, what accounts for the theory failing any particular test: perhaps it is the observation (which is fallible), perhaps it is the instruments, perhaps it is another part of the theory, perhaps it is the theory itself. Attempts to falsify a theory usually depend on isolating one element of it, assuming that the test is a genuine replication of the original experiment, and assuming that “everything else remains equal”. These objections can be brought together under the general argument that all observation is “theory-laden”, and hence that falsification is as problematic as confirmation. The argument needs to be expanded a little, in order to make the relativists’ point of view clearer. We can consider three related points. First, it is argued that our experience sometimes changes dramatically even though the perceptual stimulus remains the same. From this it follows that such changes are dependent on interpreting the stimulus theoretically. The duckrabbit drawing in Figure 3 is an example.

Figure 3.The duck-rabbit drawing. From Couvalis, 1997: 12.

Research methodology

Most people can easily switch from seeing the duck to the rabbit, that is, they can decide what they want to see. Similarly, the Müller-Lyer illusion in Figure 4 is claimed to show that sometimes the way something looks does not reflect how it really is (the lines are of the same length), and it is argued that the best explanation for this phenomenon is that theories permeate experience.

Figure 4.The Müller-Lyer illusion. From Couvalis, 1997: 12.

Following this argument, Hanson (1958) claimed that Copernicus and Ptolemy had completely different experiences when they watched the sunrise. Because Copernicus believed that the horizon falls, he experienced the horizon falling, while Ptolemy’s experience, because of his beliefs, was of the sun rising. If Hanson is right, then there is no way to test a theory objectively since the observations designed to test it are contaminated by the theory itself. A related issue is the claim that observation is always directed by theory. Popper argued that science should be characterised not as the gathering of random observations, but as the process whereby we look for data that challenge our theories, our expectations: one does not, indeed one cannot, simply observe. This argument has been taken by some (Hanson, 1958, Kuhn, 1962, Feyerabend, 1975) to show that scientists are biased in a way that undermines objectivity; if we only notice things which either fit or conflict with our expectations, then there is always the possibility that we may miss vital evidence. Finally, it is claimed that all statements about what we observe are theoretical. Feyerabend (see below) is well-known for his eloquent writings on the subject. Couvalis neatly summarises the argument. How something looks in experience does not in any way determine the meaning of terms which correctly describe it. If experience does not determine the meaning of the terms which describe what is being experienced, there is no necessary connection between the experience of something and a true description of what is being experienced. Thus, no statement about what we are observing logically follows from how a thing looks in experience. (Couvalis, 1997: 26)

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It seems, then, that in order for us to be able to falsify hypotheses, we need to assume that our senses provide us with objective facts about the world around us. It turns out, however, that human perceptions are permeated by theories, that theories direct our observations in a biased way, telling us which observations are significant, and that all statements about what we observe are theoretical and cannot be derived from our experience. Human observers are subjective, influenced by their cultural and theoretical background, and thus scientific theories are relative to the people who make them, to their theoretical assumptions, and to their cultures. There is another problem with falsification known as “underdetermination”, often referred to as the Duhem Quine thesis. This asserts that any theory can be reconciled with any evidence, or more formally, that since the set of all experimental data is finite, and since any powerful theory contains a potentially infinite number of predictions (Chomsky’s theory of parameter settings describes not only how children acquire a particular language, but how future children might acquire any new language that might emerge), there are indefinitely many mutually contrary theories that can logically entail the evidence. As Quine said: Any finite number of observations can logically support an infinite number of theories. (Quine, 1953: 20)

And even more radically: One may hold onto any theory whatever in the face of any evidence whatever. (Quine, 1953: 27)

While the first of Quine’s two statements quoted here is trivially true, the second is, on the face of it, extraordinary. It depends, of course, on what Quine means by “may”. If Quine is merely asserting that human beings are capable of believing anything, then the statement loses interest, but if he is asserting that it is equally rational to hold on to any theory whatsoever in the face of any evidence whatsoever, then the claim is that deductive reasoning is no better than inductive reasoning. The most convincing argument that Quine gives in support of this assertion is that any theory which seems to be contradicted by a particular empirical finding can be rescued by making adjustments in our auxiliary theories. This is a development of the “theory-ladenness of observation” argument. When a theory fails a test, what fails is the whole theory and all the theoretical assumptions that surround it — which Quine called “a web of belief”. Thus, empirical evidence can only falsify a “block of theory as a whole”,

Research methodology

it can never tell us where precisely the problem lies, and we can always rescue the theory by making suitable adjustments to other assumptions. The third, and perhaps the most commonly, cited argument against falsification is that many of the most powerful theories in the history of science would never have survived infancy if the falsification criterion had been applied. Even the recognised king of quantifiable science, physics, progressed because the pioneers involved chose to ignore damning evidence. Newton’s theory of gravity was falsified by observations of the moon’s orbit, and Newtonian mechanics was falsified by the observed orbit of the planet Mercury. Bohr’s theory of the atom conflicted with observation, as did Maxwell’s kinetic theory of gases and Copernican physics (see Asimov, 1975a). It is argued that Popper’s falsifiability criterion is far too strict, and that, at best, it tries to prescribe how scientists should go about research and theory construction, while failing to take much account of how in fact historically scientists behaved. There is finally, despite all Popper’s claims to have solved the problem of induction, the argument that there is no escape from the problem if one wants to claim that there is progress in science. How do we know that one theory has more verisimilitude, or “truth content”, than another? Theory comparison depends, often crucially, on the degree of corroboration, or on how well each theory has stood up to severe tests, i.e. it depends on induction.

2.6 Kuhn The criticisms outlined above of Popper’s falsification criterion culminated in Kuhn’s Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962),10 which has probably done more than any other publication to encourage the relativists’ cause. The essence of Kuhn’s argument is that most scientific activity takes place under the domination of a theory, or a very limited cluster of theories, which define the domain of research in a particular area, the procedures researchers should follow in their experiments, and the criteria by which they test and evaluate the theory. Kuhn labels this dominant theory, and the set of assumptions it generates, a “paradigm”, and he refers to those periods of time where a paradigm dominates as “normal science”. But, Kuhn argues, there are also periods when science enters into a revolutionary period, and there is then a “paradigm shift”. One clear example in the twentieth century is when relativity theory and quantum mechanics replaced Newtonian physics to become the new paradigm. In revolutionary moments the research methodology of scientists is

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very different from that of “normal science”: it is chaotic, contradictory and fragmentary, but on the other hand these are often very exciting times to live in. Sooner or later, however, the new paradigm is established, and scientists go back to their work, which is more mundane perhaps, but usually more productive. Kuhn describes three stages in the development of scientific theories. The first stage is the pre-paradigm stage, when there is no agreement among those working in the field about essential, fundamental issues of theory, and a general avoidance of theory-building in favour of more or less random, uninformed gathering of data, which is carried out without any general agreement about procedures. This stage is unlikely to produce any good results; a great deal of time and energy is spent on arguments about fundamental issues, and most of the data-gathering will fail to solve important problems, or even accumulate new facts. This strikes some as a fairly accurate portrait of the current state of affairs in the SLA community.11 In the second stage, normal science, a majority of those working in a particular field agree that a certain type of theoretical approach, and the assumptions underlying it, should serve as a model for their research. In this period the common assumptions of those involved and agreement about the ways of doing research mean that the work of that scientific community is dominated by a paradigm. Using similar procedures, and leaving the basic assumptions of the paradigm unquestioned, scientists solve more and more problems, factual knowledge expands and becomes better-defined, and technological innovations abound.12 Of course, if we are to accept Kuhn’s arguments, the implication that the normal science period is preferable to the pre-science period is an illusion (see the next chapter, and the following section on Feyerabend). Sooner or later, however, the theoretical framework runs into trouble: predictions are contradicted, problems emerge which cannot be explained, what Kuhn calls “anomalies” emerge, and multiply. As more and more scientists take these failures more and more seriously, that area of science enters into a crisis and subsequently into the third stage of theory development: a scientific revolution. This period ends when the crisis is resolved and a new paradigm emerges to replace the old one. In the United States the shift in the 1950s from the type of linguistics exemplified by Bloomfield and briefly mentioned above, to the Chomskian approach to linguistics that will be discussed below, is one of the most dramatic examples of a paradigm shift in the last sixty years. Not surprisingly, this shift had a great impact on the development of SLA research. Kuhn mixed a historical analysis with an epistemological one, and, while it is part of Kuhn’s argument that the two are mutually dependent, it is important

Research methodology

to be aware of the two strands. Kuhn argued that Popper was prescribing what scientists should do, and ignoring what in fact they actually did. While, said Kuhn, Popper was right to criticise the Vienna circle (right, that is, to say that scientists were not in the business of simply observing things), he was wrong to say that they tried to refute theories. What scientists do, according to Kuhn, depends on the historical moment. In periods of normal science, they work in a more or less inductive way, using empirically-based studies, experiments and tests, looking for confirmation of the dominant theory, seeking to expand its reach, repairing problems that experiments turn up, etc. In revolutionary periods scientists work in confusion, often swayed in their choice between those rival theories fighting for paradigm status by totally irrational considerations, and rarely, if ever, following the methodology proposed by Popper. During a period of scientific revolution there is typically a conservative group who try to stick to the old paradigm, often because, having used it for a long time, they are comfortable with it, and a rebel group, often much younger, whose thinking has not been moulded by the old paradigm. Again, one is strongly reminded of the current dispute going on in SLA research, and it is hardly surprising that the “rebels” see themselves as progressive, or that they should emphasise the political nature of the conflict. But the crucial consideration for Kuhn, and the key argument for the relativist camp in SLA and elsewhere, is that this conflict cannot be rationally resolved: the claim is that the old guard will just die out and fail to attract new adherents. In Kuhn’s opinion, the process by which the new paradigm is established is irrational. Unlike Popper, who sees a cyclical development in the history of science and is convinced that this ensures progress, Kuhn says that the new paradigm is established in a completely open-ended way that has nothing to do with rational choice or with a respect for, or even awareness of, progress. There can be, says Kuhn, in the periods of paradigm shifts, no rational reasons for preferring one theory over another. As Kuhn puts it: “There is no higher standard than the assent of the relevant community” (Kuhn, 1962: 98). Hence, Popper notwithstanding, there is no continuity, and no progress in science. Kuhn’s account of the development of science culminates in his notion of the incommensurability of theories which are formulated under the umbrella of different paradigms. Theories formulated under the new paradigm are so different from the older theories that there is no justification for saying that the new theories follow on from their predecessors. Different paradigms are not, according to Kuhn, commensurate — Newtonian physics is not commensurate with Einstein’s Relativity theory, for example. When Newton and Einstein speak

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of matter, energy, time, etc., they are speaking about different things, and thus there is no rational way of choosing between them. The suggestion is that the researcher’s observations, experiments and tests on so-called empirical data are crucially affected by the theories they believe in, that is, most of the time, by the paradigm theory. Kuhn gives the example of chemists’ acceptance of Dalton’s atomic theory, which at first was in conflict with some experimental results. Not only did they ignore the negative evidence, they reported chemical compositions in different ways (as ratios of integers rather than as decimals) and, in Kuhn’s words “beat nature into line… The data itself had been changed, and the chemists were now working in a different world.” (Kuhn, 1962: 135) It should be emphasised that with Kuhn we enter into a different area of debate about rationality and scientific method. Kuhn wants to shift, if I may use the term, the discussion so as to talk about the history of science, to describe how scientists behave and to assess the rationality of their actions. The claim is thus that if we can show the history of science to be a succession of irrational, socially-determined decisions, we can undermine the rationalist case. This is, in my view, a non sequitur, a false claim, which we will examine when the time comes to defend a rationalist approach. Meanwhile we can note the enormous influence that this approach has had. In a recent search I did on the Internet, using the search engine Google, a search for “Kuhn and paradigm shift” produced links to well over 20,000 sites. Kuhn’s ideas are now discussed in hundreds of MA programmes in applied linguistics, and have been taken by many as damning evidence against “modernist science” in general and claims for a scientific SLA research programme in particular. 2.7 Feyerabend Feyerabend is best known for his provocative statement: All methodologies have their limitations and the only “rule” that survives is “anything goes”. (Feyerabend 1975: 296)

The claims by scientists that they pursue research according to a rationalist methodology where empirical observation and testing play fundamental roles, receive perhaps their most extreme criticism in Feyerabend’s Against Method (1975), in which he argues that a close examination of the history of physics shows that science is not the careful, rational endeavour it is made out to be, but rather, an erratic series of blundering steps involving politics, bribery, lying, cheating, blackmail, and even murder.

Research methodology

Feyerabend argues that there are no rules, such as those proposed by the positivists, or even any more moderate rules, such as “reject theories which are contradicted by generally accepted empirical data”, that can be laid down to guide scientists in their work. Indeed, Feyerabend says, it is both “unrealistic” and “pernicious” to attempt to do so. Feyerabend takes Kuhn’s arguments about the incommensurability of different theories to the limit, and argues that so-called scientific progress is no more than a conversion from one myth to another. Although, says Feyerabend, in Western society science has reached almost idolatry status, scientists have no right to suppose that their research gives rise to knowledge which is in some way superior to others. Feyerabend makes great play of his anarchist beliefs, and insists on locating scientific research in its historical and socio-political context. He urges scientists to throw off methodological constraints, academic ideology, etc., to see science as just one kind of historical knowledge, no better than myths or fairy tales, and to exercise their freedom. While there is no doubt that Feyerabend was a harsh critic of Popper, it is no less true that he often defended a very Popperian approach. One example of this is his challenge to Kuhn’s claim that normal science is necessary for progress, which, as Feyerabend points out, contradicts Kuhn’s general argument that there can be no such thing as progress. Feyerabend argues that to encourage the establishment and perpetuation of a paradigm is not just contradictory but downright authoritarian and reactionary: Kuhn is encouraging conformity, and suggesting that in order to maximise results, scientists should accept assumptions uncritically and bow to the paradigm. Feyerabend suggests instead, in true Popperian style, that all scientists should be encouraged to constantly develop theories which challenge the widely-accepted theory, and that it is wrong to wait for a crisis before developing a new kind of theory under a different paradigm. It is difficult to exaggerate the difference between Feyerabend’s underlying commitment to rationality and the effect that his dadaistic attitude had on his contemporaries and on future developments in the philosophy of science. It is, for me, even more difficult to give any credence to those relativists in the field of SLA research who adopt Feyerabend as their ally.13

2.8 Lakatos Imre Lakatos, who worked with Popper for years, and who became a close friend of Feyerabend’s during the latter’s stay at the LSE in the mid 1960s, tried to rescue

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Popper from his critics. Lakatos accepted that there were many problems with Popper’s Falsifiability criterion, including the already mentioned one that if it is allowed that a theory is refuted by a single instance of empirical data, then no theory would survive. In the history of science all major theories have been refuted time and time again (in the sense that they have contradicted the evidence of the day), especially in their early stages. The extreme version of the falsifiability criterion, where one instance of negative data is enough to refute a theory, has become known as “naive falsifications” and is now generally rejected. In a series of steps (Lakatos and Musgrave 1970, Lakatos, 1978a, 1978b), Lakatos proposed a “theory of research programmes” which tried to “amend the falsificationist definition of science”, and specifically to address the problem of theory choice: given two rival theories, is there any rational way of choosing between them? Lakatos suggested that Popper’s theory should be amended by shifting the problem of appraising theories to the problem of appraising historical series of theories, or rather ‘research programmes’, and by changing the falsificationist rules of theory rejection. (Lakatos, 1978a: 318)

The difference between a theory and a research programme is that a research programme is more extensive: it consists of a hard core theory, a group of auxiliary theories and assumptions, and some agreed procedures or techniques for solving problems. At the heart of Lakatos’ proposal was the idea of two different “heuristics” working inside the same programme: a Negative heuristic which essentially called on researchers not to attack the hard core theory, and a Positive heuristic which encouraged improvements to be made in the auxiliary hypotheses, which Lakatos sometimes referred to as “the refutable protective belt”. Ad hoc hypotheses were not allowed. The research programme thus involved working on “the belt”, and leaving the core assumptions alone: you opt out of the programme if you attack the hard core. Lakatos claimed that this solved the problem of identifying the part of the theory that is responsible for the falsification (since it cannot be in the hard core), and at the same time, allowed for choice among rival theories: bold new hypotheses on the belt can be subjected to tests, and the better theories will be those that survive such tests. The essential criterion for assessing rival programmes is progress: the more progressive programme is better. If the modifications to the auxiliary assumptions result in new predictions, and if the predictions of novel facts are corroborated, then the programme is progressive. On the other hand, a research programme is considered to be degenerating (as opposed to progressing) if those working on it do no more than add untestable ad hoc

Research methodology

auxiliary assumptions in order to save its core, and that these merely account for already known facts. When a stage is reached where one research programme is degenerate, and another is making good progress, then the degenerate programme must be jettisoned. Lakatos’ Research Programme is very Popperian — there is progress through successive refutations of competing theories which gradually make the whole theory, including its hard core, more coherent, more powerful, more open to testing, able to predict more, able to explain more. And Lakatos says that his theory, his methodology of science, itself is testable — by looking at the history of science. There is also a recognition of the social dimension of science (Lakatos is trying to defend the rationality of the history of science, not rationality itself, nor any scientific method per se), and thus Lakatos can justifiably claim to have been a precursor to Kuhn, rather than simply, as he is sometimes described, an apologist for Popper, trying to fix the problems raised by Kuhn and Feyerabend. For all its merits, Lakatos’ research programme does not actually address the issues in a satisfactory way. We are asked to take the hard core on trust, and only to judge the rationality of the research programme in general. Feyerabend (1978) points out that since Lakatos does not actually specify the conditions under which a research programme has been falsified, because he is aware of the need to protect programmes from being prematurely dismissed, a scientist could work on a voodoo research programme full of ad hoc hypotheses, with no novel predictions to its credit, on the grounds that the programme needs time to develop. Furthermore, Lakatos does not provide any details concerning ways to measure degeneracy, or to locate the point at which degeneracy can prove fatal to a research programme. As a result, Lakatos offers no rational way of choosing between two rival theories, except in hindsight.14

2.9 Laudan Laudan (1977, 1990, 1996) accepts that Popper’s falsification criterion cannot be strictly applied, and attempts to improve on the work of Lakatos by suggesting, firstly, that science is to do with problem-solving, and secondly, that it makes progress by evolving research traditions. The main features of research traditions are: 1. Every research tradition has a number of specific theories which exemplify and partially constitute it; some of these theories will be contemporaneous, others will be temporal successors of earlier ones;

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2. Every research tradition exhibits certain metaphysical and methodological commitments which, as an ensemble, individuate the research tradition and distinguish it from others; 3. Each research tradition (unlike a specific theory) goes through a number of different, detailed (and often mutually contradictory) formulations and generally has a long history extending through a significant period of time. (By contrast, theories are frequently short-lived.) (Laudan, 1977: 78–79)

Laudan, like Lakatos, attempts to provide guidelines for researchers, and puts limits on the type of theories that the tradition should contain (its allowed ontology), and on what experimental methods are acceptable. Laudan gives the example of the geological research tradition of “Uniformitarianism”. Geologists in this tradition believed that processes of the Earth were cyclical, alternatively building up and wearing down surface features. On average, the Earth’s geology is said to be uniform over long periods. The ontology of Uniformitarianism is the presently observable causes of geological phenomena (e.g., erosion, weathering, uplift and folding) which give rise to all geological processes, such as mountain building and canyon formation. The methodology is to apply these same causes to past situations in order to explain the Earth as it is today, and to explain traces left from past geological eras — fossils, strata, and so on. The methodology was summed up in the motto “the present holds the key to the past”. Researchers working inside this tradition have a framework, but this is to help their theories develop and evolve by the modification of component theories which provide answers to the questions posed by the tradition. The research tradition, like Lakatos’ research programme, is offered as an answer to the problems outlined above about what counts as counter-evidence, but more central is Laudan’s suggestion that the overriding criterion for how rival research traditions can be assessed is their ability to solve problems. This allows Laudan to go beyond Kuhn’s and Lakatos’ stark choice between either accepting or rejecting a theory and to offer a spectrum of possible responses: The logic of acceptance and rejection is simply too restrictive to represent this (historical) range of cognitive attitudes… My view is that this continuum of attitudes between acceptance and rejection can be seen to be functions of the relative problem-solving progress (and rate of progress) of our theories. (Laudan, 1981: 150)

Laudan is obviously continuing the attempts to rescue science from the attacks of relativists like Kuhn, Feyerabend and others, by arguing that the choice among rival theories is rational — in Laudan’s case it is rational to choose the group of theories that most effectively solve the problems they address, and to

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work inside the research tradition which accepts that cluster of theories. But how do we know which theory has the greatest problem-solving adequacy? The overall problem-solving effectiveness of a theory is determined by assessing the number and importance of empirical problems which the theory solved and deducting therefrom the number and importance of the anomalies and conceptual problems which the theory generates. (Laudan, 1977: 68)

In a later work, Laudan (1996) develops his “problem-solving” approach and offers a taxonomy. He suggests, first, that we separate empirical from conceptual problems, and that as far as empirical problems are concerned, we distinguish between “potential problems, solved problems and anomalous problems.” ‘Potential problems’ constitute what we take to be the case about the world, but for which there is as yet no explanation. ‘Solved problems’ are that class of putatively germane claims about the world which have been solved by some viable theory or another. ‘Anomalous problems’ are actual problems which rival theories solve but which are not solved by the theory in question. (Laudan, 1996: 79)

As far as conceptual problems are concerned, Laudan says that such problems arise for a theory, T, 1. when T is internally inconsistent or the theoretical mechanisms it postulates are ambiguous; 2. when T makes assumptions about the world that run counter to other theories…; 3. when T violates principles of the research tradition of which it is part; 4. when T fails to utilise concepts from other, more general theories to which it should be logically subordinate. (Laudan, 1996: 79)

Laudan claims that this “taxonomy” helps in the relative assessment of rival theories, while remaining faithful to the view that many different theories in a given domain might well have different things to offer the research effort. Instead of making “progress parasitic upon rationality”, Laudan argues that it is rational to choose the most progressive research tradition, where “most progressive” means the maximum problem-solving effectiveness. There is no presumption of cumulativity in Laudan’s account: while more problems are being solved more rapidly in the present research tradition than its predecessors, some problems may become “unsolved” by the current tradition. The essential difference between Laudan and Kuhn is that “problem-solving” in Laudan’s sense is taken to be the measure of both progress and rationality,

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while, unlike Lakatos, Laudan dispenses with the criteria of empirical content and the cumulative growth of theories, and downplays the importance of generating novel predictions and avoiding ad hocness. The problem, of course, is how we assess the problem-solving effectiveness of rival research traditions. In the end, we will be forced to compare different theories, and then how does one count the number of empirical problems solved by a theory? For example, is the “problem of the planets” to be counted as one problem or nine? In principle the number of problems could be infinite. And how are we to assign different weightings to theories? Laudan’s inability to suggest how we might go about enumerating the seven types of problems in his taxonomy that are dealt with by any given research tradition (itself not a clearlydefined term), or how these problems might then be weighted, seems a fatal weakness in his account.

2.10 Conclusion This chapter has attempted to lay the foundations for a discussion of theory construction in SLA by looking at the development of theories of modern science and their philosophical underpinnings. We have seen that one of the key factors in this development is the tension between two different approaches to theory construction; what can be referred to as the inductive, “research-thentheory” methodology first championed by Bacon, and the deductive “theorythen-testing” approach more typical of Descartes and the seventeenth century rationalist movement. The inductive method gives prime importance to careful unbiased observation, the separation of “facts” from “value judgements”, the reliance on observable, quantifiable information. This leads to the slow, gradual but cumulative discovery (uncovering) of new facts about our world which in turn allows us to generalise about it. The deductive method stresses that understanding our world comes through theories which are the product of the workings of the human mind on the data that is presented to it. According to this view, theories are bold conjectures, often leap into the unknown, and the role of observation is to serve as confirmation of or counter-evidence against the theory. The deductive, rationalist approach favoured causal explanations — answers to questions about why and how things happen — while the inductive approach gave rise to more descriptive explanations — answers to questions about what and when. And, again, very broadly, while theories of the physical sciences tended towards the deductive approach, theories of the biological

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sciences had a tendency to be more descriptive. This is not, as we saw, entirely accidental: much of the work in the biological sciences was to do with the classification of species, and much of the work of the physical sciences was to do with grand organising principles, like gravitation. Nor, of course can this dichotomy, and the division of sciences and theories into two camps, be seen in any way as an accurate historical account: it simply serves to highlight the differences between theories, and, I hope, will be of use in our forthcoming discussion of theories of SLA, since the tension between “research then theory” and “theory then testing” approaches continues to this day. As was noted, in the history of science, the tension between inductive and deductive methodology did not cause any serious problems. Indeed, even in physics, Bacon’s methodology was widely believed by scientists themselves to very accurately describe how they worked, and to mark them out from others. Empirical observation and experimentation was seen to be at the very heart of the scientific method. It was partly new developments in science, mathematics, and logic that renewed interest among philosophers of science and members of the scientific community in the so-called problem of induction. Hume’s claim that we cannot logically go from the particular to the general, and that therefore no general theory can be rationally held to be true, began to be taken far more seriously than Hume himself took it. The Logical Positivists, as we saw, attempted to rescue empiricism from Humean scepticism, and to put modern mathematics, logic and science onto a firm footing. Far from succeeding, they failed miserably, and it is important to be clear that their programme was both arrogant and misguided: most philosophers and scientists would agree today that while empirical observation is a necessary part of scientific method, empiricism as a philosophical tradition is dead. Popper, in his attempts to confront the shortcomings of the Logical Positivists, offered a solution to the problem of induction through his arguments concerning the asymmetry between proof and falsification: we cannot prove a theory is true, but we can demonstrate that it is false. Thus the deductive method is the true method of science, and the role of observation and experimentation is to test our hypotheses. Crucial here are Popper’s two claims that 1. theories are conjectures: provisional tentative answers to problems we have posed ourselves 2. the role of observation is to look for evidence that challenges our theory.

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Finally we saw that a number of objections were made to Popper’s “falsifiability” model. Some of these objections were to do with the consistency of the argument, some to do with the strictness of the criterion, and some to do with the social behaviour of scientists. The most influential critic was, without doubt, Kuhn, whose arguments concentrated on the way that scientific research is actually conducted. Attempts to answer these objections, notably by Lakatos and Laudan, were not entirely successful. For the moment we have come to the end of this short account of the development of the philosophy of science, and we must now turn to the even more radical attacks that have been made against the so-called scientific method since 1970.

Notes 1.Russell’s account of the history of western philosophy is as idiosyncratic and unreliable as was the man himself. His accounts of those I refer to are, however, in my opinion anyway, succinct and fair. 2.By the beginning of the 20th century, however, the fact, but not the mechanism, of evolution was generally accepted, with disagreement centring on the genetic processes through which it occurs. 3.Popper calls empiricism the “Common Sense” or “Bucket View” of knowledge, and while in fact there is very little common sense involved, in the usual sense of the expression, the bucket metaphor seems entirely apt. Knowledge is collected, sorted, stored, and can be measured in buckets! 4.Schlick was shot dead by one of his doctoral students, a lesson to all academics who deal too harshly with dissenting voices! 5.In his autobiography Russell describes his first encounter with Wittgenstein. The young man paced up and down Russell’s sitting room talking at a furious pace with enormous energy and conviction. Russell remarks, dead pan as usual, “I hardly understood a word he said, but I was convinced he was a genius.” 6.Russell’s visiting card is a famous example: he dropped a card through various houses in Bloomsbury. The card had, instead of the usual name and address on one side, a two-sided message: on one side “The statement on the other side of this card is false”, on the other side “The statement on the other side of this card is true”. This is Russell’s variation of the original problematic statement “This statement is false.” 7.I was at a lecture given by Popper in 1966 when, in reply to a question from a student about why he had so badly misquoted Hegel in this book, Popper described the book as “my contribution to the war effort”, without any hint of irony. It is a most unscholarly work; Popper confessed to never having read Hegel, and his treatment of Marx borders on the

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ridiculous. Its aim was clearly to defend capitalism and “western democracy” against attacks from communism or the left, rather than bettering our understanding of Plato, Hegel, or Marx. It was for many years (and perhaps it still is) required reading for all social science students at the LSE and at thousands of other universities around the world with a similar interest in defending capitalism. 8.Almost as unscholarly as The Open Society and its Enemies, this book is often cited as one of the finest examples of a strawman argument in so-called academic writing. 9.In this field, see W. W. Bartley’s Retreat to commitment (1982) which developed the theory of Comprehensibly Critical Rationalism based on Popper’s ideas, and became part of Popperian cannon. Bartley’s later extension of this work is commented on later in this book. 10.Although Kuhn’s famous book was published in 1962, the sparks really began to fly in 1965, when Kuhn and Popper came face-to-face in a conference in London at Bedford College. I was lucky enough to be there, and remember Kuhn’s lecture as one of the most electric events I have ever witnessed. The LSE team — Popper, Lakatos, Watkins, Gellner, Musgrave, Bartley — sat in the front row and behaved like football supporters watching their side fouled time after time. At one point Lakatos leapt to his feet and yelled “I shall refute you in my next lecture!” 11.Long (1993), among others, thinks that research and theory construction in SLA is in this first stage. 12.This would seem to be the state of affairs that Long (1993, 1997) among others, is aiming for in SLA research, and why Long calls for some culling of SLA theories. It would also seem to describe quite well the research programme inspired by Chomsky in UG-based linguistics. 13.Feyerabend was enormously charismatic and persuasive. As Newton-Smith (1981: 68) says “No more lively or entertaining critique of the scientific method has been provided than that offered by Feyerabend in his Against Method which may well have been called Against Received Opinion.” I was at LSE when Feyerabend gave a series of lectures ostensibly for “freshers” — first year undergraduates like myself — as an introduction to scientific method. People travelled from far and wide to attend these lectures and there were often scuffles to get into the Old Theatre, which was packed an hour before the lectures were scheduled to begin. Feyerabend began his first lecture by using the enormously long blackboard in the Old Theatre to wonderful theatrical effect. He took a piece of chalk and starting at the left-hand side of the blackboard, dragged the chalk along the blackboard making a line. (He had quite a bad limp which made it even more dramatic.) When he got half way across, he stopped and lifted the chalk. Half a centimetre later, he continued the line until he got to the end of the blackboard. Then he strode back to the tiny gap in the line, thumped it and bellowed “THAT is Popper’s contribution to the philosophy of science!” He was equally enthralling when he sat in LSE’s Three Tuns Bar, good-naturedly and passionately arguing about science and politics with anyone who could get a seat at the crowded table. 14.Another problem with Lakatos is that he saw science as physics, and little else. (Feyerabend was quite similar in this respect.) He simply assumed that physics was the model of rational thought and that everything else was inferior, but he never bothered to demonstrate this.

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Recent relativists

3.1 Introduction However strongly Kuhn, and even Feyerabend, argued against the more traditional epistemological assumptions underlying theory construction in science, there is a strong sense in which they were somehow “within the fold”. As Feyerabend made clear in the Introduction to the 1978 edition of Against Method (and as I have pointed out elsewhere — see Gregg et al., 1997), he was in many ways playing the devil’s advocate; he expected, and hoped, that his friend Lakatos would win the debate, he recognised that scientific research in the last four hundred years had earned a special place in the history of intellectual endeavour, and he never ceased to insist on the need for rigour and clarity in research. Likewise Kuhn, both in his lectures and in his later publications (Kuhn, 1977) expressed his horror at suggestions that he had given any encouragement to those who adopted any radical form of relativism. It is when we come to the proponents of the “Strong Programme” in the sociology of science, and later to those involved in the Postmodernist and Constructivist movements, that we see an unbridgeable gap opening up, and communication breaking down.

3.2 The sociology of science The attempts of Popper’s followers to rescue scientific research from the relativists seemed, ironically, only to have strengthened their case. Despite the attempts of Lakatos, Laudan and others, it was beginning to look as if Feyerabend was right: there is no scientific method, science is a social institution, and thus scientific change is to be explained not in terms of a rationalist, progressive movement, but by the influences of pressure groups, spin doctors, propaganda, the state of the economy, pure chance, personal weakness, and so on.

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In the 1970s many working in the area of the sociology of science, perhaps emboldened by the apparent inability of the rationalists to justify their view of scientific progress, and undoubtedly taking inspiration from the “Strong Programme” developed by Barnes (1974) and Bloor (1976), changed their aim from the established one of analysing the social context in which scientists work to the far more radical, indeed audacious, one of explaining the content of scientific theories themselves. While Merton (1973) had launched the sociology of science as a scientific discipline in the 1930s, attempting to explain the interactions among scientists in communities, Barnes and Bloor, in their separate publications, argued that all systems of belief are equivalent, and “knowledge is whatever men take to be knowledge” (Bloor, 1976).1 Bloor distinguishes between knowledge and belief by reserving the word “knowledge” for “what is collectively endorsed, leaving the individual and idiosyncratic to count as mere belief” (Bloor, 1976: 2–3). Thus, the content of scientific theories is socially determined, and there is no place whatsoever for the philosophy of science and all the epistemological problems that go with it. Since science is a social construction, it is the business of sociology to explain the social, political and ethical factors that determine why different theories are accepted or rejected. The initial development of quantum mechanics is often given as an example of a “socially-determined belief”. Forman (1971, cited in Riggs, 1992) suggested that quantum mechanics can best be understood as the result of the social conditions in post-World War I Germany, which led German public opinion to an anti-intellectual, anti-science stance. Since the principle of causality was an architypical example of the pre-war, now unacceptable, attitudes of scientists (indeed causality was understood by pre-war scientists, and by most today, to be at the very heart of explanation), quantum mechanics, which does not require all physical events to be caused, was adopted as the favoured theory. Thus, according to Forman, one theory superseded another not because it offered a more complete, more powerful, explanation of the phenomena under consideration, but because it suited social conditions. Gross and Levitt (1998) give a more concrete example of the Strong Programme’s sociological approach in action. Sociologist Ferguson explains the paradigm shift in physics which followed Einstein’s publication of his work on relativity as follows: The inner collapse of the bourgeois ego signalled an end to the fixity and systematic structure of the bourgeois cosmos. One privileged point of observation was replaced by a complex interaction of viewpoints.

Recent relativists

The new relativistic viewpoint was not itself a product of scientific “advances”, but was part, rather, of a general cultural and social transformation which expressed itself in a variety of modern movements. It was no longer conceivable that nature could be reconstructed as a logical whole. The incompleteness, indeterminacy, and arbitrariness of the subject now reappeared in the natural world. Nature, that is, like personal existence, makes itself known only in fragmented images. (Ferguson 1990, cited in Gross and Levitt, 1998: 46)

Here, Ferguson, in all apparent seriousness, suggests that Einstein’s relativity theory is to be understood not in terms of the development of a progressively more powerful theory of physics which offers an improved explanation of the phenomena in question, but rather in terms of the evolution of “bourgeois consciousness”. Latour, who with co-author Woolgar, wrote the influential Laboratory Life: The Social Construction of Scientific Facts in 1979, carried on the new approach to the sociology of science. Latour, having spent two years working with laboratory scientists at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies, described how the scientists at the Institute went about their work. What the scientists were actually doing, according to Latour, who “saw through” the surface explanations that the scientists themselves offered, could best be seen as the collective construction of facts and theories, according to conventions agreed among themselves. Latour thus unmasked what the deluded members of the Institute, and by extension, scientists everywhere and throughout history, mistakenly understood to be disinterested attempts to explain phenomena by appealing to observations of regularities in a real external world, and revealed theories to be no more than invented myths. Latour went on to argue (Latour, 1985, 1988) that scientists use language to construct a particular kind of discourse which is then, in a typically self-fulfilling way, interpreted as scientific: the use of particular kinds of concepts which are taken as uncontroversial by the scientific community, the use of references, quotations and footnotes, the structuring of scientific articles, all play their part in legitimising the output of scientists and disguising their totally subjective nature. While Latour claimed to be adopting the point of view of a social anthropologist, his argument — that it is by analysing the way scientists use language that we can discover the real “significance” of the “text” — strongly resembles the approach taken by Derrida and other postmodernists, discussed below. Derrida and others take a more overtly philosophical line, and argue for a radical form of relativist epistemology, but they inherit from Latour the view that scientists are engaged in nothing more than the creation of a certain type of specialised myth through the construction of a specialised form of discourse or text.

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These new sociologists were quick to point out that their own work was included in this general characterisation and thus capable of being explained in terms of its own causal social conditions. Having made this forlorn gesture at covering their own backs, the sociologists could argue that any attempt to make a demarcation line between science and non-science, or to claim some special intellectual authority for science, was doomed: everything is relative. The relevance of this programme to those researchers in SLA who challenge the “orthodox” methodology, and who want to give more importance to sociological matters, should be obvious. Science is seen as the arrogant bogeyman, the methodology it recommends takes us away from a proper “understanding” and “appreciation” of ourselves and traps us inside an arid alienated framework. If, as the advocates of the Strong Programme recommend, one does away with objectivity, and if one accepts that a “rational judgement” is an oxymoron, then one is left to get on with the only real job remaining: that of describing social events and uncovering what lies behind the texts which social interaction produces.

3.3 Postmodernism Postmodernism began to make itself felt in the late 1970s, and it has since come to play an increasingly important part in discussions about scientific method and how research should best be done. Both postmodernists and constructivists are playing their part in discussions among those involved in SLA research, as was mentioned in Chapter 1, and it is now time to examine their ideas more closely. With the best will in the world it is difficult to give a fair account of postmodernism and constructivism, since what exactly the terms mean is highly debated, even among the postmodernists and constructivists themselves. The term “post-modern” means “after modernity”, which in turn refers to the “modern project” that began in the 17th Century and is often referred to as The Enlightenment. At the heart of the Enlightenment project was a new paradigm, namely rationalism. Rationality took over from religion as the preferred way of understanding ourselves and the world around us. Modern science claimed to be based on reason, and the spectacular results of the socalled scientific method — the industrial revolution, the harnessing of energy, modern medicine, etc. — were taken as evidence of the tremendous efficacy and power of the rationalist approach. The idea of progress was also central to the rationalist paradigm: the history of science was seen as the story of a

Recent relativists

progressive movement towards better and more complete explanations of ourselves and the world we lived in. In the 1950s, as we saw, the relativists’ argument — that ‘reality’ has no meaning apart from what is believed to be real — began to exert its influence in the new social science departments of western European and American universities. The basic argument was that if you believe something, then it is “real”, and thus scientific knowledge is not powerful because it is true; it is true because it is powerful. The question should not be “What is true?”, but rather “How did this version of what is believed to be true come to dominate in these particular social and historical circumstances?” Truth and knowledge are culturally specific. If we accept this argument, then we have come to the end of the modern project, and we are in a “post-modern” world. As Lois Shawver, the influential postmodernist figure, puts it, “Postmodernism begins with a loss of faith in the dreams of modernism.” She continues: In place of the lost dream of modernism, postmodernism gives us a new vocabulary, a new language game, for helping us notice dimensions of experience that were obscured by the modernist vision. It’s a dynamic language game, with meanings evolving and changing. And when you are within this language people may well say things that you will want to challenge. Being post-modern is not endorsing a dogma. It is just a new language game, but it is a powerful language game that calls attention to dimensions of our reality that were obscured in our forgetting, our denial, such as the political dynamics behind publications which then become recognised as truth. It doesn’t say that specific dynamics are always there. It simply calls attention to the dynamics modernism tried to minimise and overlook. Once we’re looking in this direction, we can discuss and ponder what various people see. (Shawver, 1996: 372)

Of course, this loss of faith in the modernist project did not begin in the 1970s. Many would go back at least as far as Nietszche, who, with his famous statement “God is dead”, urged his contemporaries to scorn Christianity and its “slave morality”. With his insistence on individual will and heroism, his loathing of the democratic ideals of the French revolution, and his rejection of both the rationalists and the empiricists (he vilified both Spinoza and Mill, among many others, — see Russell 1961: 728–739), Nietszche seems to have served as an inspiration for many who were disenchanted with the “lost dream” of modernism. And Shawver’s reference to “a new language game”2 must certainly hark back, wittingly or not, to the work of Wittgenstein. While Wittgenstein’s

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Tractatus, originally published in English in 1922, was much admired by Russell in particular, and by the Vienna school in general (see Pears, 1971:11–21), since it was an attempt to define the logical limits of language, Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations (1953) represented a dramatic change in his thinking, a change which many postmodernists see as giving credence and support to their own rejection of “modernist” thinking and their adoption of the “game” metaphor. In the Tractatus, Wittgenstein argued that just as the world is composed of complex facts that can be analysed into simple facts, so language is composed of complex propositions that can be reduced to simple propositions. Wittgenstein suggested that elementary propositions picture atomic facts, and that only propositions that picture facts are meaningful. Thus metaphysics and ethics are meaningless. In the Philosophical Investigations Wittgenstein abandoned any attempt to accurately and uniquely associate words with their meanings and suggested instead that we should look at linguistic usage, and try to discover the functions that linguistic expressions served. Not all propositions “picture” facts; some are used to ridicule, others to apologise, others to question, and so on. According to this view, language use can be seen as a language game, with different types of groups playing different language games. Scientists, concerned with observable data and causal explanations, are playing a different language game to theologians concerned with describing sin. And, of course, whether or not a proposition is meaningful depends on its context, that is, meaning depends on the rules of the game of which that proposition is a part (see Passmore, 1968: 343–466). Wittgenstein battled with very complex problems of logic and semantics; the summary above is hugely simplistic. It seems to me that Wittgenstein’s later work is a comment on the sterility of the logical positivists’ programme, but in any case, if my summary is of any use at all, it is to indicate one of the important sources of the now very popular idea of language games. To return to the postmodernists, Ashley (1997) explains them this way: Modern, overloaded individuals, desperately trying to maintain rootedness and integrity…ultimately are pushed to the point where there is little reason not to believe that all value-orientations are equally well-founded. Therefore, increasingly, choice becomes meaningless. According to Baudrillard (1994: 38–9), we must now come to terms with the second revolution, “that of the Twentieth Century, of postmodernity, which is the immense process of the destruction of meaning equal to the earlier destruction of appearances. Whoever lives by meaning dies by meaning.” (Ashley 1997: 2)

Recent relativists

Post-modernism, then, entails the belief that the modern project has failed, and that we should reject, among other things, its methodology. It is an extremely eclectic movement, originating in aesthetics, and as already noted, there is an enormous variety of opinions within the camp. For some (Derrida, 1981, Culler, 1982, Rosenau, 1992) postmodernism is already upon us, for others (Shawver, 1997, Brinner, 1999) it is a way of thinking that is so new that it will take at least two more generations to take hold. There is often the suggestion that, since postmodernism is attempting such a radical rejection of “modernism”, it is not surprising that so many people find it difficult to make sense of the writings of its main protagonists. They are, it is claimed, still trying to work out their terms, still sorting out their new language, still basically talking to each other — which makes it rather hard for the profane! In any case, some key ideas which postmodernist theories include are: – – –

the decline of any absolute truths — the deliberate creation of relativity the lack of purpose and direction in historical change the fragmentation and division of all academic subjects into a variety of perspectives — with no ‘answers’, no agreement, no paradigm. (see Appignanesi and Garratt, 1995: 13–67)

According to Rosenau, postmodernists have been divided into two camps, Sceptics and Affirmatives. Sceptical Postmodernists are extremely critical of the modern subject. They consider the subject to be a “linguistic convention” (Rosenau, 1992: 43). They think that “modernists” use time to measure and control people, and they reject “Theory”, adopting Rosenau’s position that Theory conceals, distorts, and obfuscates, it is alienated, disparated, dissonant, it means to exclude, order, and control rival powers. (Rosenau, 1992: 81)

While Affirmative Postmodernists also reject Theory by denying claims of truth, they think that Theory needs not to be abolished but rather transformed. Affirmative Postmodernists are somewhat less extreme and rigid than the Sceptics, and are associated with movements organised around peace, the environment, and feminism. 3.3.1 Derrida Let us now examine two of the leading figures of postmodernism, starting with Derrida. The concern with the interpretation of texts is central to postmodernists, and the key idea of “deconstructing” texts is a term that is most closely associated with Derrida.

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Deconstruction emphasises negative critical capacity. Deconstruction involves demystifying a text to reveal internal arbitrary hierarchies and presuppositions. By examining the margins of a text, the effort of deconstruction examines what it represses, what it does not say, and its incongruities. It does not solely unmask error, but redefines the text by undoing and reversing polar opposites. Deconstruction does not resolve inconsistencies, but rather exposes hierarchies involved for the distillation of information. (Rosenau, 1992: 134)

Derrida’s famous saying “There is nothing beyond the text.” (sometimes translated as “There is nothing outside the text.”) has become an icon of postmodernism, and his theory of “deconstruction” is at the heart of postmodernist thought. According to Stanford University’s Presidential Lectures web page (http://prelectur.stanford.edu/lecturers/derrida/), Derrida’s work has been the subject of more than four hundred books and five hundred dissertations. In the 1960s Derrida published a series of articles in Tel Quel, a French magazine dedicated to left-wing avant-garde theory, where other important figures in the post-modernist and constructivist movement, such as Foucault, Baudrillard, Lyotard, and Kristeva were also featured. Since then he has published books and articles which cover literary criticism, psychology and philosophy, he has made many appearances at US, Australian and British universities, and the legions of his followers continue to grow. Deconstruction is, typically, very difficult to define. My own understanding of the term is that it is a method of enquiry, and more specifically, a set of methods for analysing texts. The aim is to undermine “logocentrism”, by which is meant the concern with truth, rationality, logic and “the word”, the hallmarks of the Western philosophical tradition. I should say immediately that Derrida specifically denies that deconstruction can be reduced to a method, but nevertheless, that is what it seems to be to me. One of Derrida’s most faithful and influential followers, Jonathan Culler, says this: To deconstruct a discourse is to show how it undermines the philosophy it asserts, or the hierarchical oppositions on which it relies, by identifying in the text the rhetorical operations on which it relies, by identifying in the text the rhetorical operations that produce the supposed ground of argument, the key concept or premise. (Culler, 1982: 86)

The most important strategy for deconstructing a text is to identify binary hierarchical “oppositions” like speech/writing, male/female, truth/fiction, signified/signifier, reality/appearance. In such binary oppositions, Derrida claims, the first or left-hand term is given a superior status over the right-hand term, which is regarded by the logocentric as a negation of the first. Derrida

Recent relativists

suggests that we reverse the hierarchy — so that speech becomes a form of writing, understanding a form of misunderstanding, appearance a form of reality, etc. Derrida is well known for his assertion that writing is prior to speech, that speech is really a form of writing. Derrida argues that writing has been “repressed”, and he suggests that the “privileging” of oral speech at the expense of writing is the “fundamental operation” of logocentricism. It is the job of the post-modernist to reveal such operations. A second strategy is to uncover those key words, motifs and characters in a text that reveal its hidden agenda. Certain key words can be seen as belonging to oppositions (referred to above) that are essential to the text, but they can also be used by the alert postmodernist to subvert the text. Derrida gives the example of Rousseau’s use of the word “supplement”. In different texts Rousseau uses the word with reference to writing, and with reference to sex: writing, Rousseau says, is a supplement to speech, and masturbation is a supplement to sex. Derrida concludes “within the chain of supplements it was difficult to separate writing from onanism” (Derrida 1976: 165). If the central arguments in a text can be identified by “oppositions” and key words, then it is by scrutinising the rest of the text, looking at marginal features, paying attention to such things as the kind of metaphors used, that one finds important clues as to what is important. These strategies, combined with a general questioning of any items that are claimed to be original, natural, or self-evident, and a general eye for the “instabilities” within a text, allow the perceptive postmodernist reader to rip away the veils that hide the real meaning of texts, which is, if I understand the argument correctly, that they have no meaning other than that which is attributed to them by those that engage them. Deconstructing texts consists of re-interpreting them, so as to move beyond the restrictions of a logocentric view. There is very often a “savant” quality to Derrida’s writing, as there is in that of many postmodernists: they give the impression of having dealt a definitive blow to ignorance and finally seen the light. They are full of insights; they can turn their hands to literary and art criticism, sociology, psychology, philosophy, science, and, whatever the field, by adopting a radically critical approach so as to discover the variable wonders of complex ontology which lie outside the confines of the blinkers of rationality, they see through, behind, and beyond the limitations of the mainstream Western intellectual tradition. Derrida’s declared objective is to undermine the Western concept of rationality and all the presuppositions that underlie our ideas of science, common sense, reality, etc. This is obviously a very politically-influenced

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objective, and in general the postmodernists are clearly associated with leftwing politics, although, of course, they would claim to have gone beyond such a clearly logocentric polarity as left and right. While Derrida began as a literary critic, he is now equally, if not more, influential as a philosopher and his ideas have since been adopted by the new relativists in many academic departments, including those of the philosophy of science, sociology, anthropology, and of course, some branches of linguistics. Another way to see Derrida is as a successor to the structuralists. It was, after all, Levi-Strauss (1978) who saw the basic structures of myth as binary oppositions, pairs of ideas that gave each other value, like male/female, culture/ nature, universal/specific, mind/body, and that were, by definition, always separate. Derrida suggested that structuralism had stopped too soon, and that we had to take the extra step of destroying these binary oppositions whose function is to lock us inside the confines of a particular myth — rationality being the dominant Public Enemy Number One. Thus we must look for these binary pairs of oppositions and then look for examples where the division between them breaks down. In a broader context, structuralism sees all philosophical systems in terms of the features they share, and in terms of the historical circumstances that produced them. Structuralism also identifies a central element in different philosophical systems: from the early Christian era until the eighteenth century God was at the centre, the Enlightenment replaced God with rational thought, and in the 1960s, rationality was, so the argument runs, replaced by irrationality or desire. In 1976 Derrida published Structure, Sign, and Play and deconstructed the idea of a centre: there is no centre, no God, no rationality, no desire, there is only the text. Derrida thinks that scientific texts should be treated like any others, and that it is important to reject the special privileged status of scientific discourse. Not surprisingly, then, he also thinks that literary scholars trained in deconstruction are capable of a more profound understanding of scientific texts than scientists themselves, an understanding that uncovers the “real” meaning and the unconscious intentions of the writers. At the same time, Derrida, like many postmodernists, claims to be quite familiar with science, and is not averse to using some of its findings to support his own point of view. For example, Derrida is one of many postmodernists who claim that Godel’s proof supports their claims that “language is indeterminate”. Gross and Levitt give another example of Derrida’s pronouncements on scientific matters: The Einsteinian constant is not a constant, not a center. It is the very concept of variability — it is, finally, the concept of the game. In other words, it is not

Recent relativists

the concept of some thing — of a center from which an observer could master the field — but the very concept of the game. (Derrida, 1981, cited in Gross and Levitt, 1998: 79)

Gross and Levitt comment: The “Einsteinian constant” is, of course c, the speed of light in vacuo, roughly 300 million meters per second. Physicists, we can say with confidence, are not likely to be impressed by such verbiage, and are hardly apt to revise their thinking about the constancy of c. (Gross and Levitt, 1998: 79)

3.3.2 Foucault Let us now move on to Foucault, another key figure in the postmodernist movement, often credited with having invented the term. Although, in keeping with the postmodern tradition, Foucault denied that he was a structuralist, he shared many of the structuralist concerns. A typical example of this structuralist approach is seen in this statement: The analysis of statements is a historical analysis, but one that avoids all interpretations: it does not question things said as to what they are hiding, what they were “really” saying in spite of themselves, the unspoken element they contain, … but, on the contrary, it questions them as to the mode of existence, what it means for them to have appeared when and where they did — they and no others. (Foucault, 1980: 109)

This is in many ways the exact antithesis of Derrida: Foucault saw himself as an archaeologist and often criticised those who claimed to be re-interpreting texts. While sharing much of Derrida’s epistemological relativism, Foucault is, in my opinion, an altogether more approachable and interesting thinker. Foucault attacked the idea of subjectivity, and preferred to regard the basic ideas that people normally take to be permanent truths about human nature and society as changing myths influenced by social factors in the course of history. According to Foucault we understand society and ourselves by investigating the rules governing the construction of these myths, and the way claims about the truth and falsity of myths, their status, change. Foucault suggests that we should investigate how people’s everyday practices enable them to define themselves and to systematise knowledge; how they use concepts of nature, human agency or God to explain things. What is so characteristic of this approach is that the various types of explanations are never judged in terms of their correspondence to the facts; they are simply different ways of talking about the world that have

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their own advantages and disadvantages. Foucault rejected any talk of human nature, he even rejected cultural anthropology since, in his opinion, this was just another product of Western Being, as reconstituted around 1789. For Foucault, the revolution that took place in France in 1789 is a crucial turning point in our history because it introduced the political mentality of totalization that led to a new conceptualisation of science and the emergence of a new historical mode of Being. This idea of Being owes much to the work of Heidegger. Heidegger’s philosophy of “phenomenological existentialism” attempted to describe (not explain) the structure of human consciousness, which, Heidegger argued, only comes into existence as experience is generated. Heidegger claimed that modern man’s experience is “totally” bound up with technology: the “technologization” of man’s experience, including his experience of himself and other people, is total. Technology is a “total” world for modern man because he has turned his back on God, and without any recognition of, or dependence on, God, there is nothing outside technology. Foucault argued that in the era of the French revolution, Western man’s world became transformed, so that man became the object of scientific study and technological manipulation, in turn treating himself and others as objects. Foucault is particularly well known for his investigation of patterns of power within a society and the ways in which power relates to the self. Foucault argues that Western society has developed a new kind of power which he calls bio-power (Foucault, 1980), that is, a new system of control that traditional concepts of authority are unable to understand and criticise. Foucault sees his task as uncovering the real nature of these power relationships, avoiding all the trappings, and indeed the traps, of modern science, its labels, and its methods. Thus, Foucault’s critique is at base political and his agenda is also political. Any attempt to bring down the modern project must reject its paradigm, including its de-humanising scientific paradigm based on rationalism. Once again we see the familiar argument that theories of physics, society and the individual are no more than historically-determined myths, and, once again, we see the attempt to avoid the discredited language and ideology of modernism, and to forge new constructs and approaches. Perhaps Pennycook is the most striking example of the influence of Foucault in applied linguistics. Pennycook takes a very socio-political view of developments in his field, which extends to his view of research and theorybuilding in SLA. In one article (1989) Pennycook examines Krashen’s theories (see below) and argues that while the Natural Approach is a reaction to structuralism, it nevertheless reflects the “positivist”, “scientific” underpinnings which

Recent relativists

language teachers should challenge. According to Pennycook, although Krashen’s and Terrell’s method initially helped liberate teachers from the old methods and encouraged them to share authority with their students, it now represents the status quo, it legitimises the power and authority of an elite, and should consequently be submitted to critical analysis so that its biases are revealed. In a reply to a comment on his article (1991) Pennycook says that his attempt to “deconstruct the applied linguistics canon” has a number of aims. Having listed three of these aims, Pennycook continues: Fourth, I want to ask with respect to applied linguistics a question similar to Foucault’s (1980) “What types of knowledge do you want to disqualify in the very instant of your demand ‘Is it science?’ (p. 85); finally, and following from this last question, I want to explore the possibilities of Foucault’s phrase “the insurrection of subjugated knowledges” (p. 81) and thus to look not only at the construction of applied linguistics as a scientific discourse but also at what knowledges have been left out, submerged, and what, therefore, a new, broader, and more open applied linguistics might look like. (Pennycook, 1991: 749–750)

It is interesting that Pennycook uses the word “positivist” to typify a “scientific” approach. I have already explained why I think that this is a gross misrepresentation of a scientific approach, but nevertheless, it is clear that, like Markee (1994), Lantolf (1996a), Block (1996) and others in the field, Pennycook wants to challenge what he sees as a restrictive paradigm and to encourage a wider, more pluralistic approach. My point in mentioning Pennycook is to illustrate the influence of Foucault, but I nevertheless endorse Pennycook’s concerns, which properly separate political issues from methodological ones. I completely agree with Pennycook that it behoves us all to challenge orthodoxy and to broaden our particular field of enquiry. The important proviso being, of course, to establish ground rules for how, once an area of investigation has been defined, that investigation is carried out and evaluated. 3.3.3 Conclusion Returning to the main narrative (!) a few more short quotations from or about some of the leading figures of the postmodernist movement might do more than further exposition to help convey their particular point of view. Postmodern would be that which in the modern invokes the unpresentable in presentation itself, that which refuses the consolation of correct forms, refuses the consensus of taste permitting a common experience of nostalgia for the

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impossible, and inquires into new presentations — not to take pleasure in them, but to better produce the feeling that there is something unpresentable. (Lyotard, 1984: 76) Everything has already happened… nothing new can occur. There is no real world. (Baudrillard, cited in Rosenau, 1992: 64) Derrida tries to problematize the grounds of reason, truth, and knowledge… he questions the highest point by demanding reasoning for reasoning itself. (Norris 1990: 199) Foucault’s study of power and its shifting patterns is a fundamental concept of postmodernism. Foucault is considered a post-modern theorist because his work upsets the conventional understanding of history as a chronology of inevitable facts and replaces it with underlayers of suppressed and unconscious knowledge in and throughout history. These underlayers are the codes and assumptions of order, the structures of exclusion that legitimate the epistemes, by which societies achieve identities. (Appignanesi, 1995: 45) Post-modern methodology is post-positivist or anti-positivist. As substitutes for the scientific method the affirmatives look to feelings and personal experience… the sceptical post modernists look for substitutes for method because they argue we can never really know anything. (Rosenau 1992: 117) Postmodern interpretation is introspective and anti-objectivist which is a form of individualized understanding. It is more a vision than data observation. (Rosenau 1992: 119) There is no final meaning for any particular sign, no notion of unitary sense of text, no interpretation can be regarded as superior to any other. (Latour 1988: 182)

3.4 Constructivism Constructivism can claim a long and prestigious heritage: Dewey, Piaget, Bruner, and, perhaps most importantly today, Vygotsky, are all taken to endorse the constructivist cause. While the influence of postmodernism and constructivism on the field of applied linguistics in general and SLA research in particular are hard to separate, one can easily appreciate how much more strongly the latter impinges on theories of learning. Constructivist learning is based on students’ active participation in problem-solving and critical thinking regarding a learning activity which they find relevant and engaging. They are “constructing”

Recent relativists

their own knowledge by testing ideas and approaches based on their prior knowledge and experience, applying these to a new situation, and integrating the new knowledge gained with pre-existing intellectual constructs. (Brinner, 1999: 1)

There is nothing particularly worrying about that, one might well think, and indeed I would not challenge the considerable contribution that such a humanistic, liberal, approach to education has made in the past. It is when we come to the epistemological underpinnings of modern constructivist thinkers that we are back in radically relativist territory. Again, it is difficult to generalise, but the modern constructivists, or at least, some of them, adopt a rather more traditional style of academic writing and seem to be more interested in talking to those who take a realist view of things than some of the postmodernists. Once again, there is an enormous range of views about what constructivism is, and what the implications of a constructivist approach are, among the constructivists themselves. One thing constructivists seem to have in common is their total opposition to the idea of objective truth. Denzin and Lincoln (1998) explain. Constructivists are deeply committed to the view that what we take to be objective knowledge and truth is the result of perspective. Knowledge and truth are created, not discovered by mind. They emphasise the pluralistic and plastic character of reality — pluralistic in the sense that reality is expressible in a variety of symbol and language systems; plastic in the sense that reality is stretched and shaped to fit purposeful acts of intentional human agents. They endorse the view that “contrary to common sense, there is no unique “real world” that pre-exists and is independent of human mental activity and human symbolic language” (Bruner, 1986). In place of a realist view of theories and knowledge, constructivists emphasise the instrumental and practical function of theory construction and knowing. (Denzin and Lincoln, 1998: 7)

Lincoln and Guba (1985) have proposed a “Constructivist paradigm” as a replacement for what they label the “conventional, scientific, or positivist paradigm of enquiry”. Their constructivist philosophy is idealist (they assume that “what is real is a construction in the minds of individuals”), pluralist and relativist: There are multiple, often conflicting, constructions and all (at least potentially) are meaningful. The question of which or whether constructions are true is sociohistorically relative. (Lincoln and Guba, 1985: 85)

Lincoln and Guba assume that the observer cannot (should not) be neatly disentangled from the observed in the activity of inquiring into constructions.

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Constructions in turn are resident in the minds of individuals: They do not exist outside of the persons who created and hold them; they are not part of some “objective” world that exists apart from their constructors. (Lincoln and Guba, 1985: 143)

Thus constructivism is based on the principle of interaction. The results of an enquiry are always shaped by the interaction of inquirer and inquired into which renders the distinction between ontology and epistemology obsolete: what can be known and the individual who comes to know it are fused into a coherent whole. (Guba: 1990: 19)

Brinner (1999) develops her idea of constructivism from an educational perspective. She says that constructivists reject the realist view of epistemology because it sees knowledge as a passive reflection of the external, objective reality and implies a process of “instruction”: the subject receives information from the environment, it is “instructed”. She continues: The naive view is that our senses work like a camera that just projects an image of how the world “really” is onto our brain, and use that image as a kind of map, an encoding in a slightly different format of the objective structure “out there”. Such a view runs quickly into a host of conceptual problems, mainly because it ignores the infinite complexity of the world. Moreover, detailed observation reveals that in all practical cases, cognition does not work like that. It rather turns out that the subject is actively generating plenty of potential models, and that the role of the outside world is merely limited to reinforcing some of these models while eliminating others (selection). Since Constructivism rejects any direct verification of knowledge by comparing the constructed model with the outside world, its most important issue is how the subject can choose between different constructions to select the “right one”. Without such a selection criterion, Constructivism would lapse into absolute relativism: the assumption that any model is as adequate as any other. The two most often used criteria are coherence, agreement between the different cognitive patterns within an individual’s brain, and consensus, agreement between the different cognitive patterns of different individuals. The latter position leads to “social Constructivism”, which sees knowledge solely as the product of social processes of communication and negotiation (the “social construction of reality”). We reject these positions as unduly restrictive, and take a much more pragmatic stance, where we note that the adequacy of knowledge depends on many different criteria, none of which has an absolute priority over the others. People can very well use incoherent models, over which there is no agreement with others, but which still are valuable for adaptation to a complex world.

Recent relativists

These criteria will include at least subjective coherence, intersubjective consensus, and (indirect) comparison with the “objective” environment. (Brinner 1999: 2)

At least here, Brinner acknowledges that the central issue raised by such a relativist methodology is how one chooses between rival constructions. Her answer, unfortunately, does not take things very far, although by saying that she does not accept the position of social constructivism she indicates the breadth of views within the camp. Lincoln has this to say: Although all constructions must be considered meaningful, some are rightly labelled “malconstruction” because they are incomplete, simplistic, uninformed, internally inconsistent, or derived by an inadequate methodology. The judgement of whether a given construction is malformed can only be made with reference to the paradigm out of which the construction operates; in other words, criteria or standards are framework-specific, so, for instance, a religious construction can only be judged adequate or inadequate utilizing the particular theological paradigm from which it is derived. (Lincoln, 1990: 144)

There is in constructivism, as in postmodernism, an obvious attempt to throw off the paradigmatic blinkers of modernist rationality, in order to grasp a more complex, subjective reality. Perhaps it has led to new insights into human imagination, perhaps poetry or novels or works of art have been created under its influence, almost certainly constructivists feel they know something that those adhering to a rationalist epistemology do not. Nevertheless, I confess that I can find nothing in constructivist writings to persuade me that it is a fruitful attitude to adopt as far as constructing a theory of SLA is concerned; the constructivists’ attempts at developing a coherent epistemology strike me as hopelessly muddled. I turn now to a discussion of relativist arguments in general, which will include the arguments of the post-modernists and constructivists in particular.

Notes 1.It should be noted that Barnes and Bloor were not joint authors until later (Barnes and Bloor, 1982), and that there were considerable differences between their separate accounts of the strong programme in the sociology of knowledge. 2.References to “games” in general appear all too frequently in postmodernist texts these days — in the field of SLA see Block 1996, and van Lier 1994, for examples.

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Chapter 4

In defence of rationalism

4.1 Introduction Chapter 2 began with a brief description of the problem of induction, which neither empiricists nor positivists successfully overcame, and which Popper then claimed to have solved with his notion of falsification. Chapter 2 went on to explain the serious doubts that were raised about this putative solution, and that attempts to reply to these doubts were not entirely successful. In Chapter 3, the arguments of more recent relativists were examined. I will now deal more completely with the relativist arguments, and defend the rationalist position.

4.2 Against relativism I define relativism as the view that there is no objective reality; that the way we perceive the world depends on who and what we are, and where and when we live. More particularly, the relativist position that I want to disagree with claims that there is no rational standard of judgement that can be used to decide between opposing theories. 4.2.1 There is no one “scientific method” While the objections outlined in Chapter 2 to what Lakatos (1978a) called “naive falsification” are quite insurmountable, I suggest, nevertheless, that the problems of induction, and those encountered by a strict application of Popper’s falsification criterion, do not add up to any real case for abandoning a rational programme in research. Sokal and Bricmont’s approach to these problems seems apposite: We stress the methodological continuity between scientific knowledge and everyday knowledge. This is, in our view, the proper way to respond to various sceptical challenges and to dispel the confusion generated by radical interpretations of

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correct philosophical ideas such as the underdetermination of theories by data. (Sokal and Bricmont, 1998: 55)

To the extent that Popper, or anyone else in the philosophy of science, attempts to answer Hume’s radical scepticism, and to prescribe “the” scientific method, they are probably doomed to failure. But this does not warrant going to the other extreme. I suggest that the arguments of Kuhn, Feyerabend and others can be regarded as either valid critiques of attempts to formalise the scientific method, or as reformulations of Humean radical scepticism, and that neither provides any real justification for abandoning a rationalist approach. First, then, we should resist attempts to formalise the scientific method. Reality cannot be fully apprehended, empirical data are often very hard to interpret, any individual instance of falsification can be challenged, thousands of such instances are in fact ignored, there is no algorithm for hypothesis testing, and there is no hard and fast demarcation line between science and non-science. We must, I suggest, reject the positivist programme completely, and abandon their, and other, attempts to build a monolithic united science that boasts a single foolproof method which guarantees truth. What the work of Kuhn, Feyerabend, Quine, Koestler and others has done is to emphasise the disunity and diversity of science; they have quite rightly pointed out that science is conducted by people who can be, and indeed have been, prejudiced, corrupt, misguided, dishonest, ambitious, etc., that science takes place in history and within a community, that the development of a theory is neither steady nor linear, and so on. But none of this has any necessary implications for the truth or worth of scientific theories. Feyerabend was against the pretensions and institutionalised idolisation of science, and as an anarchist he loathed those smug scientists who simply assumed the superiority of their methods and achievements, but he was not against science. Second, we must accept that there is no philosophical refutation of radical scepticism since we cannot know the external world directly. But very little follows from this. Both Kuhn and Feyerabend make the mistake of confusing a critique of attempts to formalise the scientific method with an adoption of Humean radical scepticism, and in so doing they throw the baby out with the bath water. Of course all methodologies have their limitations, but this does not justify the conclusion that anything goes. There is no way we can refute radical scepticism, no way we can prove that the world exists to those who choose to adopt systematic scepticism or solipsism, but this is not to say that there is anything to recommend adopting such a view. As Popper stressed, the irrefutability of an idea is a weakness not a strength: just because we cannot falsify an

In defence of rationalism

idea is no reason at all to believe that it is true. Having made these two general points, I will now review a few of the problems related to a rationalist approach discussed above. 4.2.2 Underdetermination Laudan distinguishes two generic types of underdetermination. The first he calls “Humean underdetermination”, which amounts to the claim that (because of the universal character of theories) for any finite body of evidence there are indefinitely many mutually contradictory theories, each of which logically entails that evidence. (Laudan 1996)

The second type of underdetermination is Quine’s version, discussed briefly above, which claims that “one may hold onto any theory whatever in the face of any evidence whatever.” As Laudan points out, the Humean version is an “extraordinarily weak” thesis, and one that says very little to challenge a rational approach. While it may be the case that infinitely many theories could be reconcilable with any body of evidence, it is not the case that all actual, existing theories are; in fact, there is often not more than one theory in a certain field that is compatible with the data. As for Quine’s version, this rests on the Duhem-Quine thesis described above, which claims that any particular instance of data seemingly falsifying a theory is only a challenge to “a web of beliefs”. It challenges one undetermined part of a block of theories, one component of a complex system of multiple theories, assumptions about instrumentation, etc. Consequently, by making suitable adjustments to our assumptions, the recalcitrant evidence can be reconciled with the theory. This is, of course, true in a trivial sense: by removing any part or parts of a theory that clash with the evidence, and/or by adding an ad hoc hypothesis or two, the theory can be saved. But it is precisely by evaluating what is lost by such a rescue operation, in terms of the theory’s explanatory power and its evidential support, that we are able to make rational choices between rival theories. In short, underdetermination, while appearing to be a serious problem for rationalists, turns out to be of little practical importance. Perhaps its main value is in pointing out that deductive arguments are, if not as problematic as inductive ones, at least not free from problems, and thus Popper’s proposals require substantial modification. But there is, I suggest, no good argument here

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to support a relativist case: these considerations are important for understanding the limits of our knowledge, and it is quite right that Popper’s “naive falsificationist” position should have come under such heavy fire. Not even Popper would say that any instance of falsification must necessarily bring down a theory, there are, pace Popper, obvious inductionist elements in any prediction and any causal explanation, and there will never be empirical proof of any general statement. All of which is a long way from supposing that, whatever the facts, all theories are equally valid. The same arguments apply to the related problem of never knowing which part of a theory is responsible for failure to satisfy a particular test. While at first glance this seems an extremely serious problem, in fact, the effort to isolate different parts of a complex theory is an important part of scientists’ work, almost a criterion for scientific status. Scientists are well aware of the complexity of theories and the need to look at all the various elements that might explain why any particular experiment contradicts a theory. (Couvalis, 1997: 145–190) Indeed, this is an area where scientists are particularly careful, and in most cases experimental design allows scientists to be quite clear about what is being tested. The academic journals of all fields testify to the importance scientists, including social scientists, give to this problem; it is a top priority. 4.2.3 Kuhn and Feyerabend As we saw earlier, Kuhn and Feyerabend, wittingly or not, provided relativists with what many consider to be very heavy ammunition. The following discussion is intended to dispel the doubts raised at the beginning of Chapter 3. One of the most frequent criticisms of Kuhn is that he confuses the history and sociology of science with the philosophy of science. Chalmers (1978, 1990), for example, correctly states that when Kuhn points out that a successful change in a paradigm occurred by accident, for irrational reasons, he has not proved that science itself is irrational. Suppose that Theory X was originally adopted for faulty reasons, but is today empirically established beyond reasonable doubt, and is generally accepted as being the best explanation of certain phenomena currently available. Theory X is accepted because scientists have subjected it to rigorous tests that allow them to accept it, for the time being at least, regardless of mistakes made in the early stages of its development. Similarly, however altered the mental states of the scientists who first challenged the theory that the earth was at the centre of the universe might have been, and whatever (greed, ambition, a search for truth, …) inspired the theory that the earth moves round

In defence of rationalism

the sun at a certain rate, and that as a result, the sun will rise in the East approximately every 24 hours, it remains a well-established hypothesis that we can reasonable ascertain and use today. Which is not to say that it will be regarded as true in 100 years time. Kuhn deliberately intertwined his historical and philosophical arguments, and this is because he, like Lakatos, believed that the history of science has important implications for a discussion about how scientific research should proceed. But let us for the moment restrict the discussion to questions related to theory construction today. Central to Kuhn’s argument about paradigm shifts (Kuhn, 1962, 1977) is that paradigms crucially affect perception, and thus different paradigms cannot be easily rationally compared by participants (see Chapter 2.6 above). This view of perception is profoundly relativistic, and while Kuhn always refused to accept the conclusion his argument so obviously implies (see particularly Kuhn, 1977: 23–45), many in the relativist camp (see, for example Lincoln and Guba, 1985, and Block, 1996) have since been quick to embrace it. Basically, the argument is that by adopting a paradigm, those who work within it perceive the world in such a way that what they notice (what they deem important or trivial), the way they classify the things they notice, and the sense they make of their experiences, are all crucially affected. Under this “umbrella” are the problems outlined above in Chapter 3.4 about our perceptions, the incommensurability of theories, and the theory-laden nature of observation statements. So, let us deal with these problems. Kuhn is quite right to say that those working in science focus on only a narrow range of features of the world that they observe, and that this is influenced by the paradigm under which their work takes place, but there is nothing irrational about this. Whereas the relativists take Kuhn’s argument as evidence of some inherent irrational bias which necessarily robs the scientist’s work of objectivity, in fact it is perfectly proper for scientists to concentrate on those perceptually salient features of the observable world which allow them to solve the problems they have posed themselves. This is precisely the picture of science that Popper paints: it rejects the Baconian view, it challenges the first principles of the empiricists in general and of Locke, Hume and the Positivists in particular, and insists that we cannot help but be extremely selective in our observations. As for the wider claim that the paradigm is so all-pervading in the mind of the scientist who works under it that he is incapable of perceiving the salient features of things which are independent of that paradigm, this does not stand up to examination. However much our perceptions are influenced by adopting

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any particular point of view, what we could notice, what could be perceptually salient does not change — unless we adopt a totally solipsistic approach. We can learn to notice things that we were not previously focusing on, and the existence of such anomalies as the Müller-Lyer illusion, where we can find it very difficult to change our perception once we have seen one “view”, does not alter the fact that in ordinary cases we can learn how to re-group objects and see similarities between them which we did not notice before. There are limits to perceptual manipulation: in the rabbit/duck picture reproduced on p. 34, we cannot get it to look like the Empire State building or a waterfall. Our experience is sometimes untrustworthy, because of bad conditions, or because we are looking at two-dimensional representations, but this does not warrant the conclusion that it is so theory-laden as to be subjective: our beliefs do not determine the way things look. As Fodor (1983) has pointed out, whether we believe that the two lines in the Müller-Lyer illusion are equal or unequal when we observe the diagram, they continue to look unequal, and thus our beliefs do not cause them to look unequal. Perhaps here we should pause very quickly to chase the problems of perception to their epistemological roots. Since we are forced to give some explanation of perception, we may adopt the view that our perceptions “represent” an external world that we never directly “know”. This leads to the possibility of scepticism, Humean or other, since we can argue that nobody has ever seen anything other than mental representations. For example, I have never seen the desk I am working at, and thus the desk, and everything else “in the world”, is mental. From here it is but one small step to the inevitable solipsistic dead end: it gets us precisely nowhere. To avoid such a dead end we must accept that we have perceptual knowledge of an external world; that when I look at the desk in front of me there is a causal process taking place between that desk and my mental representations of it. Assuming that we accept that there is an external world out there to explain, the business of science is solving problems, and solving problems does not involve just looking at the world. It involves focusing our attention on something, making conjectures about some problem we have posed ourselves, and then looking for evidence which supports or challenges those conjectures. Kuhn does not offer any conclusive arguments (and nor, I suggest, does anybody else) to support the case that the crucial step of examining the world around us for evidence which tells us something about our theory is so affected by our preconceptions as to make an objective appraisal of empirical data impossible. Kuhn’s arguments about incommensurability are similarly exaggerated.

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Even if, in exceptional cases, changes in paradigms are due to non-empirical factors, this does not justify the argument that the new paradigm, once accepted, conditions our perception of the world to such an extent that only our subsequent experience can be used to test it. As Maudlin (1996) points out, if Aristotle were presented with moon rock today, he would conclude that the moon was not made of “aether”, and that its natural movement is not fundamentally different from that of terrestrial material. The sense in which one’s paradigm may influence one’s experience of the world cannot be so strong as to guarantee that one’s experience will always accord with one’s theories, else the need to revise theories would never arise. (Maudlin 1996: 442)

There is also the “self-refutation” objection to Kuhn’s, Feyerabend’s, and other relativists’ versions of the history of science, and the claimed incommensurability of theories. Historians employ methods of research not very different to those used in science: studying documents, drawing inferences from the data, etc. If we cannot trust the arguments used in physics to arrive at reliable conclusions, why should we trust them in history? When Kuhn (1965: 67) describes the differences between Aristotelian and Galilean accounts of the pendulum, for example, he is doing precisely what his thesis claims cannot be done. But of course the two descriptions of the same phenomenon can be compared, and there are good reasons, as opposed to irrationally motivated ones, for preferring the Galilean one. As for Feyerabend, his arguments, like those of Kuhn and Lakatos, intertwine historical and philosophical issues. Feyerabend’s treatment of the history of physics suggests that it is far removed from the patient, rational process we were taught at school, and resembles more a process of religious conversion. I have already suggested that this says nothing about the objectivity of scientists’ findings, nor about the rationality or otherwise of accepting modern theories of physics. Feyerabend’s other main point concerns the incommensurability of two theories, and I have already pointed out that this argument refutes itself. It is worth repeating this point because one version or another of incommensurability is at the heart of many relativists’ arguments. Feyerabend suggests that the Ptolemaic and Copernican theories describe different worlds and thus cannot be objectively compared. For example, Ptolomaists refer to planets as features of crystalline spheres whereas Copernicans refer to them as earthlike objects in the sky. Feyerabend argues that the two world pictures that emerge from these two theories refer to different items (in the same domain) and the adoption of

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one picture or the other by this or that group is therefore necessarily irrational, since there can be no way of objectively comparing the two. But to show that there are two different incommensurable world pictures which refer to items in different worlds, Feyerabend must use our present concepts and fundamental assumptions to do so, which, according to him, will be so completely different as to make the comparison impossible. In other words, Feyerabend contradicts himself and fails to show that changes in theories are so radical that competing theories cannot be assessed by a common standard. I suggest that when answering the cases made by Kuhn and Feyerabend, and also to some extent, the cases made by those in the field of the sociology of knowledge, we need to be quite clear about what it is that we want to defend. It is surely the rationality of scientific investigation that needs defending, by which I mean that we need to characterise it and recommend it as a methodology to be used in theory construction. I think both Lakatos and Laudan make the mistake of equating a defence of rationality with a defence of the history of science, which hands the sociologists of knowledge victory on a plate. Whatever motives scientists had for doing what they did, and taking the decisions they did, they gave us theories, and this is the basis of objective knowledge, what Popper (1972) refers to as “World Three”: We may distinguish the following three worlds or universes: first the world of physical objects or of physical states; secondly the world of states of consciousness, or of mental states, or perhaps of behavioural dispositions to act; and thirdly, the world of objective contents of thought, especially of scientific and poetic thoughts and of works of art. (Popper, 1972: 106)

Popper develops this idea: In our attempts to solve problems we may invent new theories. These theories, again, are produced by us; they are the product of our critical and creative thinking, in which we are greatly helped by other existing third-world theories. Yet the moment we have produced these theories, they create new, unintended and unexpected problems, autonomous problems, problems to be discovered. This explains why the third world which, in its origin, is our product, is autonomous in what may be called its ontological status. It explains why we can act upon it, and add to it or help its growth, even though there is no man who can master even a small corner of this world. (Popper, 1972: 161)

The key questions are surely: ‘How can we improve on current theories?’, and ‘How can we (better) explain the phenomena we are interested in?’ It is, I imagine, uncontroversial to suggest that looking at past attempts to explain the

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problems we are currently concerned with is one valuable method of assessing our current theories about them, but there is no need to be bound by the historical beliefs of past scientists. In other words, it is not necessary for a good account of rationality to fit the history of science. 4.2.4 Postmodernists and constructivists What is to be made of the postmodernists and constructivists? To the extent that, like Feyerabend, they are making a political point, one may sympathise. In many ways the modern project has indeed failed. There is a great deal of injustice in the world, and there are good grounds for thinking that a ruling minority who benefit from the way economic activity is organised are responsible for manipulating information in general, and research programmes in particular, in extremely sophisticated ways, so as to bolster and increase their power and control. To the extent that postmodernists and constructivists feel that science and its discourse are riddled with a repressive ideology, and to the extent that they feel it necessary to develop their own language and discourse to combat that ideology, they are making a political statement, as they are when they say that “Theory conceals, distorts, and obfuscates, it is alienated, disparated, dissonant, it means to exclude, order, and control rival powers” (Culler, 1982: 67). They have every right to express such views, and it is surely a good idea to encourage people to scrutinise texts, to try to uncover their “hidden agendas”. Likewise the constructivist educational programme can be welcomed as an attempt to follow the tradition of humanistic liberal education. Where the postmodernists are mistaken is in their assumption that their political analysis has necessary implications for the veracity or otherwise of any particular theory. And where they seem to fail miserably is in the alternative they offer to a rationalist research programme. When one adopts a radical version of post-modernism, when one looks at the world from Derrida’s perspective, what are the results for theory construction? What are the results of all this analysis? No causal explanations, or theories, are allowed, it seems. All attempts to explain, refute, establish, confirm, etc., must be deconstructed and exposed as the logocentric-serving myths that they are; the task is to undermine, and overcome not just science but language and common sense. To what end? Culler, a committed postmodernist, claims that The effect of deconstructive analyses, as numerous readers can attest, is one of knowledge and feelings of mastery. (Culler, 1992, cited in Searle 1993: 179)

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Searle comments: The trouble with this claim is that it requires us to have some way of distinguishing genuine knowledge from its counterfeits, and justified feelings of mastery from mere enthusiasms generated by a lot of pretentious verbosity. (Searle, 1993: 179)

In short, if I may play the game for a moment, constructivism does not seem very constructive. The constructivists obviously have a point when they say (not that they said it first) that science is a social construct. Science is certainly a social institution, and, as has already been indicated, scientists’ goals, their criteria, their decisions and achievements are historically and socially influenced. And all the terms that scientists use, like “test”, “hypothesis”, “findings”, etc., are invented and given meaning through social interaction. Of course. But, and here is the crux, this does not make the results of social interaction (in this case, a scientific theory) an arbitrary consequence of it. Popper, in reply to criticisms of his naïve falsification position, defends the idea of objective knowledge by arguing that it is precisely through the process of mutual criticism incorporated into the institution of science that the individual short-comings of its members are largely cancelled out. As Bunge (1996) points out “The only genuine social constructions are the exceedingly uncommon scientific forgeries committed by a team.” (Bunge, 1996: 104). Bunge gives the example of the Piltdown man that was “discovered” by two pranksters in 1912, authenticated by many experts, and unmasked as a fake in 1950. According to the existence criterion of constructivism-relativism we should admit that the Piltdown man did exist — at least between 1912 and 1950–just because the scientific community believed in it. (Bunge, 1996: 105)

And here, perhaps, is the heart of the confusion for all those who take a radically relativist position, whether they be proponents of the Strong Programme in the sociology of knowledge, social constructivists, or postmodernists: the deliberate confusion of two separate issues: claims about the existence or non-existence of particular things, facts and events, and claims about how one arrives at beliefs and opinions. Whether or not the Piltdown man is a million years old is a question of fact. What the scientific community thought about the skull it examined in 1912 is also a question of fact. When we ask what led that community to believe in the hoax, we are looking for an explanation of a social phenomenon, and that is a separate issue. Just because for forty years the Piltdown

In defence of rationalism

man was supposed to be a million years old does not make him so, however interesting the fact that so many people believed it might be. As Paul Boghossian points out, the class of things that can be labelled social constructions is enormous: nation states, the dollar, university education and the BBC are random examples. Anything that could not have existed without societies actually defines the class, and likewise, anything that actually does or did exist independently of societies cannot be a social construction, dinosaurs, giraffes and proteins are examples. “How could they have been socially constructed, if they existed before societies did?” (Boghossian, 2001: 7) Yet it is precisely this obvious distinction that is ignored in many of the constructivist texts, which claim that our beliefs are all we have, and that there is nothing “out there” that exists independently of them. Latour and Woolgar’s study (1979) referred to above is a good example. While it might very well be the case that we believe that dinosaurs existed, and that DNA exists today, because the scientists tell us so, it remains, for those of us who want to take a realist, rationalist view of the world at least, an independent question of fact as to whether or not such things exist, i.e. whether or not our beliefs are true or false. When one examines the constructivist methodology as outlined above, there are many suggestions that seem perfectly acceptable. When Lincoln and Guba say “There are multiple, often conflicting, constructions and all (at least potentially) are meaningful. The question of which or whether constructions are true is sociohistorically relative.” (Lincoln and Guba, 1985: 85), this is a perfectly acceptable comment, as far as it goes. If Lincoln and Guba argue that the observer cannot be neatly disentangled from the observed in the activity of inquiry, then again the point can be well taken. But when they insist that constructions are exclusively in the minds of individuals, that “they do not exist outside of the persons who created and hold them; they are not part of some “objective” world that exists apart from their constructors”, and that “what can be known and the individual who comes to know it are fused into a coherent whole”, then they have disappeared into a Humpty Dumpty world where anything can mean whatever anybody wants it to mean. It is when constructivists and postmodernists insist on a radically relativist epistemology, when they rule out the possibility of data collection, of empirical tests, of any rational criterion for judging between rival explanations that I believe those of us interested in doing research and building theories should part company with them. Solipsism and science, like solipsism and anything else of course, do not go well together. If postmodernists reject any understanding of time because “the modern understanding of time controls and measures

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individuals”, if they argue that no theory is more correct than any other, if they believe that “everything has already happened”, that “there is no real world”, that “we can never really know anything” (see Section 3.3.3 above), then I think they should continue their “game”, as they call it, in their own way, and let those of us who prefer to work with more rationalist assumptions get on with scientific research. There is also the question of what seems to me to be a deliberate attempt by some postmodernists to make their arguments obscure and difficult to follow. There is, I suggest, a lot of similarity here with the publications of the Vienna Circle: most people thought it was extremely difficult to understand the writings of the Vienna Circle, and this finds an echo today in the difficulty many experience when confronting the texts of those who adopt a postmodernist approach. Those without a sound mathematical training (and indeed, many with such a training, too) who have attempted to read any of the Vienna Circle’s work are usually struck by the enormous difficulty of following the arguments. Russell and Whitehead claimed that there were fewer than ten people in the world capable of understanding Principia Matematica, Carnap is almost as taxing, and those unfortunate students of Wittgenstein who are unwise enough to try and articulate the master’s thoughts end up talking as enigmatically as the man himself.4 The question is, are the texts difficult because of the nature of the subject, or because the language is deliberately obscure and more complicated than necessary? Sokal and Bricmont, whose book attempts, in their words, to “unmask” the postmodernist writings of Lacan, Irigaray and others, suggest some criteria for distinguishing between these two types of difficulty. The crucial criterion is this one: When the difficulty is genuine, it is usually possible to explain in simple terms, at some rudimentary level, what phenomena the theory is examining, what are its main results and what are the strongest arguments in its favour. By contrast, some obscure discourses give the impression that the reader is being asked to make a qualitative jump, or to undergo an experience similar to a revelation, in order to understand them. Again, one cannot help being reminded of the emperor’s new clothes. (Sokal and Bricmont, 1998: 177)

Godel’s theorem is, I am told, an enormously elegant argument, but the original is far too technical, too difficult, for me to follow. Thanks, however, to Nagel and Newman’s extraordinarily clear account of the theorem in their short, lucid book (1959), I can appreciate the argument, and its importance. Thus, Godel’s

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Proof is genuinely difficult, and Nagel and Newman have managed to help a wider audience appreciate the main arguments. On the other hand, the writings of Derrida, Lyotard, and other postmodernists, are extremely difficult to read, and attempts to make them more accessible have largely failed. There are, of course, a plethora of introductory texts, but these are usually disowned, in true postmodernist style, by the original authors. Perhaps the authors feel that to be understood is to betray the cause. There is also the more mundane matter of wanting to sound profound. Either way, my feeling is that many postmodernist texts are difficult because the writer deliberately makes them obscure and because, as Sokal and Bricmont (1998: 177) put it, “the reader is asked to make a qualitative jump” — leaving reason behind. I would stress the broadness of the rationalist definition of research and theory construction; the relativists often seem unaware of what science, and rational enquiry in general, involves. It seems necessary to point out that science is not the same as positivism, or empiricism, it does not exclude certain types of relativism, it does not prescribe any fixed methodology.

4.3 The rationalist case In the development of Western philosophy, rationalism and empiricism were seen as mutually exclusive. Rationalism was based on the assertion that knowledge of the world is gained by the working of the intellect, reasoning from assumptions to conclusions, with various rules of logic and language to guide the process. Empiricism, on the other hand, was based on the assertion that knowledge of the world is derived from observing actual events in the real world: everything the mind knows comes through the senses. The rationalist case I wish to defend is that knowledge of the world is gained in all sorts of ways, but that the most reliable knowledge comes from engaging in research which leads to the development of theories, i.e. attempts to explain phenomena. These theories are developed with various rules of logic and language to guide the process and are scrutinised so as to discover flaws in terminology or reasoning, and to build the clearest, simplest version of the theory. Such theories should then lay themselves open to empirical tests: there must be the possibility of observing events in the world that contradict them.

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4.3.1 Critical rationalism What of rationality itself? Bartley, (1982, 1987) tackles the problem of infinite regress: whatever justification I give for my belief will depend on an appeal to an authority which will then in turn need justifying. Bartley points out that this implies that there can be no justification for a belief in rationality. The grounding of a belief in a reason R1, demands justification of R1, and each new R1 has to be similarly justified. Bartley argues, in a way very reminiscent of Popper’s answer to the problem of induction, that we must forget about justification and ground our beliefs in the attitude of criticism. We locate rationality in criticism. A rationalist is, for us, one who holds all his positions — including standards, goals, decisions, criteria, authorities, and especially his own fundamental framework or way of life, open to criticism. He withholds nothing from examination and review. (Bartley, 1982: 128)

This more viable version of Popper’s critical rationalism Bartley calls “pancritical rationalism.” It suggests that the goal of rationalism is to root out intellectual error, and it asserts that a theory is held rationally if it contains no built-in devices for avoiding or deflecting critical arguments, empirical or otherwise, that its holder tries as hard as possible to expose himself or herself to criticism, and that these two conditions are themselves subject to the same principle. In answer to the objection that pancritical rationalism itself is not open to criticism, and that therefore it does not solve the problem of infinite regress, Bartley insists that pancritical rationalism is, more than anything, an attitude; as Redman (1993: 55) puts it: for Bartley “the demarcation criterion is not criticisability but vulnerability to criticism.” This is, in my opinion, an acceptable account of rationality, and one which Popper himself would accept as a generalisation of his philosophy. It is a fairly long way from “naive falsification”, and indeed, as Bartley accepts, embraces a certain relativistic element. In order to criticise a position, other positions have to be accepted for the moment — but this does not put them beyond criticism. Pancritical rationalism is hence compatible with one kind of relativism. The survival of a position is relative to its success in weathering serious criticism. A position that survives at one time may be refuted later. This kind of relativism is harmless. It is an example of the way that learning proceeds by trial and error — by guessing and trying to criticise guesses: the making and destroying of theories is part of the evolutionary process. (Bartley, 1982: 160)

In defence of rationalism

4.3.2 Observing a real world As for observation, in order to understand our experiences I assume that there is an external world that corresponds to the images of it provided by our senses. Of course, it does not correspond exactly to our perceptions of it, of course our perceptions and images of the world change, and are influenced by a great many factors, both individual and social. The question is simply to what extent we can trust the data we derive from our senses, and I suggest that the answer is: to the extent that we take a practical, objective approach to them, establishing criteria for measuring and comparing them as carefully and systematically as possible. We should appreciate the difference between data and phenomena (see below), appreciate that conceptual considerations (the theoretical consistency, coherence, simplicity, and clarity of theories) are as important as empirical problems, and appreciate, above all, that the rationality of any theory must be analysed on a case-by-case basis. Scientists articulate problems, make observations, perform experiments, propose hypotheses, build theories and test them, all the while communicating their results to colleagues. The content of the messages that accumulate and that are available in the public domain (rather than the personal knowledge of individual scientists, their memories and thoughts), are what we can call scientific knowledge. Popper (1972) refers to it as “World 3”, and distinguishes it from subjective knowledge by saying that it is “knowledge without a knowing subject”. The objectivity of scientific knowledge stems from its being a social construct, not owing its origin to any particular individual but created communally. Einstein’s relativity theory established him as a great scientist, but the final product, the established theory and the body of evidence it has accumulated, belong to humanity. At this point I must return briefly to the issues raised by Lakatos and Laudan. In an attempt to answer problems posed by Kuhn and others about the rationality of choosing between rival theories, Lakatos and Laudan suggest that scientists should be seen as part of a “research programme”, or a “research tradition” respectively. In Lakatos’ case the negative heuristic protects the hard core, and programmes, rather than theories, are assessed in terms of the ability of the programme to come up with changes to the protective belt that produce novel predictions, rather than ad hoc bolt-ons that do no more than desperately try to protect the hard core. In Laudan’s case, a research tradition comprises a number of theories, and they can be collectively assessed in terms of how many problems they deal with. We have already seen that both are attempts to answer

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Kuhn and to insist that most of the data of the history of science can be explained rationally; scientists mostly made rational decisions about which Theories to believe in. Given the historical data, such an attempt is bound to fail, but it is not necessary to defend the actions and decisions of past scientists in order to defend rationalism, in the sense I am recommending using the word here. Nor is it necessary to consciously identify oneself with a particular programme or tradition. I can see no good reasons for suggesting that those who are working in any academic field, and who are faced with the choice between two opposing theories, should adopt either of the strategies recommended by Lakatos or Laudan. The only real controversy is between rationalists and radical relativists, and once this epistemological issue is resolved we would, I suggest, be well advised to keep the history and sociology of science, and the so-called sociology of knowledge, out of discussions about theory construction and assessment. 4.3.3 The practice of science To return to the general argument, Ziman (1978) argues that what distinguishes scientific knowledge from other intellectual artefacts of human society is, firstly, that its contents are what he calls “consensible”, by which he means that each message should not be so obscure that the recipient is unable either to give it full assent or offer well-founded objections. Secondly, the goal of science is to achieve the maximum degree of “consensuality” — the general body of scientific knowledge should consist of facts and principles that are firmly established and accepted by a majority of the scientific community. There is of course an element of circularity here: scientists decide what counts as scientific knowledge and scientific knowledge is what scientists decide it is. While consensibility is a necessary condition for scientific communication, only a small proportion of the whole body of science is undeniably consensual at a given moment, and it is questionable if this second goal can be defended. Ziman (1978) suggests that “fully consensible communication” requires an unambiguous language, mathematics being the ideal form. So use of natural languages needs to be carefully controlled, which, Ziman points out, often leads scientific discourse to lack any literary merit, the authors being primarily interested in maximising the transmission of unambiguous information. Scientists are, of course, very keen to persuade their colleagues, and the community must always be on guard against rhetoric or sloppy reasoning. Illdefined terms, ambiguities, unwarranted conclusions, must be uncovered by

In defence of rationalism

the community as they strive for the clearest, simplest expression of the theory. The exchange of these logically consistent messages should refer to recognisable and reproducible events within the experience of individual scientists. Scientific knowledge is gained primarily through observation, and the crucial principle here is that all observers are equivalent: anyone observing the event would agree on the report one person made of it. This fundamental principle of objective knowledge needs a lot of interpretation and qualification, but the criterion that all human beings are interchangeable as observers remains one of the most important pillars of science. Which is why experiments are such an important tool for scientists. Experiments are observations carried out under controlled, reproducible conditions, and one of their chief functions is to allow others to carry out similar experiments in different places at different times. Consensuality implies co-operation and interaction among scientists. Mistakes and misunderstandings are cleared up, and promising hypotheses are tested through replication studies and theoretical criticism. The coherent and consistent set of beliefs generated by all this activity is the paradigm, the generally-accepted theory in any given field which allows scientists to pursue their work in a systematic way. Of course, the paradigm is not necessarily close to any absolute truth; paradigms often contain fallacies and need unexpected discoveries or massive falsification of predictions to dislodge them. A basic characteristic of science is the way its theories are scrutinised. We have already seen that the “naïve falsification” view — scientists accepting that any test of the predictions of a hypothesis that contradicts it is a demonstration that the hypothesis is false — needs some modification. Testing hypotheses is not a mechanical process whose outcome can be determined by simple logic. There are always questions about the reliability of the data, and of how the data should be interpreted, and in the end it is the expert judgement of the community that must decide if there is a good enough fit between the theory and the data. And different standards will be applied to different kinds of theories at different moments in their development. At the beginning of the development of a new theory, when there is little common ground, and where there are few accepted findings, a relatively unsubstantiated theory might be encouraged, despite flimsy empirical support or rigorous conceptualisation, for example, because it is seen as a useful guide to future research. Sometimes, scientists may even choose to work with two contradictory models of the same system. Ziman (1978: 67) points out that in the theory of atomic nuclei, in the 1950s there were two theories: the “liquid drop model”, and the “shell model” which contradicted each other in terms of the behaviour of protons and neutrons. Both models

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earned Nobel prizes for their authors, and both are now part of a more complex but unified theory which deals with all the phenomena involved. It was therefore a wise decision for scientists working in this area in the 1950s to look for evidence that showed how the two theories could be reconciled, rather than assume that one of the two must be false. In short, although Popper’s demarcation line between science and nonscience cannot be made as clearly as he suggested, what distinguishes science from other types of enquiry is that its theories are couched in such a way that they make powerful predictions which are open to falsification through empirical observations and experiments. The more a theory lays itself open to these tests, the better it is. Thus, deductive reasoning and empirical tests are the two main ways in which theories are scrutinised.

Chapter 5

The construction and assessment of theories of SLA

5.1 Science and SLA Can the description of scientists at work given in the previous chapter be applied to researchers working in the field of SLA? Can researchers in SLA construct a scientific theory? Many natural scientists, Popper, Lakatos and Feyerabend among them, deny scientific status to the areas involved in SLA research (psychology, cognitive psychology, sociology, anthropology, social psychology, linguistics, applied linguistics), and there are also numerous academics working in the field of SLA who think that the so-called scientific method is inappropriate for their work. As far as those in the field of SLA are concerned, there are those who embrace a relativist view (the post-modernists, constructivists, etc., who have been examined earlier), and then there are those who believe that there is a fundamental difference between the natural sciences and areas of enquiry dealing with human beings. There are obviously some important differences between a physicist working in a laboratory, devising experiments on innate matter under carefully controlled conditions, and a researcher working in SLA who has people as the subject matter. First, there is the problem of categorical imprecision. While nature can be put into relatively well-defined categories to which deductive arguments can be applied with reasonable certainty, it is much more difficult to categorise people. What is a French speaker? What is fluency? What is a dialect? What are learner strategies? In the study of SLA, if there are elements which are not well-defined, stable, meaningful elements in the conceptual framework, then formal logical implications cannot be applied to them. Ziman paints this gloomy picture: Unfortunately human behaviour is always so complex and varied that we can seldom make a sharply confirmable (or disconfirmable) prediction from the model. At best, the chain of inference can only be tested statistically; the model produces no more than “tendencies” in particular directions… More harshly

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it might be said that the behavioural sciences are cluttered with innumerable half-articulated speculative models that have never been subject to critical validation. Standards of theory construction and confirmation have seldom been sufficiently high to distinguish clearly between what is well established, what is essentially conjectural, and what has been thoroughly disconfirmed. …Such a situation is, of course, deplorable; but it reflects the enormous difficulties of defining consensible observations and discovering consensual theories to explain them. (Ziman 1978: 171)

Ziman might be understood as simply saying that as a matter of fact the behavioural sciences have a bad record, not that there is any necessary reason why the domain of their research makes scientific research and theory construction impossible. But perhaps necessary ethical restraints on doing experiments on human beings, plus the serious problems involved in observing human behaviour due to the fact that humans respond to being observed in complex and unpredictable ways, make a scientific approach impossible. Surely the whole point of science is that it deals with a world that has nothing to do with human beings — it attempts to explain things that would be true even if human beings never existed, and it relies on the fact that the natural world is impartial to human beings’ beliefs. As O’Hear puts it: A scientific theory will characteristically attempt to explain some natural phenomena by producing some general formula or theory covering all the phenomena of that particular type. From this general formula, it will be possible to predict how future phenomena in the class in question will turn out. Whether they do or not will depend on nature rather than on men, and any scientist can observe whether or not they do, regardless of his other beliefs. (O’Hear, 1989: 7)

In any investigation of human beings, as much as researchers might try to set up experiments in carefully controlled and standardised situations, how can we know the effect that extraneous factors, such as the way the experiment was set up, the subjects chosen, the instructions given, had on the participants’ behaviour? How do we deal with experimenter variables? Can the problems of the self-consciousness of the subjects and the bias of the observer be overcome? Winch (1970) argues that human actions are meaningful and that meaning is not a category open to causal analysis. Thus, human and social behaviour should be seen as rule-following behaviour, not as causally regular behaviour. Social science is distinguished from natural science by the unique property of its subject matter — it entertains beliefs about its own behaviour. The sociologist’s or anthropologist’s beliefs about the persons who make up the society under

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investigation have to take account of the beliefs of those persons about the very same facts. When we look at politics, we use political criteria, when we examine religion, we use religious criteria — we are nearly participants in the events. Related to both the conceptual and observational problems of the social and behavioural sciences in general, and of SLA in particular, is the problem of what is observable. If science is supposed to explain the facts, if the empirical method involves limiting enquiries to questions about objects and properties which can be perceived by the senses, then how can we expect SLA research, which deals, among other things with cognitive processes, emotional states, and social pressures, to conform to the scientific framework sketched above? Arguments like these are used to suggest that investigation of SLA should be excluded from the scientific club, as if, in some way, it did not live up to the standards of science. But there are, of course, a lot of academics in the field of SLA who have no wish to join the club. They argue that the insistence on being “scientific” robs the study of SLA of its interest. If science insists on reducing the complexities of human communication to mechanisms, and if it insists on a certain type of causal explanation, then we are better off without it. To some extent, doubts about, and objections to, the applicability of a scientific approach to SLA stem from a misunderstanding about what science is. I have already dealt with this issue at some length, with the aim of showing that there is no one scientific method, and that the claims for science, in terms of its ability to establish the truth, to give causal explanations, or even to accurately describe the world around us are extremely limited. If science is defined as the study of natural phenomena then obviously SLA is not part of science, and neither for that matter is mathematics. If those engaged in research in the areas of sociology, economics, anthropology and psychology, for example, wish to call themselves scientists in order to emphasise the rigorous nature of their work and to distinguish it from the work of astrologers, for example, then I see no reason to object, but there remain fundamental differences between the hard sciences and the social sciences. My intention, in any case, is not to argue that SLA research should or should not be scientific, but rather that it should be rational, in the sense just outlined, and that its explanations should be open to empirical tests. Science is in many ways the best example of rationality at work, and can, I suggest, be characterised by its insistence on the twin criteria of rational argument and empirical testing. I distance myself from those who claim that there is no such thing as objective knowledge, and also from those who claim that any legitimate explanation of SLA must conform to a narrowly-defined scientific framework. The aim is to dispel misunderstandings

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about what explanations and theories involve, and to provide minimal criteria for assessing our current theories.

5.2 Phenomena and data One central problem mentioned in the last section is the problem of what is observable. The problem is not confined to the natural sciences; it concerns any and all rational investigation. In order to deal with the problem of observability, a clear distinction should be made between phenomena and data. Theories attempt to explain phenomena, and observational data are used to support and test those theories. This distinction, argued for succinctly by Bogen and Woodward (1988), helps repair the damage done by positivists, for whom “cognitive psychology” would be an oxymoron. Phenomena are detected through the use of data, but in most cases are not observable in any interesting sense of that term. Examples of data include bubble chamber photographs, patterns of discharge in electronic particle detectors, and records of reaction times and error rates in various psychological experiments. Examples of phenomena, for which the above data might provide evidence, include weak neutral currents, the decay of the proton, and chunking and recency effects in human memory. (Bogen and Woodward, 1988: 306)

Bogen and Woodward give the example of research into the frontal lobes by neurophysiologists. Two researchers, Millner and Teuber, compared the performance of patients with frontal lobe damage due to surgery or gunshot wounds with normal controls on a number of tests. The tests involved sorting cards, visual searches, and orientation tasks. The data consisted of drawings made by surgeons and X-ray photographs of the skull, together with the test scores. Millner interpreted her data as indicating that damage to the frontal lobes impairs a subject’s ability to give up unsuccessful problem-solving strategies and devise new ones. Teuber thought his data indicated an impairment of a certain kind of co-ordination between motor and sensory functions. If Millner was right, behavioural preservation was the phenomenon her data indicated. If Teuber was right, the phenomenon indicated was a kind of dysfunction of sensory processing. (Bogen and Woodward, 1988: 316)

The important difference between data and phenomena is that instances of phenomena can occur in a wide variety of situations, since they are the result of

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the interaction of some manageably small number of causal factors, instances of which can also be found in a wide variety of situations. By contrast, many different sorts of causal factors play a part in the production of data, and their characteristics depend on the peculiarities of the experimental design, or datagathering procedures, employed. Data are idiosyncratic to particular experimental contexts, and typically cannot occur outside those contexts, whereas phenomena have stable, repeatable characteristics which will be detectable by means of different procedures, which may yield quite different kinds of data. … The psychological functions which Millner and Teuber ascribed to the frontal lobes ought to be exhibited in a wide variety of everyday behaviour. But the data (drawings, photographs and test scores) which they appealed to as evidence were idiosyncratic. (Bogen and Woodward, 1988: 317)

Bogen and Woodward go on to argue, as I have attempted to do above, that empirical observation is needed to test hypotheses, not to be collected for its own sake: we do not go around the world impassively, objectively observing things. Our observation is theory-laden, and both the natural world and human experience are so complex that mere data can never describe or explain them. The claim by positivists and some empiricists that we have no good reason to believe in the existence of entities which we cannot perceive is both overly optimistic about what our sense organs and instruments can tell us about the world, and overly pessimistic about our resources for establishing the existence of phenomena. Bogen and Woodward conclude their paper: In order to understand what science can achieve, it is necessary to reverse the traditional empiricist placement of trust and doubt. Our stance is to be modest and conservative in our estimation of what our senses and instruments can register, and to put more trust in the abilities of scientists to detect phenomena from the relatively little our senses and instruments do provide. (Bogen and Woodward, 1988: 352)

5.3 Explanation The previous section only partly deals with the fact that in all kinds of investigation, including that of SLA, there are appeals to things that cannot be observed in order to explain things that we can and do observe. To repeat: unobserved things include actual entities, like Neptune (which was claimed to exist — in order to explain the movements of Uranus — before it was eventually observed),

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electrons (which have never been observed, but can be, in principle), and forces, such as gravity. In all these examples, the claim of the theories involved is the same: some of the things we observe are manifestations of unobservable entities or forces. Theories attempt to explain the causes of things that often cannot be observed. The evidence for our theory is indirect, we argue that some of the things that we can observe are manifestations of, or effects of, the phenomena under study. If there are rival theories of a phenomenon, (and if more than one gets through the conceptual and empirical tests we subject it to — see below), then we tend to favour the theory that gives a better explanation of the phenomenon, by which is meant a more complete entailment of the statement of the problem. This is popularly known as the “inference to the best explanation”, the inference being that explanatory power is taken to be a reason for belief. We cannot, of course, in strictly logical terms, allow this inference: the phenomena, if not observable, are only inferred in virtue of the explanation they are part of. Yet it seems extremely unlikely that a particular theoretical account can actually fit the facts so well by pure coincidence. The logical positivists would say that we have gone beyond permissible operations, but, as Popper says Realists not only assume that there is a real world but also that this world is by and large more similar to the way modern theories describe it than to the way superseded theories describe it. On this basis, we can argue that it would be a highly improbable coincidence if a theory like Einstein’s could correctly predict very precise measurements not predicted by its predecessors unless there is “some truth” in it. (Popper 1974: 7)

Hacking makes a similar point: it would be an absolute miracle if for example the photo-electric effect went on working while there were no photons. The explanation of the persistence of this phenomenon — the one by which television information is converted from pictures into electrical impulses to be turned into electromagnetic waves in turn picked up by the home receiver — is that photons do exist. (Hacking, 1983: 54)

It is also worth reminding ourselves that many postulated entities for which there was initially no observable proof have since been observed: Neptune, microbes, genes, molecules among them. What then is a good explanation? What is it we are looking for when we ask for an explanation of some particular event that we find puzzling? The deductive view of explanation is that we look for information which, when appropriately put together, yields us an argument to the effect that the event in question

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was what we should rationally expect. For example, I go to get my motorcycle from the car park and find that it has a buckled front wheel. How did it happen I wonder? My friend tells me he borrowed my bike and hit a curb at speed. Well, that explains it! The event C (buckled wheel) was preceded by event A (my friend borrowed my bike) and event B (he hit a curb at speed).1 This explanation rests in turn on a causal law that hard objects will damage softer ones on impact (the explanans). A fully spelled out explanation takes the form of adducing a general law or laws, or generalisation, some set of initial conditions, and deducing from these the statement describing the event to be explained (the explanandum). Another feature of a deductive explanation is that it should show why something else did not happen — why the event in question had to happen. Deductive argument is so strong because if we can cite a valid generalisation of the form “All As are Bs” we rule out the chance of finding a singular statement of the form “This is A but not B.” The basic point of a deductive argument is that we cannot both accept the premises and deny the conclusion. Such a clean and tidy type of explanation is not always available, however; often, pace Popper, we have no general laws, we make unwarranted inferences, we use inductive arguments, we ignore cases of Bs that are not quite As, and so on. Nevertheless, the deductive schema serves as an ideal model, and has its practical uses. Let us take another tack: How is an explanation arrived at? The first step in constructing a satisfactory explanation is often to propose a low level theory: generalisations of what is immediately observable, such as that gases expand when heated, that glass is brittle, or as when Molière’s character ascribes the fact that opium puts people to sleep to its possession of “a dormative power”. Such generalisations do not get us much closer to an understanding of the cause of the expansion of gas, the brittleness of glass, or the sleepiness induced by opium: they do not tell us why they happen. But at least these low-level generalisations can succeed in eliminating other alternatives under review. If we explain the broken window by adducing the fact that glass is brittle, we rule out the alternative explanation that the projectile possessed immense, non-obvious force. A little further along in the development of an explanation, we might be able to make some more general statement about the relation between two observable events. Let us take the example of Boyle’s law. Boyle showed that reducing the volume of gas to one half doubled its pressure, in other words the pressure of a gas is inversely proportional to the volume (Asimov, 1975a). This is an example of an empirical law. The law generalises about a kind of event, not

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about a particular experiment with a particular cylinder using a particular gas, and is applicable to different events — other types of gases and/or cylinders. But it still does not tell us why an increase in pressure is linked with a decrease in volume. For this we need a theory of gases. Before we come to the theory, we should note that Boyle did not simply happen upon a J tube with some mercury in it, and observe that the pocket of air trapped in the closed end on the short side of the J shrank as he poured in more mercury. Boyle started with a problem — the density of air — and his experiment was designed to refute the accepted theory that the atmosphere was evenly dense all the way up. Continuing with the explanation of gases (Asimov, 1975a), the kinetic theory of gases answers the question of why the pressure of a gas is inversely proportional to the volume. The kinetic theory invokes the atomic nature of gas, and sees it as being composed of a large number of molecules which, because they are moving, sometimes collide with each other and the walls of the cylinder. Newtonian mechanics described the motion of these molecules and made it possible, in principle at least, to calculate the pressure on the walls of the cylinder by determining how many molecules are colliding with the walls at each instant, and the strength of each collision. With this picture in mind it is not surprising that when the cylinder’s surface area is reduced, the pressure rises, since there are more collisions. The same theory explains why gases expand when heated. The kinetic theory of gases says that gases are made up of molecules in constant motion and that heat causes more and more violent motion of the particles that compose the gas. This more general theory has wider application, it answers more questions (changes in pressure and expansions in volume have common underlying causes) and gives us a more complete picture. We should note two things. First, Boyle’s law was “the first step in the long series of discoveries about matter that eventually led to the atomic theory” (Asimov, 1975a: 170). A well-defined but unexplained empirical relationship is established between two phenomena, and this not only challenges the current paradigm but plays an important part in the development of a powerful new theory. Second, what has been improved is the causal narrative, not the deductive rigour. In some treatments of theory construction, distinctions are made between four different stages of development: description, prediction, determining causes, and explaining phenomena. In the case of Boyle’s law and the kinetic theory of gases, such a development might be argued to have taken place, but, Boyle’s law hardly serves as a good example of the first stage. To take another example, once it has been observed that watching violence on television and

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aggressive behaviour are systematically related to one another, it becomes possible to make predictions. We then try to determine the causes of this relation that we can now predict. And finally we need to explain the events described: even if we establish that watching violence on television causes aggressive behaviour, we have not yet explained why it does: we need a theory.2 While this might be an appealing account, it does not really do justice to the complexity of the matter: all these four “steps” are very tightly intertwined, particularly determining causes of events and explaining them, and often one or more step is left out.

5.4 Theory assessment By what criteria do we judge theories that offer different explanations of the same phenomena? What makes one theory “better” than a rival? First, like any text, a theory needs to be coherent and cohesive, and expressed in the clearest possible terms. It should also be consistent — there should be no internal contradictions. Theories can be compared by these initial criteria which may help to expose fatal weaknesses or simply invite a better formulation. In the discussions among philosophers of science about the natural sciences, these considerations are almost taken for granted: the big questions concern empirical adequacy, predictive ability, and so on. But I think Laudan is quite right to emphasise the importance of these “conceptual problems” although I disagree with his treatment of them. Of the four types of conceptual problem Laudan lists in his taxonomy (see above), the first — internal inconsistency or ambiguous theoretical mechanisms — is surely the most important. The second type of problem — assumptions made that run counter to other theories, prevailing metaphysical assumptions, widely accepted epistemology and methodology — seems to me to be relevant only to radical forms of relativism, which, according to my arguments in this book, means they should actually be excluded from serious consideration. There are no conceptual problems involved in assuming things that run counter to other theories, as long as the widely accepted epistemology and methodology is rationalist in the sense I have already defined it. Laudan’s third category is reserved for conceptual problems that cause the theory in question to violate the “research tradition” of which it is a part. I have already said that I think this is an ill-defined technical term, and that anyway I can see no use for it. There is no need to pledge allegiance to any group, or to

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belong to any tradition, apart from the rationalist one, which has nothing to say about such “conceptual problems.” Once again, I suggest that Laudan’s attempt to champion the rationalist cause is misguided; we do not have to regard clashes of theories as evidence of irrationality or to suppose that this is a problem that can only be solved by inventing a research tradition. Laudan’s final type of conceptual problem occurs when a theory fails to utilise concepts from more general theories to which it should be logically subordinate. Unfortunately Laudan does not expand on this, and it seems to me that this type of problem either belongs properly to the first category, or is no problem at all. If the argument is that a theory “should” be subordinate because of some obligation to the research tradition it is supposed to belong to, then I would say that if the theory has the impudence to challenge its presumed superiors, well good luck to it. Despite my objections to important aspects of Laudan’s theory of scientific progress, I think Laudan is right to emphasise the importance of conceptual problems when assessing a theory. In the field of SLA, there is a great deal of muddled thinking, there are poorly-argued assertions, and badly-defined terms. Consequently, discussions among researchers and academics in SLA often deal with just these issues. Similarly, research methodology is less of a problem in the natural sciences than it is in SLA, partly because in the former experiments are often easier to control, variables are easier to operationalise, etc., and partly because the latter is so relatively young. Whatever the reasons, it is certainly the case that when judging theories of SLA, we should favour those that are most rigorously formulated. Once a theory passes the test, more or less strictly set and marked, of coherence, cohesiveness, consistency, and clarity, we may pass on to questions of falsifiability and empirical adequacy. I should insist yet again that we are dealing with common sense notions of evaluation; the tests are never absolute. Crucially, theories should lay themselves open to empirical testing: there must be a way that a theory can in principle be challenged by empirical observations, and ad hoc hypotheses that attempt to rescue a theory from “unwanted” findings are to be frowned on. The more a theory lays itself open to tests, the more risky it is, the stronger it is. Risky theories tend to be the ones that make the most daring and surprising predictions, which is perhaps the most valued criterion of them all, and they are often also the ones that solve persistent problems in their domain. Generally speaking the wider the scope of a theory, the better it is, although often in practice many broad theories have little empirical content. There are often “depth versus breadth” issues, and yet again,

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how these two factors are weighted will depend on other factors in the particular situation where the theory finds itself. Simplicity, often referred to as Occam’s Razor, is another criterion for judging rival theories: ceteris paribus, the one with the simplest formula, and the fewest number of basic types of entity postulated, is to be preferred for reasons of economy. There are no golden rules for theory assessment, no hard and fast rules even, except the obvious requirement that a theory has empirical content. How long should we defend a theory with bad test results — when do we say it has been falsified? To what extent do we ignore anomalies? When should we agree that a theory which is vague and confused is nevertheless a plausible candidate for development? Such issues must be decided on a case-by-case basis, and publicly debated among those working in the field.

5.5 Four views on constructing and assessing theories of SLA Before giving my own guidelines for a “critical rationalist” approach to SLA, I will briefly examine four different views of theory construction and assessment in SLA: the views of the relativists, Gregg, Long, and McLaughlin. 5.5.1 The relativist approach Those in the SLA academic community, already mentioned in Chapter 1, who adopt a relativist, postmodernist position, deny the idea of any objective reality external to the observer, and claim that there are a multiplicity of realities, all of which are social constructs. The adoption of the view that the construction of reality is a social process means, as we have seen, that there can be no one “best” theory of anything: there are simply different ways of looking at, seeing, and talking about things, each with its own perspective, each with its own set of explicit or implicit rules which members of the social group construct for themselves. Thus science, for example, is just one specific type of social construction, a particular kind of language game which has no more claim to objective truth than any other. In SLA research, those who take this view see the need to fight what they see as the outdated and suffocating “positivist” paradigm which currently dominates the field, and to replace it with their own methodology. Let us look at a few short examples of this point of view.

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Schumann (1983) suggests that SLA research should be viewed as both art and science. As an example of the artistic perspective Schumann suggests viewing the opposing accounts of Krashen and McLaughlin of conscious and unconscious learning as two different paintings of the language learning experience — as reality symbolised in two different ways… Viewers can choose between the two on an aesthetic basis, favouring the painting which they find to be phenomenologically true to their experience. (Schumann, 1983: 74)

Lantolf (1996a) suggests that scientific theories are metaphors, that the acceptance of “standard scientific language” within a discipline “diminishes the productivity of the scientific endeavour” and that “to keep a field fresh and vibrant, one must create new metaphors” (Lantolf, 1996a: 756). Firth and Wagner (1997) argue that SLA research should be “reconceptualised” so as to “enlarge the ontological and empirical parameters of the field”. They continue: We claim that methodologies, theories and foci within SLA reflect an imbalance between cognitive and mentalistic orientations, and social and contextual orientations to language, the former orientation being unquestionably in the ascendancy. (Firth and Wagner, 1997: 143)

At the end of their paper they say: although SLA has the potential to make significant contributions to a wide range of research issues, that potential is not being realised while the field in general perpetuates the theoretical imbalances and skewed perspectives on discourse and communication. (Firth and Wagner, 1997: 285)

Block (1996) argues that the field of SLA is under the sway of a ruling ideology, and in the course of a plea for a wider view of SLA research, Block challenges some central assumptions held by what he sees as the ruling clique. The assumptions that Block objects to include that there is any such thing as “normal science”, that a multiplicity of theories is problematic, that replication studies are helpful, and that there is an “ample body” of “accepted findings” within SLA research. Finally Block argues that one problem for the SLA community, which stems from its being under the sway of such misleading assumptions, is that those who attempt to challenge them do not get a fair opportunity to voice and promote their alternative views. Markee (1994) notes that: “a few writers have valiantly attempted to stem the nomothetic tide”, but that “these have been voices crying in the applied

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linguistic wilderness” (Markee, 1994:91). The “hermeneutic scientific tradition” that Markee would like to see given at least equal footing with its nomothetic big brother replaces explanation with understanding, replaces “objective, valuefree language” with “the ordinary language of social actors and their lay explanations of everyday experience” (Markee, 1994: 92), and replaces a mathematical statistical explanation of a phenomenon with an explanation “that is constructed in terms of lay participants’ real-time understanding of the phenomenon” (Markee, 1994: 93). 5.5.1.1Discussion While I have already explained my objections to the relativists’ epistemological claims, and argued the case for critical rationalism, I would like here to separate two different issues which I think have been wrongly bundled together by the relativists. The two issues I refer to can be summed up in these questions: 1. What phenomena need explaining and what range of opinions should be expressed in the SLA research community? 2. How should we explain the phenomena of SLA? When Firth and Wagner (1997) argue for “a reconceptualization of SLA research that would enlarge the ontological and empirical parameters of the field”, they would seem to be making a plea for more attention to be paid to sociolinguistics and discourse analysis, and for SLA research to be liberated from the domination of “Chomskian thinking.” But there is another argument in the Firth and Wagner paper, namely that those working in psycholinguistics are dominated by the views of a small group of researchers who insist that SLA research be carried out according to “established” and “normal” scientific standards. Firth and Wagner argue that there is something deeply wrong with such a position, and they go on to suggest that SLA research should throw off the assumptions of scientific enquiry and adopt a relativist epistemology which holds that there is not one reality, that all science is political, that all statements are theory-laden, that theories are a kind of storytelling, and so on. Here the two separate issues mentioned above have become tangled up. As Long puts it Firth and Wagner attempt to bolster their “social context” case by an unfortunate appeal to epistemological relativism thereby conflating what are two separate issues. (Long, 1999: 3)

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Block (1996) makes exactly the same mistake as Firth and Wagner. Block claims that those who attempt to challenge the ruling clique in SLA do not get a fair opportunity to voice and promote their alternative views, and at the same time he claims that the field of SLA is dominated by a certain methodological orthodoxy which should be replaced by a more relativistic alternative. Again, we must separate the issues. To argue for a shift in focus for SLA research, i.e. for a more multi-theoretical, multi-methodological approach, where research is done from a sociocultural perspective, where a more context-sensitive approach is adopted, where concepts such as “non-native speaker”, “learner”, and “interlanguage” are reexamined with increased “emic” (i.e. participant-relevant) sensitivity, is one thing. To argue that there is no rational way to decide that Theory X is better than Theory Y is another, separate thing. The first issue is a political question about priorities in the distribution of limited research resources, the second issue is about the fundamental questions of what we can know, and of how we should do research. The relativists have every right to argue for more resources to be devoted to their kind of research, and to argue the merits of their kind of approach to theory construction and assessment. But they should clearly separate what are, I repeat, two different issues. If it is in fact the case that those professing to use a rationalist, deductive research methodology are imposing their methods on others, and are insensitive to the value of “home-grown ways of thinking”, then I would be the first to urge them to stop such an imposition, and to listen to different points of view. What I would not ask them to do is stop criticising, or to abandon their methodology. The important issue concerns explanation. While I hold a rationalist, realist position, the relativists claim that such views are obsolete and blinkering. This is an epistemological issue. As an example we can take the suggestion that scientific theories are metaphors, that the acceptance of “standard scientific language” within a discipline “diminishes the productivity of the scientific endeavour” and that “to keep a field fresh and vibrant, one must create new metaphors.” Nobody, I suppose, would question that terms like “input” “processing” and “output” are metaphors, and it is certainly worth reminding oneself that they are metaphors. But, from my side of the fence, scientific theories are not just metaphors, they are attempted explanations of events that take place in a real world and they are open to empirical tests which support or falsify them and thus make it possible for us to choose rationally between them. To the extent that researchers need to be flexible, to be imaginative, to open

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up to unlikely possibilities, to brainstorm, to “fly kites”, etc., I would completely endorse Schumann’s suggestion that SLA research should be viewed as both art and science. I have no objection to looking at Krashen’s and McLaughlin’s theories as “paintings”, as reality symbolised in two different ways, but sooner or later, I suggest, we will need to scrutinise Krashen’s and McLaughlin’s accounts in order to check their validity, and to subject them to empirical tests. On the basis of such scrutiny, by uncovering ill-defined terms, contradictions, etc., and by seeing how they stand up to empirical tests, we will be able to evaluate the two accounts and make some tentative choice between them. First, they cannot both be correct: McLaughlin suggests that conscious learning affects language production, while Krashen denies this. Second, they suggest different ways of continuing the search for answers to the question of interlanguage development, and different pedagogical applications, and researchers have to have some reasons to choose between them. Krashen’s account is seriously flawed since, first, its terms are almost circular, and second, there is very little empirical content in it These, to the rationalist, are extremely serious defects. Schumann suggests that: “Neither position is correct; they are simply alternative representations of reality” (Schumann, 1983: 75). It may well turn out that neither position is correct, and they are certainly alternative representations of reality; but if the implication is that there is no way, other than an appeal to our own subjective aesthetic sense, to decide between them, then here lies the fundamental disagreement between rationalists and extreme relativists. 5.5.2 Strictly science Gregg’s discussion (1993, 1996a, 2001) of the issues of theory construction and assessment represents a particularly radical version of a scientific, linguistic approach to explanation encouraged by Chomsky. By insisting on this approach to SLA theory, and concluding that there is absolutely no theory of SLA that satisfies his criteria, I think Gregg misappropriates Chomsky’s L1 agenda and sets inappropriate standards for those involved in SLA research. A close examination of the three papers cited above reveals that Gregg has nothing very useful to say about explanation, and that while his argument in the 1996a and 2001 papers that “the heart of a comprehensive L2 acquisition theory is a theory that deals with the logical and developmental problems of L2 acquisition” (Gregg, 1996a:74) is persuasive, it actually amounts to very little. Gregg gives the impression of demanding the impossible, but his arguments do not in fact hold a broader, less demanding, but still rationalist SLA research programme to ransom.

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Gregg (1993) takes the acquisition of L2 competence, in the Chomskian sense of the term, to be the domain of a theory of SLA. To explain SLA in this limited sense, Gregg says two different types of theory are required: a transition theory and a property theory. (The terms were coined by Cummins (1983).) A transition theory asks questions of the form: Why does system S change states from S-1 to S-2? Why does water expand when it freezes? A property theory, on the other hand, does not deal with causes and effects, it deals with the question “What is it for system S to have property P?” One way of constructing a property theory is to carry out a functional analysis — an analysis of S is constructed that explains S’s possession of P by an appeal to the properties of S’s components and their mode of organisation. Flow charts or exploded views of complex machinery are examples. Gregg argues that theories of generative grammar can be seen as property theories: complex grammatical knowledge is broken down into the interaction of less complex, “ultimately mindless”, principles and rules. Meanwhile, to explain the acquisition of the knowledge thus described, we need a transition theory. Thus, the two questions to be answered by a theory of SLA are: 1. How is L2 knowledge instantiated in the mind/brain? 2. How does L2 knowledge come to be acquired? Gregg goes on to discuss explanation in more detail. He begins by describing Hempel’s model of explanation, called deductive-nomological (D-N), where an explanation is seen as a deductive argument where the explanandum is a true statement that is entailed by the conjunction of a covering law and a specific condition. An example from SLA is All learners of L follow an acquisition order of X before Y Fred is a learner of L Fred acquired X before Y. Gregg lists several problems with the D-N model. First, it only explains individual events, not regularities. Second there are phenomena that are neither logically necessary, nor likely, and yet are explicable. Third, as applied to SLA, the model requires laws and we do not have any, or if we do, they are to be found in the property theory. Fourth, when the covering law is bi-conditional (if p then q and if q then p), we can, to use Gregg’s example, explain a storm by appealing to the barometer. And finally, the stringency of the D-N model only applies to truly universal covering laws; it makes no reference to individuals, and it is, therefore, as Gregg puts it “irrelevant to SLA theory.”

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Gregg goes on to say that what is lacking in a D-N explanation is the idea of causality. When we look for causes we need to go beyond what is observed and look for hidden causes which lead us to more successful theories. Gregg cites the arguments of Bogen and Woodward (which I have dealt with above in Chapter 5), in support of the argument that theories are explanations of phenomena, and that data are evidence for the phenomena; the phenomena are the subject of the explanation. So theories try to explain phenomena; we infer phenomena from data and we infer an explanation from the phenomena. Gregg tells us that this kind of explanation is known as “inference to the best explanation”: we posit an explanans which, if it existed, would allow us to deduce the explanandum. If there were another planet beyond Uranus, its gravitational force would cause the orbit of Uranus to be such and such; Uranus’s orbit is in fact such and such; therefore there is another planet. Gregg accepts that logically, this is a fallacy — it affirms the consequent — but he says “it works surprisingly well”, or at least sometimes. It worked for Uranus when they found Jupiter, but it did not work for Mercury. Clearly, it is not enough to posit a given unobserved cause just because it explains the phenomena. Gregg’s next point is that the range of candidate causal explanations needs to be limited as much as possible. One way to do this is to focus on what counts as the ‘best’ explanation. Gregg cites Lipton (1991), who makes the distinction between the most warranted explanation (the ‘likeliest’), and the one which is most explanatory (the “loveliest”). For example Molière’s explanation of why opium makes you sleepy (it’s dormative virtue), or the explanation that L2 learners do not reach native proficiency because of fossilisation, are likely, but they do not get us very close to the causes. A conspiracy theory, on the other hand, is lovely, according to Gregg, because it can account for widely disparate phenomena. Gregg concludes that we must choose between two different standards; local plausibility or general understanding, and that, luckily for us, the world is so structured that the lovelier the explanation the more likely it is to be the correct explanation. Gregg gives some examples. Flynn’s explanation (1987) of the differences in elicited imitation scores between Japanese-speaking and Spanish-speaking non native-speakers of English is an example of a lovely explanation in SLA. It connects her explanation to a rich, well-developed linguistic theory and thus relates her explanandum phenomena to a wider set of phenomena and hence offers greater opportunity for enlightenment On the other hand, Ellis’s and Tarone’s Variable Competence model “shuns loveliness with all its might”. By clinging to the data and avoiding SLA phenomena the

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Variable Competence model wilfully shuts out the possibility of using variation as a means of explaining L2 competence. As for the so-called functional or discourse theories of SLA, Gregg opines that they have yet to approach the question of loveliness in the first place, and, for Gregg, it is not self-evident that functionalist “explanations” are explanations at all, let alone lovely ones. Gregg admits that loveliness, however, is not enough; relevant evidence is also necessary. To determine whether given evidence is relevant we need to further narrow the range of possible explanations, and Gregg suggests that a good way of doing this to look at contrastive versus non-contrastive explanations. It is sometimes possible to explain the contrast without being able to explain the fact itself. In SLA we can often propose contrastive explanations which, while not necessarily incorrect, are to a greater or lesser extent, incomplete. Acculturation theory accounts for proficiency contrasts by putative acculturation contrasts; Krashen does the same by appealing to affective differences. These are contrastive differences, and the explanations, while likely, are not lovely. UG-related SLA theory has the advantage of having a detailed property theory to latch on to. Thus enabled, the researcher can ask ‘Why is population A better with ECP violation than population B?’, a lovely question, rather than questions like ‘Why is population A better than population B?’ Gregg finishes his paper by noting that in so far as UG is a set of constraints on possible grammars, UG has a causal relation to acquisition (at least L1 acquisition) but it is not the whole story. What is also necessary is a transition theory that connects UG with some sort of acquisition mechanism, such as a parser or some sort of bootstrapping procedure that acts on the input in such a way as to lead to the formation of a grammar. In his 1996 article, Gregg again insists that a theory of SLA is a theory of linguistic competence, and explores the nature of L2 competence. To explain L2 competence, Gregg argues that we need a property theory to explain the “logical problem” of SLA, which is, similarly to the logical problem of L1 acquisition, that L2 learners achieve a competence which goes well beyond the input they receive. There are two varieties of property theories: modular (UG) and nonmodular. Gregg deals with two nonmodular approaches to L2 competence: O’Grady’s language acquisition theory (1987, 1996), and connectionism (see Gasser, 1990 and Chapter 7). Gregg says that there is little evidence yet to support either view. We are left with theories of UG. Gregg uses a theological analogy to describe different UG approaches to L2. UG “deists” say that UG is essential for L1 development but has no role in L2 development, just as God created the

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universe, set things going, and then retired. “Theists”, on the other hand, say that UG is immanent in language use and L1 acquisition, so also participates in L2 acquisition, just as some argue in theology that God is everywhere. (Nonmodular approaches can be seen as forms of atheism.) Whether one adopts a deist or theist approach, the domain of the theory is limited: it says nothing about foreign accent, L1-related errors, or indeed anything outside the confines of the “core grammar” dealt with by UG. This narrowing of the theoretical domain is, says Gregg, “a result devoutly to be wished” — those advocating a “communicative competence” approach, like the morpheme-acquisition researchers, have, according to Gregg, found themselves in difficult situations for lack of a theoretical foundation for interpreting empirical data. Gregg gives some examples of the difference between deism and theism. The principle of Subjacency is irrelevant to languages without wh-movement, and so the question arises: will the principle of Subjacency constrain the learner of an L2 with wh-movement whose L1 does not have wh-movement? Theists say yes, deists say no. Similarly, with binary parameters (pro-drop, or agreement), if L1 and L2 have different settings, the theist will expect the parameter to be “reset” for the L2, while the deist will not. Turning to the transition theory component, Gregg cites Atkinson (1982) who lays down conditions for a theory of L1 acquisition: a sequence of theories T1, T2, … Tn, each accounting for the data in a given domain D for different times t1, … tn, (a property theory) plus a mechanism M for getting from Ti to Ti+1 (a transition theory). Gregg examines SLA theories in terms of 3 criteria Atkinson gives for any theory to meet: 1. Ti must be constructed within the framework of a particular general theory. This is the Theoretical Framework Criterion. 2. The sequence T1, T2, … Tn must be explicable: we must be able to explain why X occurs before Y and not vice versa in a developmental sequence. This is the Sequence Criterion. 3. There must be a detailed specification of the acquisition mechanism, M. This is the Mechanism Criterion. The Theoretical Framework Criterion implies that any theory that does not try to explain the logical problem can be excluded. Thus, according to Gregg, a transition theory must interface with a property theory, and consequently theories of acculturation, of affective variables, of variation, and “discourse/ functional” theories all fail. Gregg concludes that

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in order to satisfy the Theoretical Framework Criterion, we need a linguistic theory or else a theory of the mind that can handle language acquisition without a linguistic theory; that is, either a modular theory of language competence or a non-modular one. (Gregg, 1996a: 68)

The Sequence Criterion is relevant to the identification and description of developmental sequences in L2 acquisition, which has been a major task of SLA. Gregg argues that there are no satisfactory explanations of these sequences, because they do not relate to a property theory. The Sequence Criterion is, according to Gregg, parasitic on the Theoretical Framework Criterion and subordinate to the Mechanism Criterion. Gregg also suggests that the Sequence Criterion is a contrastive explanation, while the Mechanism Criterion is noncontrastive, and, for the benefit of those for whom the difference is not obvious, Gregg gives this bizarre clarification: A contrastive question will of course require a different answer depending on the focus of the contrast — the explanation of why Fred killed Bill is not the explanation of why Fred killed Bill — but will also require a different explanation from a noncontrastive question — which is why one is not satisfied with the standard explanation of why firemen wear red suspenders. This is not to say that one type of explanation is to be rejected in favor of the other; for one thing, there are cases where one is available and the other is not. If both Fred and Max have untreated tertiary syphilis, we can explain why Fred has paresis — he has untreated tertiary syphilis — but we cannot explain why Fred has it rather than Max. On the other hand, it is easy enough to explain why Max swallowed poison before jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge rather than viceversa, even if we have not got a clue as to why he did either. (Gregg, 1996a: 69)

As for the Mechanism Criterion, nonmodular explanations of L2 development appeal to learning mechanisms like hypothesis testing, automaticity, restructuring, inferencing, etc. Gregg mentions Slobin (1973, 1985), who proposes “Operating Principles” for L1 acquisition, but they are, according to Gregg, many and complex and thus suppose a great burden on the learner. Gregg concludes that no nonmodular mechanism provides a good interface between the mechanism and the categories of the property theory, tending to either ignore or underestimate the complexity of the property theory. Modular learning mechanisms, are, admits Gregg, very limited in scope, and only operate on linguistic input. Two such mechanisms have been proposed: the Subset Principle and the Uniqueness Principle. These 2 principles are at best negative in their effect; they prevent overgeneralisations, they eliminate

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forms from the Interlanguage grammar, but they do not explain the acquisition process itself. In other words they really are not learning mechanisms of the sort we need to satisfy the Mechanism Criterion. Of all the many suggestions in SLA about causal processes, none satisfies both the Mechanism Criterion and the Theoretical Framework Criterion: the mechanisms do not work on the output of any useful property theory. What is needed is a causal theory that makes use of a parser — a mechanism that is specifically designed to operate on linguistic input within the framework of a property theory of that input. Gregg concludes that there is no comprehensive theory of SLA. We have theories of production, or variation, or interaction, and so on. Their limitation might not be a bad thing because the term language covers a multitude of different phenomena so perhaps we need a number of different complementary theories. But the heart of a comprehensive L2 acquisition theory is inevitably a theory that deals with the logical and developmental problems of L2 acquisition; that is a theory or set of theories that can account for the L2 learner’s competence — as defined by a rigorous linguistic theory — and that can also explain how that competence is achieved. Gregg‘s most recent paper on the subject (Gregg, 2001) reaches the same forlorn conclusion as his 1996 paper and uses essentially the same arguments. Gregg argues that any theory of SLA can be assessed according to the success with which it meets two criteria: Theoretical Framework Condition An SLA theory is explanatory only if it can account for each state of a learner’s competence within the framework of a satisfactory property theory of linguistic competence, as defined by that theory. Mechanism Condition An SLA theory is explanatory only if it includes a transition theory that has as a mechanism or mechanisms to effect changes of state in L2 competence. (Gregg, 2001: 157)

Gregg concludes that no theory meets the criteria. 5.5.2.1Discussion I begin with Gregg’s treatment of explanation. First, Gregg fails to properly distinguish between Hempel’s D-N model and Hempel’s I-N model of probability (see Hempel, 1952, and Couvalis, 1997: 44–51, for a succinct summary). The latter was Hempel’s main concern (and is now generally discredited), while the former, has, as Gregg himself admits, nothing to do with explanation in SLA.

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Next, Gregg says that we infer phenomena from data and we infer an explanation from the phenomena, and that this kind of explanation is known as inference to the best explanation. We do not always have to go through these three steps as I have suggested in Chapters 4 and earlier in this chapter. Gregg, having admitted that the inference to the best explanation is strictly speaking, a logical fallacy, merely concedes that “clearly” it is not enough to posit a given unobserved cause just because it explains things, and leaves the issue unresolved. In general, Gregg gives no clear account of what a good explanation should be: apart from an irrelevant discussion of Hempel’s covering laws, the lovely/ likely discussion is all we are offered. We are told that the world is so structured that the more lovely explanations turn out to be the most probable, but no arguments are supplied to justify this mystical assertion. As to issues of research methodology, Gregg’s argument about phenomena and data is overstated; those doing research often use data as a springboard for theories, either because they notice something (some pattern for example) in the data, or because they have pre-selected the data to probe a problem. Gregg is either trivially right because his definitions of data and phenomena make it so in some arid argument, or wrong if we look at the history of science where data have, time and time again, been the springboard for explanation, in botany, zoology and medicine, for example. Gregg assumes that the fewer the explanations or theories of SLA the better, but he gives no reasons for this assumption. One thing is to prefer a simple explanation to a complicated one, but it is quite a different thing to suggest that the fewer possible explanations the better. Why should fewer be better? Perhaps this is some kind of reference to Kuhn and to a pre-scientific stage of explanation, perhaps the hope is that from a culling of theories will spring a paradigm. We are not told. As I argue more fully later in this chapter, we do not need any paradigm, and in order to judge the relevance of evidence we do not need to “further” narrow the range of possible explanations either. While in my view the proliferation of theories is not, in itself, a problem, there are often good pragmatic reasons to support a culling of theories. Where there are contradictions between theories, these must be highlighted and then discussed as fully as possible. In the field of SLA some theories can be dismissed on conceptual grounds — Krashen’s theory is a good example of one that is both circular and empty of any real empirical content. Any real contradictions between theories can then, at least in principle, be settled by empirical tests, and after that the decision about the best current theory in a given domain is a question of applying the criteria discussed earlier in this chapter, and summarised in the Guidelines in Chapter 5, Section 5.6 below.

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Even if Gregg were right to insist that a property theory is an essential part of a theory of SLA (and we certainly need some description of the competencies and skills involved in SLA, perhaps, but not necessarily, in terms of a linguistic theory), this does not imply that without it we will get nowhere. The fields of linguistics, cognitive science, neurolinguistics, psychology, sociology, and anthropology, to mention some, are all involved in attempts to explain SLA, and the history of science, not to mention plain common sense, tells us that we need not wait until we have an adequate property theory before we offer hypotheses, partial explanations and tentative theories of any of the complex phenomena that make up SLA. The essential difficulty of Gregg’s argument is that ít takes UG as the model property theory, and imposes a Chomskian framework onto SLA theory construction. Gregg’s distinction between property theories and transition theories is crucial to his case, and yet, as I will argue more more fully in Part 2, the distinction is blurred in UG theory, and very difficult to apply to SLA theory. UG theory provides a description of the core grammar of all natural languages, and intricately meshes it with an explanation of how the L1 is acquired (see Chapter 7). But the causal explanation of UG is not a good example of a transition theory, because Chomsky is not interested in the transition from the “zero state” of the newly-born to the end state of the adult where full linguistic competence has been achieved. Since it is vital to Chomsky’s argument that just about everybody, everywhere, anytime, always achieves full competence, the issue of how they get there is of little concern; Chomskian theory is almost exclusively concerned with what Gregg wants to call, after Cummins, a property theory. This state of affairs is the exact opposite of the situation in SLA where most of the interest lies in the development of Interlanguage, in the process that learners go through as they follow their different trajectories from different starting points to different end points encountering different problems along the way (see Chapters 7, 8 and 9). While UG, quite understandably, takes little interest in the transition from the state of not having linguistic competence to having it, a transition theory in SLA is exactly what SLA researchers are most interested in. The other side of the coin is that, precisely because there is no analogous “steady state” achieved by L2 learners, there is no easily-defineable property theory to be had in SLA, even if SLA researchers were to restrict themselves to a narrowly-defined linguistic competence as Chomsky does, more appropriately, in his treatment of L1 acquisition.

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5.5.3 Theory types and theory assessment Long (1999) distinguishes between set-of-law theories that limit themselves to observing a strong correlation between two variables and making a generalisation about them, and causal-process theories that specify “how or why SLA will occur, not just that or when it will”. Long cites Spolsky (1989) as a source of set-of-laws theories and gives some examples from Spolsky, such as “The closer two languages are to each other genetically and typologically, the quicker a speaker of one will learn the other.” As for causal-process theories, Long cites Chomsky’s Principles and Parameters theory, among others. Long (1990a, 1993,1999) also makes the distinction between two research styles: theory then research, and research then theory, which perhaps loosely correspond to the deductive and inductive approaches.5 Frequently, of course, researchers employ both styles at different stages of their work, but, Long argues, no proper explanation of any given phenomena can be offered by those who do not attempt to construct some sort of causal theory of the phenomena under examination. When discussing the assessment of different theories of SLA, Long (1993) examines the theory assessment strategies used by Darden (1991), and in a later paper (1999), suggests that theories can be assessed in absolute and relative terms. In absolute terms, theories may be judged inadequate because they are too powerful, ad hoc, untestable, say nothing about relevant phenomena, and so on. In relative terms, they may be less adequate than rival theories of the same phenomena because they consistently make less accurate predictions, account for fewer data, require more mechanisms to handle the same data, etc. — and of particular importance, following Laudan (1977), in terms of their comparative ability to solve various kinds of differentially weighted empirical problems. (Long, 1999: 7)

The criteria for an “absolute” choice are noteworthy. It is not obvious to me why we would reject a theory on the grounds that it is “too powerful”, but earlier in his article Long suggests that “the goal of most SLA theorists is the least powerful theory that will handle the known facts, i.e. to identify what is necessary and sufficient for language acquisition” (Long, 1999: 3). I presume that this is a reflection of the comparative youth of SLA research, and that Long is being “realistic” and expects theorists to aspire to higher things in good time. The other three “absolute” criteria Long gives seem to me to simply rule the putative theory out of court. As I have argued, the normal way to evaluate theories is to assess their ability to explain the phenomena in question in terms

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of their logical consistency and their ability to withstand empirical tests. When choosing between rival theories of the same phenomena, Long’s relative criteria need clarifying. First, if theory A consistently makes less accurate predictions (i.e. its predictions are falsified by empirical observation) than theory B, then theory A is in deep trouble, regardless of theory B. It is however, as Long suggests, quite possible that at a given moment we will be confronted by two theories with bad track records in terms of surviving empirical tests, and in this circumstance the obvious course of action is to examine both of them very closely and try and find the cause of the empirical anomalies — that, after all, is the reason for doing the observations in the first place. Second, while it is perfectly acceptable to say that theories account for data, we must remind ourselves of the distinction made already between phenomena and data, and insist that it is often impossible to identify all the causal factors responsible for the production of data. I have no doubt that Long would agree with me here; those discussing these issues often refer to a theory’s ability to account for and handle data, and I make the point only because it emphasises the mistaken view of empiricism, in the sense that theory construction is not correctly described as a process of patiently collecting reliable data and then deciding what to make of it. As for Long’s final criterion, I have already said that I see no way to use Laudan’s criterion of “differentially weighted empirical problems” to any good effect. Long goes on to “a more general level” to consider which of several theories is judged “best” and suggests that it may be a function of the two qualities discussed by Gregg (1993), after Lipton (1991), viz., the distinction between the “likeliest” and “the loveliest” explanation. Apart from the criticisms made of Gregg’s views on explanation in the previous section, I should say here that I see no real competition between the two types of theory mentioned by Lipton: the “likely” theories discussed by Lipton and Gregg are theories that make no attempt to explain why one event caused the other, either because they are under the influence of the logical positivist paradigm (limit yourself to the enunciation of meaningful statements), or because they are precursors to a causal theory. Such theories will never provide an explanation of the phenomena under investigation, and are thus not even candidates for an adequate theory of anything.6 Finally, Long, like Gregg and Beretta, favours some culling of SLA theories, which I see no need for, as I have already said. One question, of course, is what counts as a theory: most of the sixty-plus mentioned by Long would seem to be at McLaughlin’s “proto-theory” level, or occupying a very small domain. SLA

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is, as has already been noted, a very wide field, and SLA research draws on many methods from many disciplines. While this might present a problem to those hoping to develop a unified theory of SLA, it seems premature, to say the least, to expect one single theory to explain all aspects of SLA, and meanwhile the multi-methodological, multi-disciplinary nature of SLA research is not, in itself, a hindrance. This does not mean, however, that we should entirely dispense with the requirement for a causal explanation for each domain. Another issue Long raises is whether or not a theory should be required to inform language teaching practice. This, to some extent, reflects a long-standing debate in the philosophy of science regarding the epistemological status of theories: the descriptive and the instrumentalist. The first regards the theory as a summary of the facts, and as being true or false depending on whether it fits the experimental data. The second regards theory as being an instrument of inquiry, and according to it, no theory is true or false, but some theories are better than others as instruments for guiding research. Again, this is a philosophical issue (and not uninteresting for that I hope) where there is no need for any researcher to come down on one side or the other: it is not an “either/or” question. As far as the specific, practical issue of to what extent research in SLA should be applicable to teachers, learners, policy decision-makers, etc., is concerned, Long’s common sense approach would seem best. While he defends the right of researchers to work on problems that have no obvious implications for practice, he accepts that researchers have a certain social responsibility to help improve the efficaciousness of classroom teaching and to forge a more liberal language policy. 5.5.4 General rational requirements for a theory of SLA McLaughlin (1987), discussing theory construction in SLA, says that a theory of SLA should give a causal explanation of the phenomena. He agrees that first stage proto-theories (what Long (1985b) has called “storehouse” theories, and what Spolsky (1989) calls “set-of-laws” theories) are collections of often unrelated generalisations about phenomena. He gives these examples: 1. Adult SL learners learn faster than children but attain lower levels of ultimate proficiency. 2. Learners pass through a certain developmental sequence of structures 3. Errors made by learners in acquiring certain structures in a particular L2 are similar for all L1s.

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If these generalisations are not unified under a general theory, then, in McLauglin’s opinion, they lead nowhere — they do not provide any coherent explanation of the phenomena we want to explain, nor can they lead to new hypotheses. McLaughlin sees one important task for theory builders in SLA as being to try to fit the different “bits” together. McLaughlin suggests that an SLA theory should meet various types of requirements. First, there are requirements to do with meeting the correspondence norm. – – –

–

A theory should correspond to external reality.3 In effect this means that a theory must have empirical elements. The concepts employed in a theory must be described so that anyone will interpret it in the same way. Terms used in the theory may be drawn from everyday language or the theorist may invent his own terms. If the terms are drawn from everyday language, then all ambiguity must be removed. If the term is a neologism4 it can be precisely defined but risks being misunderstood, an example is intake. Operational definitions are very helpful. A theory must have explanatory power — good theories go beyond the facts and can be generalised.

A good theory meets the norms of correspondence when the explanation it provides applies to a specified range of phenomena and when the conditions suitable to its application are met. Second, there are coherence norms. The simpler a theory is, the better. Do not multiply variables, do not use ad hoc explanations. A theory should be consistent with other theories in the field. McLaughlin gives the example of telepathy being suspect because it is the only form of transmitted information that is not affected by the distance travelled. Third, there is the pragmatic norm: a theory should be practical — it should make predictions. And finally, a theory must be falsifiable. An adequate hypothesis is one that repeatedly survives “probing”. With the one exception of the requirement that the theory should be consistent with other theories in the field, I endorse these requirements, which will be be incorporated into my summary below. The “consistency” requirement seems similar to Laudan’s arguments that were discussed earlier, and similarly, I can see no good reason to make such a requirement. If there are those who want to suggest that telepathy is part of an explanation of SLA, then

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they must make their case within a rationalist framework, and then the community can decide what to make of it.

5.6 Guidelines for a critical rationalist approach towards theory construction in SLA 5.6.1 Preamble Although there are certainly problems in the conduct of research in the field of SLA, none gives any reason to abandon the project of conducting research and building theories of SLA in a rational way that includes the use of empirical data, rather as the arguments of radical scepticism do not force one to abandon a rationalist approach to problem-solving in general. Conceptual problems do exist, but they are not insurmountable, and neither are the problems of observer bias or experimental conditions. Biologists, chemists, even physicists, face problems with the proper conceptualisation of phenomena, viable constructs, taxonomies, classification, experimental procedures, measurement, statistical analysis, etc., and it would be wrong to think that the problems facing a theory of SLA were so great as to disqualify it from scientific status. There are, of course, differences between a theory of gravity and a theory of SLA, but there are also differences between theories of genetics, evolution, geometry, information, etc. Physics has always been considered the most exact science, and it is quite unnecessary for a theory of SLA to adopt its language, its instruments or its peculiar experimental procedures. The decision of the Nobel committee in 2000 to give the science prize to two economists working in the area of econometrics, for their work on new statistical procedures used to interpret data, is significant. The economists tackled such apparently unscientific questions as Why do people buy a Ford rather than a Nissan? How valuable is a university degree? At what age do senior managers work best? What factors cause people to develop cancer? While decision-makers in industry and commerce are accustomed to using gut reactions, focus groups or simple correlations for answers to these questions, the prize winners found more rigorous solutions to some of them. The methods adopted by any body of researchers will depend on the phenomena to be explained. All that is needed is that researchers in the field agree on criteria for the construction and testing of a theory of SLA which are rational, consensible in Ziman’s term, and likely to lead to consensus. There is,

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as in any field, good research and bad research going on in SLA, and I suggest that it behoves those working in the field to clarify the guidelines for their work. It would surely be “a good thing” if those working on SLA research could reach some general agreement on the research methodology to be used. If there were general agreement, they would then need to agree on the selection of phenomena, and on the testing and validation of hypotheses by the collective activity of those researchers working in the field. The question is whether those working in the field of SLA can produce an unambiguous framework of concepts and relations which will allow them to understand the phenomena involved in acquiring a second language and to make successful predictions about when and how the process occurs. 5.6.2 The guidelines I propose the following guidelines for those interested in constructing a rational theory of SLA: A. Assumptions 1. An external world exists independently of our perceptions of it. It is possible to study different phenomena in this world, to make meaningful statements about them, and to improve our knowledge of them. This amounts to a minimally realist epistemology, and therefore excludes those who claim that there is no objective way to judge among competing theories. It does not exclude a certain kind of relativism, as was made clear in Chapter 4.3.1 above. 2. Research is inseparable from theory. We cannot just observe the world: all observation involves theorising. As Popper (1959) argued, there is no way we can talk about something sensed and not interpreted. This is a rejection of the behaviourist and logical positivist position, but does not exclude all empiricists. It is important in discussions with those in the field of SLA who wish to challenge the critical rationalist research methodology to emphasise that we are not traditional “empiricists” or any kind of “positivist”. 3. Theories attempt to explain phenomena. Observational data are used to support and test those theories. 4. Research is fundamentally concerned with problem-solving. Research in SLA should be seen as attempted explanations. Data collection, taxonomies, “rich descriptions” of events, etc., must be in the service of an explanatory theory. Hypotheses are the beginning of attempts to solve problems.

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Hypotheses should lead to theories that organise and explain a certain group of phenomena and the hypotheses about them. Theories are explanations and are the final goal of research. The aim should be to unify descriptions and low-level theories into a general causal theory. 5. We cannot formalise “the scientific method”. Science is not only experimentation in a laboratory, it is not only physics, and, in any case, it is not necessary for a theory of SLA to be “scientific” in any narrow sense. There is no strict demarcation line between “science” and “non-science”: there is no small set of rules, adherence to which defines the scientific method, and no need for SLA researchers and theory builders to emulate the methods of physics, for example. There is no one road to theory (we do not have to start with the careful accumulation of data, or with universal principles). SLA research needs a multi-method approach. 6. There is no need for paradigmatic theories. As many theories as possible should be encouraged; there is no need for Lakatos’ protective belt (see Chapter 2, 8.), no need for Laudan’s research programmes (see Chapter 2, 9.). We should clearly distinguish between the context of discovery and the context of justification. It is interesting and informative to trace the history of a theory, to see theories in terms of paradigms, etc., but such considerations have little to do with the question of whether the theory is reasonable, supported by evidence, confirmed by experiment, etc. Perhaps the main function of considerations to do with the context of discovery is to encourage tolerance of young theories. As far as the context of justification is concerned, we should base ourselves on the principle of criticism: all theories should be open to as much criticism as possible. B. Criteria for the evaluation of SLA theories 7. Research, hypotheses, and theories should be coherent, cohesive, expressed in the clearest possible terms, and consistent. There should be no internal contradictions in theories, and no circularity due to badly-defined terms. Badly-defined terms and unwarranted conclusions must be uncovered and the clearest, simplest expression of the theory must be sought. 8. Theories should have empirical content. Propositions should be capable of being subjected to an empirical test. This implies that hypotheses should be capable of being supported or refuted, that hypotheses should not fly in the face of well-established empirical findings, and that research should be done in such a way that it can be observed, evaluated and replicated by others. The operational definition of variables is an extremely important

The construction and assessment of theories of SLA

way of ensuring that hypotheses and theories have empirical content. A final part of this criterion is that theories should avoid ad hoc hypotheses. 9. Theories should be fruitful. “Fruitful” in Kuhn’s sense (see Kuhn, 1962: 148): they should make daring and surprising predictions, and solve persistent problems in their domain. 10. Theories should be broad in scope. Ceteris paribus, the wider the scope of a theory, the better it is. 11. Theories should be simple. Following the Occam’s Razor principle, ceteris paribus, the theory with the simplest formula, and the lowest number of basic types of entity postulated, is to be preferred for reasons of economy. Finally, Casti (1989) provides some “hallmarks of pseudoscience” which may help to define good research practice, by indicating practices to be avoided. –

– –

–

–

A casual approach to evidence: Pseudoscientists think that sheer quantity of evidence makes up for any deficiency in quality, they do not scrutinise the evidence carefully and do not drop questionable evidence. Irrefutable hypotheses: “If nothing conceivable could speak against the hypothesis then it has no claim to be labelled scientific.” (Casti, 1989: 58) Explanation by scenario: Casti cites Velikovsky, “who states that Venus’ near collision with the earth caused the earth to flip over and reverse its magnetic poles.” Velikovsky offers no mechanism by which this cosmic event could have taken place, and the basic principle of deducing consequences from general principles is totally ignored in his “explanation” of such phenomena.” (Casti, 1989: 59) Research by literary interpretation: focusing on the words, not on the underlying facts and reasons for the statements that appear in scientific literature, and then suggesting what the writer “really meant”, or could be interpreted as meaning. Refusal to revise: pseudoscientists either couch their work in such vague terms that it cannot be criticised or they refuse to acknowledge criticism. “They see scientific debate not as a mechanism for scientific progress but as an exercise in rhetorical combat.” (Casti, 1989: 59)

I would add Predilection for obscure prose to the list. Obscure prose was anathema to Popper, who also believed that scientists should publicly announce changes in their positions and explain what led them to make such changes. As Koetge says of the postmodernists, who she calls “pomo-con authors”,

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They cover up or rationalize subtle shifts in the doctrines they espouse or present radically different emphases according to the audience they are addressing. As anyone who has tried to give a précis of many of the pomo-cons authors has discovered, it is often extremely hard to pin them down. (Koetge, 1996: 270)

These minimum conditions allow for a wide range of research methods and programmes. Both qualitative and quantitative methods may be used. Quantitative research programmes more easily conform to these conditions, since they use a deductive methodology that starts with a theory or hypothesis, gather data to test it, and then return to the theory at the end of the study to see how it has stood up to the tests. Qualitative research tends to begin by gathering information without doing more than articulating some questions (sometimes even the questions come later), and then looking for patterns out of which hypotheses or a theory can develop. Of course there are many, particularly in the field of SLA, who use a quantitative approach and yet do not develop any very challenging hypotheses or powerful theories, and there is nothing in principle to prevent those using a qualitative approach from developing a fully-fledged theory. In any case, if no hypothesis or theory emerges, or if there is no attempt to compare a pattern or theory with other theories, then the research has done no more than add to the data that a more adventurous researcher may put to some use. When evaluating theories, if they have survived rigorous examination and a certain amount of testing, then the bolder the theory is in terms of its predictive ability, and the wider its explanatory power, the better. My proposal is that those people working on research in SLA who accept the assumptions above should be seen as members of a broad rationalist community. How is the community to be defined? I think it must be circular: it should be defined in the same way as a nation is sometimes defined: the community is a collection of people who regard themselves as part of the community. In this particular case, they are interested in improving and developing different theories of SLA which, together, as a cluster, can provide a consistent and full explanation of how people acquire a second language.

5.7 Conclusion I have attempted to show that while there are serious objections to a “naive falsificationist” view of scientific method, none of the arguments put forward by radical sceptics or relativists is enough to warrant abandoning a rationalist

The construction and assessment of theories of SLA

approach to the task of constructing or assessing theories of SLA. Certainly, we need to question the assumed “objectivity” of science, and to recognise the influence that personal and social factors play in theory construction. Equally we should take the broadest possible view of rational enquiry and encourage new, even unlikely, theories to be developed. The main reason for taking the trouble to examine these issues in such detail is to clear up the confusion in the use of such terms as “empiricist”, “positivist”, and “scientific” so as to hopefully make it clear that doing rational research in SLA does not imply putting on some kind of rigid, old-fashioned straight-jacket. Post-modernists, constructivists, and other sceptics have, in my opinion, grossly exaggerated the limitations of the scientific method and used the debates among scientists and philosophers of science very selectively in order to bolster their case.

Notes 1.This is a two-wheeled version of the example given in Alan Ryan (1970). 2.In this case one might well feel that what is really needed is a better definition of the problem. 3.McLaughlin apparently assumes that Tarski’s famous correspondence theory of truth is the accepted paradigm. I personally find it quite acceptable, but there are, of course, many who do not. 4.McLaughlin is obviously using the word neologism in the sense of “a new word, usage, or expression.” It is interesting that the Merriam-Webster online dictionary gives a second definition, namely: “2: a meaningless word coined by a psychotic.” 5.Gregg (1993) objects that it is not a question of style or method but of necessity, which I do not accept at all: I see nothing wrong with such a distinction and I fail to see in what sense the researcher’s choice is “necessary”. 6.Long ends by saying that we can never know if a theory is true, a point I of course agree with. But I find Long’s second reason for why a theory can never be true a bit off the mark. Long says: “The second reason a theory can never be true is simpler: if all the facts were in and agreed upon, and if a process like SLA were fully understood, and agreed to be understood, there would be no need for a theory about it.” First, this does not follow, and second, it is not a reason to support the original assertion. The need for a theory stems from our lack of understanding, the limitations of rational thought explain why we will never know that it is true — even if it is.

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Part 2

A critical rationalist review of some hypotheses, models and theories of SLA

Introduction In Part 2 I will examine various attempts to explain the phenomena of SLA listed in Chapter 1. My aim is twofold: firstly, and most importantly, to see how various hypotheses, models, and theories of SLA measure up to the Guidelines presented at the end of Part 1, and secondly, to see to what extent these attempts to explain SLA succeed in providing a general and satisfactory explanation (in the sense I have outlined in Chapter 5) of SLA. There are any number of ways that one might go about the task of examining theories of SLA. A chronological account is an obvious approach, another would be to sort the theories into different domains and deal with, for example, linguistic, sociolinguistic and cognitive approaches to SLA, while yet another would be to go from broad theories to narrow studies, beginning with paradigmatic theories, then looking at theories covering a wide domain, then theories covering a smaller domain, then collections of hypotheses, then one auxiliary hypothesis, down to single studies. While these elements will be included, I do not intend to give an exhaustive history of SLA (see Ellis, 1994, or Mitchell and Miles (1998) for a more recent, briefer survey), but rather to choose examples where the Guidelines outlined above can be discussed. My main organising principle is thus simply to sort a limited number of theories, models and hypotheses of SLA in terms of of how well they satisfy the requirements of the Guidelines. My criterion for the selection of this limited set of theories is similarly subjective; it is simply: To what extent do the theories serve to support or illustrate the argument that a critical rationalist approach to theory construction in SLA is the most efficacious? We must begin with Chomsky. In Chapter 6 I will examine the theory that caused a paradigm shift in SLA research, and had such profound and widespread effects on the field. In Chapter 7 I will assess UG in terms of the Guidelines, examine the question of access to UG in SLA, and suggest that there is a need

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for SLA theory construction to go beyond the framework and domain of UG. In Chapter 8 I will look at some examples of work in SLA that “deeply offend” the Guidelines, starting with two approaches to SLA that go against the epistemological assumptions of the Guidelines, and then examining work that falls inside the rationalist, realist epistemology that I have recommended, but that nevertheless fails very badly to meet the criteria suggested for an adequate research methodology. In Chapter 9 I will give some examples of what I consider to be better attempts to explain SLA, examples that show development and progress in theory construction, and that, by conforming more closely to the Guidelines, support my argument that critical rationalism is a more promising approach than others. In Chapter 10, I will attempt to assess the current state of play, and to suggest a way forward. In this account I have drawn on the works of McLaughlin (1987), LarsenFreeman and Long (1991), Cook (1993), Gass and Selinker (1994), Towell and Hawkins (1994), Ellis (1994), Bialystok and Hakuta (1994), Cook and Newson (1996), Mitchell and Myles (1998), Braidi (1995) and Lightbown and Spada (1999). Throughout Part 2 I will refer to the Guidelines outlined at the end of in Chapter 5 as “the Guidelines”.

Chapter 6

Chomsky

6.1 Introduction In this chapter I examine Chomsky’s theory of Universal Grammar (UG), the criticisms of three of his critics, and discuss how well UG satisfies the Guidelines. Chomsky has exerted an enormous influence on attempts to explain SLA; indeed, for the past forty years he has been the necessary reference point for SLA research. Whether researchers and theory builders in SLA accept or reject UG, they cannot ignore it. Even though Chomsky has said repeatedly that his work has little to do with SLA, his work illuminates, or (better said, perhaps) casts a profound shadow over, the whole field of SLA research. I will argue that while the theory of UG is epistemologically realist to the hilt, and deserves the label “scientific” that its author demands for it, it is not a good model for SLA theory construction. In line with point 4 of the Guidelines, I argue for a rational, not a “scientific”, approach to SLA theory construction, and I suggest that a far broader range of phenomena can be examined and explained than Chomsky allows. As we shall see (and as has already been suggested in the discussion of Gregg in Chapter 5) Chomsky’s insistence on the strict scientific status of his theory results in its occupying a very limited domain, being of very dubious use in explaining most of the issues of interest in SLA, and encouraging some over-zealous followers to make unnecessary demands on a theory of SLA.

6.2 Chomsky’s Generative Grammar Historically, Chomsky’s Syntactic Structures (1957), followed by his review in 1959 of Skinner’s Verbal Behaviour (1957), marked the beginning of probably the fastest, biggest, most complete revolution in science that has been seen since the 1930s. Casti (1989) claims: There is no better example in the second half of this century of a true Kuhnian paradigm shift than what has been brought about in linguistics by Chomsky. (Casti, 1989: 231)

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Before Chomsky the field of linguistics was dominated by a Baconian, empiricist methodology, where researchers saw their job almost exclusively as the collection of data. It was agreed that all languages were composed of a set of meaningful sentences, each composed of a set of words, each of which was in turn composed of phonemes and morphemes. Each language also had a grammar which determined the ways in which words could be correctly combined to form sentences, and how the sentences were to be understood and pronounced. The paradigm that ruled before Chomsky held that the best way to understand the over 2,500 languages said to exist on earth was to collect and sort data about them so that eventually the patterns characterising the grammar of each language would emerge, and that then, interesting differences among different languages, and even groups of languages, might also emerge. Chomsky’s revolutionary argument, begun in Syntactic Structures (1957), and consequently developed in Aspects of the Theory of Syntax (1965) and Knowledge of Language (1986) was that all human beings are born with an innate grammar — a fixed set of mental rules that enables children to create and utter sentences they have never heard before. Chomsky asserted that language learning was a uniquely human capacity, a result of Homo Sapiens’s possession of what Chomsky at first referred to as a Language Acquisition Device. Chomsky developed his theory and later claimed that language consists of a set of abstract principles that characterise the core grammars of all natural languages, and that the task of learning one’s L1 is thus simplified since one has an innate mechanism that constrains possible grammar formation. Children do not have to learn those features of the particular language to which they are exposed that are universal, because they know them already. The job of the linguistic was to describe this generative, or universal, grammar, as rigorously as possible. Chomsky, in an interview with Domenico Pacitti explains: It had been recognised for centuries, by Galileo, for example, that the crucial aspect of language is discrete infinity — the capacity to create arbitrary structures of arbitrary complexity by putting together discrete items, which is rather unusual in the biological world. By the 1950s, advances in the theory of computation of algorithms and formal systems had progressed to the point where it was possible to try to articulate precisely and explicitly what those finite means might be by which we express infinite thoughts. (Pacitti, 2000: 1)

It is important to emphasise that Chomsky’s account of the linguistic knowledge that humans are endowed with, and of the process by which it is acquired, has gone through various quite radical changes since 1957 (see Cook and

Chomsky

Newson, 1996: 41). Perhaps the most stable part of Chomsky’s theory is expressed in his “Principles and Parameters” model, outlined in the early 1980s, and this will be discussed below. For the moment, it is enough to be aware of the basic argument. The arguments for Universal Grammar (UG) start with the poverty of the stimulus argument, often referred to as the “logical problem of language learning”: children learning their first language cannot induce rules of grammar from the input they receive, the knowledge of language which they manifest cannot be explained by appealing to the language they are exposed to. On the basis of degenerate input children produce language which is far more complex and rule-based than could be expected, and which is very similar to that of other adult native speakers of the same language variety, at an age when they have difficulty grasping abstract concepts. That their production is rule-based and not mere imitation as the behaviourist view held, is shown by the fact that they frequently invent well-formed utterances of their own. That they have an innate capacity to discern well-formed utterances is shown by a number of different studies, for example, the often-cited (White, 1989) study of L1 English learners’ use of “wanna”, where input does not explain how children know when the use of “wanna” is correct or not. Moreover, while in principle there are two types of evidence available to learners as they test their hypotheses about correct and incorrect language forms, namely positive and negative evidence, typically children get very little negative evidence, i.e. direct or indirect correction. This, in the opinion of those who support Chomsky’s theory, indicates that something other than the language that children are exposed to must account for the capacity of nearly all children to achieve proficiency in their L1 by the time they are five years old. By way of example, I cite two supporters of the poverty of the stimulus argument. White (1989) sums up the argument thus: Despite the fact that certain properties of language are not explicit in the input, native speakers end up with a complex grammar that goes far beyond the input, resulting in knowledge of grammaticality, ungrammaticality, ambiguity, paraphrase relations, and various subtle and complex phenomena, suggesting that universal principles must mediate acquisition and shape knowledge of language. (White 1989: 37)

Cook (1991) gives a more “logical” account, saying that there are four stages to the poverty of the stimulus argument:

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Step A. a native speaker of a particular language knows a particular aspect of syntax. The researcher has to select a particular aspect of language knowledge that the native speaker knows. Step B. this aspect of syntax could not have been acquired from the language input typically available to children. This involves considering possible sources of evidence in the language the child hears and in the processes of interaction with parents. Step C. this aspect of syntax is not learnt from outside. If all the types of evidence considered in Step B can be eliminated, the logical inference is that the source of this knowledge is not outside the child’s mind. Step D. this aspect of syntax is built-in to the mind. (Cook, 1991, cited in Cook and Newson, 1996: 83–84)

Cook’s outline makes it clear that there are two parts to the UG argument: all natural languages share the same underlying structure, and the knowledge of this structure is innate. The job of linguists is to find the underlying grammar that can account for the infinite set of potentially well-formed sentences in any natural language. The sentence “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously” may be said to be meaningless, and before Chomsky invented it, the words had probably never before been assembled in that order. Yet any native English speaker recognises it to be grammatical, and similarly identifies the sentence “Colorless sleep idea green furiously” as ill-formed. What knowledge accounts for these judgements? Obviously a very abstract type of knowledge, which the analysis of the empirical data collected by those following Bloomfield, for example, is incapable of uncovering. Chomsky’s model of language distinguished between competence and performance, between the description of underlying knowledge, and the use of language, influenced as the latter is by limits in the availability of computational resources, stress, tiredness, alcohol, etc. Chomsky said that he was concerned with “the rules that specify the well-formed strings of minimal syntactically functioning units” and with an ideal speaker-listener, in a completely homogeneous speech-community, who knows his language perfectly and is unaffected by such grammatically irrelevant conditions as memory limitations, distractions, shifts of attention and interest, and errors (random or characteristic) in applying his knowledge of the language in actual performance. (Chomsky, 1965: 3)

Chomsky further explains this distinction, so in defining the domain of his theory, by referring to his own concern as I-Language, or Internalised Language

Chomsky 127

(i.e., competence), as opposed to E-Language, or Externalised Language (i.e, performance). As to the innateness of the language faculty, Chomsky points to the fact that language acquisition has nothing to do with intelligence, and that, despite the enormous complexities of this abstract knowledge, the vast majority of children successfully reach full linguistic competence by the age of five. Language, it is claimed, is separate from other aspects of cognition, and, according to Chomsky, is looked after by a special module of the mind. Thanks to this faculty of mind, language develops in more or less the same natural way as teeth or internal organs or limbs do. The enormity and suddenness of this paradigm shift is difficult to exaggerate. Chomsky totally dismissed the well-laid and generally respected foundations of structural linguistics; he rejected not only its epistemological underpinnings, but also its domain and its research methodology. Again by way of example, I cite two different appraisals of Chomsky’s new approach. Bialystok and Hakuta comment: Through this distinction [between I-Language and E-Language] the working prototype of a linguist changed from a person who visits exotic native cultures in the summer to collect a corpus for later analysis to one who sits in an office shooting test sentences against his or her own intuitions, literally conducting science out of an armchair, occasionally consulting the intuitions of a colleague or spouse in moments of great uncertainty. (Bialystok and Hakuta, 1994: 28)

Casti sees the paradigm shift in this way: In addition to providing a set of formal tools and a theoretical framework for investigating the abstract properties of languages, Chomsky’s work had the farreaching effect of totally reorienting the primary direction of linguistic research… the main focus now became not the language patterns of adult speakers, but a deep understanding of the process by which children come to learn their native language. In fact it’s fair to say that the UG program is directed towards answering the central problem of modern linguistics: How do children acquire the ability to speak their native language? (Casti, 1989: 215–216.)

Chomsky’s radical new approach to linguistics marked the beginning of an important shift not only in linguistics but also in SLA research. The shift was away from behaviourist assumptions and structural linguistics, away from the emphasis on the pedagogical implications of research, and towards an explanation of the phenomena of SLA as a research project in itself. Under the influence of Chomsky, a number of academics decided to deliberately ignore the implications for teaching in favour of developing a more rigorous theory that could deal more adequately with the phenomena of SLA.

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6.3 Chomsky’s theory of UG: Principles and parameters Let us now trace the development of Chomsky’s theories in more detail, before examining the arguments of his critics, and his relevance to an explanation of SLA. In 1981 Chomsky announced “a radical change in his thinking and a new linguistic turn” (Pacitti, 2000: 1). As the study of “generative grammar” developed, a tension arose between the two tasks academics in the field had set themselves. Their attempt to provide an accurate description of language revealed extreme complexity both within individual languages and among different languages. But their attempt to describe the mechanisms of the language faculty assumed to be located in each child’s brain suggested that a simple and uniform base underpins all languages. The effort to resolve this tension went on for about 25 years, with linguists struggling to demonstrate that the surface complexity of language was only superficial. “The idea was that if you looked more carefully, you could find underlying principles in widely differing languages,” says Chomsky. “If, in fact, we knew the principles used to form and interpret complex (sentence) constructions, at least one major task of linguistics would be solved. It’s a scientific question, and a fundamental one, to find out what a person knows without awareness or even possible access to consciousness.” It was following his Pisa lectures in the 1980s that Chomsky began to replace what was becoming a frustrating search for these underlying linguistic rules with the “principles-and-parameters” approach. It was an about-turn that astonished many. Instead of looking for rules, said Chomsky, linguistics researchers needed to look for “general principles that are fixed and part of our genetic endowment, and parameters, the choices the child is somehow preprogrammed to activate at precise phases of his linguistic development.” “It’s as if genetic instructions determine a fixed network of principles and a certain few switches that aren’t yet set, and the child has to set the switches on the basis of simple data,” Chomsky explains. “Once the switches are set, the whole system operates. In this framework more has been learnt about language in the past 20 years than in the preceding 2,000 and for the first time you have what you might call a genuine theory of language.” (Pacitti, 2000: 1)

In a series of steps (Chomsky 1980, 1981a, 1981b, 1986, 1987) Chomsky developed his Principles and Parameters Model, which, until fairly recently, was seen as the mature expression of his theory of Universal Grammar. The theory attempts to explain what linguistic knowledge consists of, and how it is acquired. As Cook and Newson, 1996, point out:

Chomsky 129

The advantage of the principles and parameters model over earlier models is that it can draw an explicit link between competence and acquisition; the form of the grammar can now mirror the needs of acquisition; this connection forms an intrinsic design feature of principles and parameter theory. The two questions of knowledge and acquisition have merged to some extent: an answer to the one cannot be separated from an answer to the other. (Cook and Newson, 1996: 76)

What, then, are the principles and parameters that constrain natural languages? It is beyond the scope of this work to offer any full account of Chomsky’s theory, but a brief outline of the argument follows. I have used Cook (1989, 1993, 1994) and Cook and Newson (1996) as the main sources of information in this account, and I have also made use of Casti (1989), White (1989, 1996), Botha (1991), Towell and Hawkins (1994), Epstein, Flynn and Martohardjono (1996), and Smith (1999). When a child experiences linguistic input, the parameter values of the universal grammar are set and this allows the child to understand and produce the specific language corresponding to the particular parameter settings. “Principles” are the universal, invariant design features of all human languages, while “parameters” constrain the limited possibilities for variation allowed. A parameter can have two or more values, and particular languages make different choices among the values allowed. Chomsky’s “principles and parameters” model can be seen as an answer to the limitations of phrase structure grammars, which assume that sentences consist of phrases that have certain structures. Thus the sentence The cat chased the dog. can be represented as follows: Sentence Noun Phrase Determiner

The

Verb Phrase Noun

cat

Verb

chased

Noun Phrase Determiner

Noun

the

dog

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The problem with such grammars is that they soon become very complicated, and a great many rules have to be introduced as new sentences are discovered or invented. Furthermore they cannot deal with ambiguous sentences such as “I like her cooking.” (they can only provide one parsing or diagramming for this sentence), and neither can they deal with sentences that have different phrase structures, but similar meanings, as in the sentences “The cat chased the dog” and “The dog was chased by the cat”. (The similarity cannot be represented in phrase structure grammars.) Chomsky offered a way out of these limitations by proposing that a small collection of principles, centred around the principle of structure-dependency, can adequately describe the core grammar of any language. Cook and Newson (1996: 5–13) use the examples of the relationship between active and passive sentences in English, and of Chomsky’s example of the movement involved in the formation of English questions, to introduce the principle of structure-dependency. In order to form “The dog was chased by the cat” from “The cat chased the dog”, or “Is the man who is here tall?” from “The man who is here is tall”, various elements of the sentences must be moved around. The question is, how? movement in the sentence is not just a matter of recognising phrases and then of moving them around but of moving the right element in the right phrase: movement depends on the structure of the sentence. (Cook and Newson, 1996: 8)

Cook and Newson, having explained the basic principles applying to the passive and to question formation in English, conclude: In order to know which element of the sentence to move, one has to know its underlying structure. The element that can be moved to subject position in the passive is the object NP from the VP in its entirety; what may be moved in the question is the auxiliary verb is from the main clause VP. Only if the speaker knows the structure of the sentence can the right part of the verb be moved. English passive sentences and questions cannot be formed without knowing something about phrase structure. Simple counting of the first, second, or nth word does not work. It is the structure that matters. In other words, the rules for English passives and questions are structure-dependent, not based on the linear order of elements. (Cook and Newson, 1996: 9)

Cook (1989) gives this lucid summary of structure-dependency. To take an English example sentence “Max played the drums with Charlie Parker”, principles of phrase structure require every phrase in it to have a head

Chomsky

of a syntactic category and permit it to have complements of various types; A Verb Phrase such as “played the drums” must have a head that is a verb, “play”, and may have a complement “the drums”, a Prepositional Phrase such as “with Charlie Parker” must have a head that is a preposition, “with”, and a complement “Charlie Parker”; Noun Phrases such as “Max”, “the drums”, and “Charlie Parker” must have noun heads and may, but in this case do not, have complements. This is not true only of English; the phrases of all languages consist of heads and possible complements — Japanese, Catalan, Gboudi and so on. The difference between the phrase structures of different languages lies in the order in which head and complement occur within the phrase; in English the head verb comes before the complement, the head preposition comes before its complement, … [while] Japanese is the opposite. … This variation in languages is captured by the head parameter, which has two settings “head first” and “head last” according to whether the head comes before or after the complement in the phrases of the language. Complementary to these phrase structure principles is the Projection Principle which claims that syntax and the lexicon are closely tied together. As well as knowledge of where the complement goes in the phrase, we need to know whether a complement is actually allowed, and this depends upon the lexical item that is used; hence the Projection Principle states that the English verb “play” must be specified as taking a complement (i.e. it is normally transitive); the lexical entry for the verb “faint” must specify it has no complement (i.e. it is intransitive), while that for the verb “give” must specify that it has two complements (i.e. direct and indirect objects). The question of whether the phrase structure of a sentence is grammatical is a matter not just of whether it conforms to the overall possible structures in the language but also whether it conforms to the particular structures associated with the lexical items in it; “Max played the drums” is grammatical because the verb occurs in the correct head-first position, compared to “Max the drums played” and because the verb “play” has an Object Noun Phrase following it, compared to “Max played”. (Cook, 1989: 169–170)

Other elements of UG include: – – – –

Subjacency, which constrains the movement of categories. See Cook and Newson, 1996: 258–261. Case Theory, which constrains S structures. See Cook and Newson, 1996: 222–227. C-command and Government Theory, which constrain a number of the subsystems, such as Case Theory. See Cook and Newson, 1996: 234–239. Binding Theory, which constrains the formation of NPs. See Cook and Newson, 1996: 250–256.

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To sum up: UG consists of a highly structured and restrictive system of principles with certain open parameters to be fixed by experience. As these parameters are fixed, a grammar is determined, what we may call a ‘core grammar’. (Chomsky 1980, cited in Epstein, Flynn and Martohardjono, 1996: 678)

The principles are universal properties of syntax which constrain learners’ grammars, while parameters account for cross-linguistic syntactic variation, and parameter setting leads to the construction of a core grammar where all relevant UG principles are instantiated. How is knowledge of the core grammar of language acquired? We have already noted that Chomsky takes a “nativist” approach — he sees language as an innate faculty of mind, a natural human endowment. This native endowment has been called by Chomsky the “Language Acquisition Device” (LAD), which can be seen as a “ black box”: children receive a certain amount of language input from their environment which is processed in some way by the LAD so that they end up with their linguistic competence. As Cook (1993) points out, the UG theory “fleshes out” the LAD “by establishing the crucial features of the input, the contents of the black box, and the properties of the resultant grammar” (Cook, 1993: 200). The consequence, as already indicated, is that the “what” and “how” questions merge and the process of language acquisition is simply one of selecting, rather than learning. We know the principles of grammar innately, and parameter settings are triggered by input. We can see first language acquisition in terms of initial and final states of mind. Starting at the initial “zero state” or S0 when we are born, we end up as adult native speakers with full competence, the “steady state”, or Ss a person proceeds from a genetically determined initial state S0, through a sequence of stages S1, S2, …, finally arriving at a “steady state” Ss which then seems to change only marginally. (Chomsky, 1995, cited in Cook and Newson, 1996:78)

We should remember that the final steady state does not comprise only the knowledge of UG. Pragmatic competence, knowledge of peripheral grammar and of lexis, are also involved, but lie outside the domain of Chomsky’s theories.

Chomsky

6.4 The Minimalist Program In the early days of generative grammar the lexicon was given little importance — lexical items were introduced using the same rules that defined linguistic structure. Gradually the lexicon has been given increasing importance until in Chomsky’s more recent work (1995) on the “Minimalist Program” (note that it is so far only a program — more a policy statement than a theory), the lexicon is now described as potentially the locus of all variation between languages, so that apart from differences in the lexicon there is only one human language. Cook and Newson (1996) sees the Minimalist Program as “a progression rather than a complete U-turn”, a continuation of Chomsky’s “drive for simplification”. If the linguistic system needs to be as economical as possible, in terms of both how it represents and generates structures, clearly the smallest set of devices to account for language phenomena should be used — the defining characteristic of the Minimalist Program. Economy of representation requires that representations of syntactic structure contain no more than the required elements. (Cook and Newson, 1996: 312–313)

For the purposes of my arguments I will assume that the Minimalist Program does indeed represent a progression not a U-turn, and that it does not crucially effect Chomsky’s theory of language acquisition. Nevertheless, for the sake of completeness, some reference to the Minimalist Program must be made. While Cook and Newson (1996: 311–344) offer an admirable account of the Minimalist Program, I can find no way of briefly summarising it, and I will do no more than indicate what is involved by reference to Smith (1999: 86–90). Chomsky’s lexicon consists of a list of items (including idioms, clichés, affixes, etc.) and each item is characterised in terms of its features. What is important is that the lexicon specifies all and only the idiosyncratic unpredictable information about the items, it does not mention information which follows from deeper generalisations. Smith (1999) gives the example of the English word import, which can be a noun or a verb. As a noun the stress is on the first syllable, as a verb, it is on the second. It is unnecessary to encode this in the lexicon, because it is part of a wider generalisation about the relation between stress and parts of speech — torment, present, compact, pervert, all work in the same way. Smith comments that this emphasis on economy of representation, on avoiding redundancy, is a hallmark of Chomsky’s approach, and of what Smith calls “the hard sciences” in general.

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Lexical items are divided into two classes: lexical (e.g., nouns, verbs, adjectives) and functional (e.g., determiners, auxiliary verbs, complementisers, tense elements). Lexical categories have meaning or content independent of the sentences they occur in, but functional categories do not. There is no difficulty in explaining what tree or walk means, by referring to trees or walking; it is not so easy to explain what the or if means. (Smith, 1999: 84)

The suggestion being made in Chomsky’s new Minimalist Program is that it may be possible to reduce all grammatical differences to the properties of functional categories, and only those. (Smith, 1999: 84)

Smith gives the example of the different properties of complementisers and auxiliary verbs in different languages. In phrase structure grammar, the sentence “Harry stirred the stew.” can be represented as in Figure 5. S NP

VP V

Harry

stirred

NP Det

N

the

stew

Figure 5.From Smith, 1999: 58.

Transformation grammar allowed an explanation of the movement of What in the sentence “What did Harry stir?”, and gave the structure in Figure 6: The new analysis of the sentence in Figure 7 gives the following. Smith explains: First, all sentences are argued to include a complementiser position, so the highest node in the tree is CP (short for Complementiser Phrase). Second, the subscripts and empty categories show that What has moved from the direct object position after the verb to a position known as the Specifier of the CP. Third, the auxiliary verb did is not now dominated by AUX, but, again as shown by the subscripts and empty category, it has moved from the I position (short for Inflection) to be under the domination of C. Lastly, the label S has been replaced by IP (short for Inflection Phrase) to reflect the fact that all

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S NP

S AUX

N

VP V

What

did

Harry

stir

Figure 6.From Smith, 1999: 84. CP Spec

C C

IP N

I I

Whati

didj

Harry

ecj

VP V

DP

stir

eci

Figure 7.From Smith, 1999: 84. sentences need some inflection to show finiteness. Two questions arise: why do these movements take place and how does English differ from other languages? The answer to both questions can be shown to reduce to properties of the functional categories I and C. In English, interrogative C is “strong” whereas I is “weak”. As a result, English has I to C movement — C is strong enough to attract auxiliaries to it like a magnet, whereas in French C is weak — hence no attraction can take place, and we have the contrast: a. John has come — Has John come? b. Jean est venu — *Est Jean venu?* The initial view of parametric variation associated parameters with principles of universal grammar; this more recent treatment associates them with individual lexical items of different languages. (Smith, 1999: 85)

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It seems, then, that the search for the underlying principles that are common to all natural languages has been called off in favour of a search for the lexical items of different languages which determine how the parameters are set. Now the search is for the “switches” that determine parameter settings; once they are identified one only has to explain what happens when this or that switch is flicked to explain the differences between languages. We can think of the initial state of the faculty of language as a fixed network connected to a switch box; the network is constituted of the principles of language, while the switches are the options to be determined by experience. When the switches are set one way, we have Swahili; when they are set another way, we have Japanese. (Chomsky, cited in Guy, 2000: 2)

The new quest for the switches and their settings supersedes all Chomsky’s past theories and constructs. The minimalist program seeks to show that everything that has been accounted for in terms of (levels of deep and surface structure) has been misdescribed. For those of you who know the technical literature, that means the projection principle, binding theory, Case theory, the chain condition, and so on… There should be no indices or phrasal units and no bar levels (hence no phrasestructure rules or X-bar theory…) (Chomsky, 2000, cited in Guy, 2000: 2)

There are now just two levels of representation in the grammar, Phonetic Form (PF) and Logical Form (LF). The new system is deemed to be an improvement because variations between languages can now be explained exclusively in terms of differences in the lexicon, and further restricted to the subset of the lexicon which involves functional categories. Chomsky suggests that linguists adopt only those categories that it is impossible to do without, and that these two categories are articulation and perception on the one hand (PF) and the conceptual system (LF) on the other. The aim of Minimalism is to show that “what is empirically unavoidable is imposed by ‘design specifications’ of external systems” so that all constraints on grammatical processes are motivated by either perceptual or conceptual considerations. Binding theory for instance, …is now suspected to be just “an external interpretative system”; that is, a set of conditions imposed from outside on the grammar proper. Similarly, the reason for the ubiquitous existence of movement, which is clearly not conceptually necessary, may be that it is a response to requirements of communication: putting old information before new, for instance. (Smith, 1999: 87)

Chomsky

To resume: Chomsky set out to explain “linguistic competence”, which has an explicitly psychological status, and to construct a grammar that could assign appropriate structures to sentences. Certain sequences of words were ungrammatical because they broke the rules that the grammar postulated. At the next level, Chomsky attempted to describe general (universal) conditions to which rules of grammar have to conform, thus converting a descriptive taxonomy into an explanation — all languages obey certain principles that constrain the infinite logical possibilities of syntax. More problems were solved — why some kinds of movement are impossible in some languages but acceptable in others — by postulating universal, but parameterised, principles. Locality (grammatical operations are constrained to apply in some local domain) seemed to be a particularly broad principle, and the response to the question “why should locality principles obtain?” is finally confronted in the Minimalist Program in terms of least effort: an economy principle. (Smith, 1999: 91)

The answer to the final question of why any of these logically unnecessary principles should hold is that they are innate, and here, Chomsky has given the same answer all along. It seems that the part of his theory that deals with how we acquire language has remained far more constant than the attempts to most elegantly or economically describe the underlying features of language.

6.5 Internalism In a series of recent essays, Chomsky (Chomsky, 2000) has argued for a particular philosophical position, a view of semantics part epistemological, part ontological, which he calls “Internalism”. Even more than Minimalism, this argument lies outside the scope of this book, in which I take the view that the “Principles and Parameters” model of Universal Grammar still best represents Chomsky’s contribution to attempts to explain language acquisition. As with Minimalism, however, for the sake of completeness the current debate on Internalism must be mentioned. Chomsky has always argued that linguistic theory should study individual psychology in order to address the question of what comprises and explains a certain type of individual knowledge. We have already seen in the preliminary section on Chomsky above, that the distinction between Externalized (E-) language and Internalised (I-) language (Chomsky, 1986) was made to distinguish

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the domain of Chomsky’s theory from the structuralist tradition of linguistics. For Chomsky, the task of a grammar is not to generate all and only the wellformed sentences of a language, but to describe what underlies our ability to produce and understand utterances. Concentrating on “E-Language”, or the description of a set of sentences in a natural language, is to get entangled in an infinite mass of data where no causal theory can ever emerge. So far, so good. What the Internalist argument is about, however, is something rather different. The investigation of I-Language addresses, among other things, the question of “how much of what psychology studies happens, strictly speaking, in the mind?” (Fodor, 2001: 3). As Fodor says: “Internalists say ‘all of it’; Externalists say ‘less than that’.” (Fodor, 2001: 3). It seems that Chomsky now wants to refer to the domain of his theory, not as grammar but as “I-language”, where “I” is “Internal” and where “Internal” means in the mind. While exposure to external stimuli is necessary for language acquisition, Chomsky maintains that, as Smith puts it “the resulting system is one which has no direct connection with the external world” (Smith, 1999: 138). This highly counter-intuitive claim takes us into the technicalities of a philosophical debate about semantics in general and “reference” in particular, where Chomsky holds the controversial view that semantic relations “are nothing to do with things in the world, but are relations between mental representations: they are entirely inside the head” (Smith, 1999:167). Perhaps the most well-known example of this view (see Fodor, 2001, Guy, 2000 and Smith, 1999) is Chomsky’s assertion that while we may use the word “London” to refer to the capital city of the UK, it is unjustified to claim that the word itself refers to some real entity in the world. Whatever the implications of Chomsky’s Internalist arguments, they do not, I will assume, represent any retreat from his consistent commitment to a realist, rationalist epistemology. Chomsky claims that the constructs and entities in his theories deal with real features of the world; and that his theories, like all scientific or rational theories, are open to empirical tests.

6.6 UG remains the relevant theory Although the development of the relatively new Minimalist Program referred to in Section 6.4 might seem like a very radical change, Chomsky’s main argument remains that there are abstract principles governing all natural languages, and that these are innate; the shift is that now the task of learning a language is said to consist of learning vocabulary and of setting parameters that are contained

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in the functional categories of the lexicon. For the purposes of my argument, therefore, I will continue to refer to Chomsky’s main theory as UG. It remains true to say that UG involves the following claims: –

– –

A theory of linguistics is concerned with describing and explaining an individual’s knowledge of certain core principles of language, not with his or her or a community’s use of language. The main way to test such a theory is through the intuitions of native speakers about whether sentences in their language are well formed or not. The language faculty responsible for our linguistic knowledge is innate and autonomous, i.e. it is an independent cognitive module that interacts with, but does not derive from, other cognitive faculties. UG theory rests on a modular view of cognition which sees the mind not as a uniform system, but rather as containing a central processing system and a set of autonomous systems or modules that function largely independent of one another. According to this view there are various faculties of mind, various components, which are “domain specific, innately specified, hardwired, autonomous and not assembled” (Fodor, 1996: 112). These modules, or input systems, pertain to the senses plus language, they are to do with perception, and they interact with central (horizontal rather than vertical) systems, which are cognitive, and are responsible for the fixation of belief, for thought, and for storing knowledge. Modules differ from the central systems in that they contain genetically-determined information; in the case of language, this is UG.1

6.7 Chomsky’s critics We may identify three types of Chomskian critic: 1. Behaviourists and others who attack the suggestion that abstract mental representations in the mind can explain anything, because, according to them, the whole concept of “mind” is a non-starter. 2. Those who criticise Chomsky’s claims that humans have an innate faculty for language learning, and/or that this faculty is autonomous with regard to other cognitive domains, being just one of various “modules”. 3. Those who argue that Chomsky’s theories fails to deal with most of the important phenomena involved in SLA.

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In all three categories are those who point to badly-defined terms, inconsistencies, non-sequiturs, and contradictions in the argument. As to the first category, I have nothing to add to what I said earlier when defining myself as a critical rationalist (see Chapter 4). Regarding category 3, criticisms about the limitation of the applicability of Chomsky’s theories to SLA will be considered in Chapter 7. It is the arguments of the second category of critics that I want to examine here. Such critics include Quine (1972), Harman (1980), Deacon (1997), and Chipere (1997), all of whose positions are outlined in the engaging treatment of Chomsky offered by Botha 1991. I have singled out three of Chomsky’s bestknown critics who I think adequately cover the main charges made against him. 6.7.1 Jean Piaget Piaget suggested in the 1920s that a child goes through four qualitatively different stages in the process of his cognitive development. Until the age of two, the child is sorting out space, objects and causality. From around two to five years old his thought processes begin to use mental images arising from imitation or words. Language skills and reasoning from memory also develop in this second stage. From the ages of five to ten, again approximately speaking, the child can classify hierarchical structures, understand ordinal relations, and the conservation of continuous properties like weight, quantity and volume. From around ten to fourteen years old the real world is seen as one of possible worlds, logical thinking improves, and the child realises that appearances can be deceiving. How does the child manage all this? Piaget says that the child’s knowledge develops by his interaction with his environment and by the use of two strategies: assimilation, where the child fits his new experiences into the established patterns of thought, and accommodation, where changing existing patterns are used to account for novel aspects of reality. The tension between these two strategies for dealing with new information is resolved by what Piaget calls equilibrium which balances out the competing forces. In Piaget´s opinion, there is no modularity of mind, no innate language faculty or any other specialised mechanism at work: The child creates his own concepts through interaction with the environment. There is obviously an important philosophical, or more specifically, an epistemological difference, between Chomsky’s approach and Piaget’s. Piaget takes a far more dialectical view of the knower and the known. We have already seen that constructivists claim Piaget as one of their own, and it is certainly the case that Piaget argued

Chomsky

that knowledge is constructed by interaction with the environment. In Piaget’s case, language is just one part of the knowledge the child acquires as he goes through his stages of development, constructing his understanding of the world for himself on the basis of dynamic interplay with the world around him. Chomsky’s reply to Piaget was made publicly at the famous 1975 conference at Royaumont, where Piaget, Chomsky, Fodor, and others gathered to discuss the limitations of the genetic contribution to culture. Criticising Piaget’s four stages of development, Chomsky suggested that if children must pass through Piaget’s first stage of development before their language development takes place, then we would expect paraplegics to have a distorted path of language development, which, in fact, is not the case. (It is worth noting here that supporters of the UG theory often cite cases of abnormal children, those with serious cognitive and/or psychological problems, and “language savants” such as Williams syndrome children, as evidence for the independent, innate nature of the language faculty.) Chomsky went on to use the favourite UG argument against Piaget, the “logical” problem: how could Piaget (or anyone else for that matter) explain the poverty of the stimulus? No generalised learning strategies can, said Chomsky, ever meet this objection. 6.7.2 Geoffrey Sampson Sampson shares something in common with Piaget, but he is a linguist, not an educationalist, and he takes a rather more hard-nosed, less holistic view of language acquisition than Piaget. Sampson says that Chomsky adopts a Cartesian view, and sees a new-born child as being just like a very learned man who is asleep; the knowledge is in there, it just needs stirring up a bit before it is available for use. (Sampson, 1997: 8)

Against such a view, Sampson endorses the empiricist view of John Locke, Descartes’ English contemporary and adversary. According to Locke, and Sampson, experience gives us knowledge, and we do not have any particular ideas or knowledge “built in.” Sampson goes through Chomsky’s arguments for innate knowledge of language one by one. I cite two examples: speed of acquisition and the poverty of the stimulus. In regard to speed of acquisition, Sampson asks why it is appropriate to regard a learning period of two years as “remarkably fast” as Chomsky does, rather than “remarkably slow”. Sampson thinks it is “senseless” to claim that

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acquisition is in general “remarkably fast”, given the vagueness of that claim. As to the poverty of the stimulus, or “poverty of the data” argument, as Sampson calls it, Sampson says that Chomsky’s claims about the linguistic data available to the child “seem to be factually untrue”. Sampson takes Chomsky’s famous example (used at the Royaumont conference) of two different hypotheses about the grammar of yes/no questions in English. Turning an English statement into the corresponding yes/no question involves operating on a finite verb in the statement. Either the verb itself is moved to the left (if the verb is a form of be, do, have, or a modal verb such as will) — thus ‘The man is tall’ becomes ‘Is the man tall?’; or, in all other cases the verb is put into the infinitive and an inflected form of do is placed to the left — thus ‘The man swims well’ becomes ‘Does the man swim well?’ (Sampson, 1997: 40)

Chomsky says there are two hypotheses that the child learning English might try: 1. operate on the first finite verb. 2. operate on the finite verb of the main clause. Hypothesis 1 violates the ‘structure dependence’ universal and is false; applied to the sentence “The man who is tall is sad.” it would give “Is the man who tall is sad?” Hypothesis 2 is correct. Yet both hypotheses work in all questions except those formed from statements containing a subordinate clause which precedes the main verb. According to Chomsky the child cannot decide by passive observation whether one or the other hypothesis is true, because cases of statements containing a subordinate clause which precedes the main verb are extremely rare, so rare in fact that, in Chomsky’s view, you can easily live your whole life without ever producing a relevant example … you can go over a vast amount of data of experience without ever finding such a case. (Chomsky, 1975, cited in Sampson, 1997: 41)

In reply to this Sampson says that many examples actually exist, including the well-known line from Blake’s The Tyger “Did he who made the Lamb make thee?” Sampson goes on to give a number of other examples from a children’s corpus, and concludes: Since Chomsky has never backed up his arguments from poverty of the child’s data with detailed empirical studies, we are entitled to reject them on the ground that the data available to the child are far richer than Chomsky supposes. (Sampson, 1997: 42)

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Apart from the facts, Sampson says, Chomsky’s argument is logically untenable. The obvious reply to anyone who asserts that a language has certain properties, no evidence of which is present in the data available to an individual learning language, is ‘How do you know?’ The adult’s conscious knowledge of the properties of a language is based ultimately on observations of examples of the language — that is, on just the kind of experience which Chomsky alleges to be insufficient to determine the properties of the language. So, if data bearing on some particular point of grammar were too rare to be standardly encountered during language acquisition, there would appear to be no way that an adult could consciously ascertain that grammatical fact (unless by a great stroke of luck). The fact that Chomsky and his English-speaking readers all agree that questions formed according to hypothesis 1 are ungrammatical, in cases where they differ from the corresponding questions formed by hypothesis 2, proves that evidence refuting hypothesis 1 is encountered in the life of any English speaker. (Sampson, 1997: 43)

Sampson follows this argument for the self-defeating character of Chomsky’s claim by a criticism of Chomsky’s “question-begging idealisations”. Chomsky’s distinction between competence and performance is well known, it is the difference between the phenomenon that Chomsky wants to explain, the acquisition of a certain type of knowledge, and data, much of which, in Chomsky’s opinion, is irrelevant. As far as competence is concerned, when it comes to the description of language and the acquisition process, Chomsky argues that it is necessary to make various “simplifying assumptions”. Sampson notes that Chomsky replies to those who criticise these simplifications in an almost exasperated tone, and gives this quote: Opposition to idealisation is simply objection to rationality; it amounts to nothing more than an insistence that we shall not have intellectual work… You must abstract some object of study, you must eliminate those factors that are not pertinent … if you want to conduct an investigation which is not trivial. In the natural sciences this isn’t even discussed, it is self-evident. In the human sciences, people continue to question it. (Chomsky, cited in Sampson, 1997: 50)

Sampson replies that while he does not object to ignoring aspects of one’s subject matter that are beside the point (kinetics says nothing about the colour of the material bodies whose movement it studies), it is another matter “to pretend for argument’s sake that some aspect of the subject matter which is relevant is different from, and simpler than the way it really is” (Sampson, 1997: 51). While Sampson admits that even the second, counterfactual kind of

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simplification is often justified, he argues that Chomsky’s use of such simplifications distorts the substantial point at issue. Each of the counterfactual simplifying assumptions about human language which Chomsky makes, artificially protects his theory from refutation “because they eliminate a plausible alternative from consideration through what is presented as a harmless, uncontroversial assumption.” (Sampson, 1997: 51) Sampson gives the example of the assumption that language acquisition can be, in Chomsky’s words, “conceptualised as an instantaneous process”. This, says Chomsky, is a harmless assumption, for if it mattered then we would expect to find substantial differences in the result of language learning depending on such factors as order of presentation of data, time of presentation, and so on. But we do not find this … (Chomsky, cited in Sampson, 1997: 51–52)

Sampson (who, as we shall see, claims that language learning is a Popperian process of conjectures and refutations, of hypothesis testing, a matter of many, small, fallible steps over time) says that Chomsky’s assumption is wrong: language acquisition is not an instantaneous process (as Chomsky elsewhere admits), it is not a harmless simplification to say that it is, and it is not the case that language acquisition depends on the order or time of presentation of individual items of data. As Sampson says: To claim that it is harmless to pretend that language acquisition is instantaneous is, in effect, to assume that language acquisition does not work in a Popperian fashion, without going to the trouble of arguing the point. (Sampson, 1997: 52)

Chomsky, as noted, acknowledges that children do not move from ignorance to mastery of language instantaneously, but he insists that “fairly early in life” a child’s linguistic competence reaches a “steady state”, after which there are no significant changes. As Sampson points out, this “steady state” idea is contested by Bloomfield and Whitney, both of whom see language learning as a lifelong process, and is also completely at odds with the Popperian approach to learning, which Sampson argues is applicable to language acquisition. In addressing the question of what explains language acquisition, if not Chomsky’s innate language learning device, Sampson argues that the essential feature of languages is their hierarchical structure. Children, like our ancestors, start with relatively crude systems of verbal communication, and gradually extended syntactic structures in a pragmatic way so as to allow them to express more ideas in a more sophisticated way. The way they build up the syntax is

Chomsky

piecemeal; they concentrate on assembling a particular part of the system from individual components, and then put together the subassemblies. This gives them low level structures which are then combined, with modifications on the basis of input, into higher level structures, and so on. Sampson uses the Watchmaker parable, first made by Herbert Simon (see Sampson, 1997: 111–113), to explain linguistic development. Herbert Simon tells the story of two watchmakers, Hora and Tempus, who assemble watches from 1,000 parts. Tempus’s component parts are undifferentiated and if he is interrupted, his partly assembled watch falls apart into its component pieces and he must start from scratch. Hora’s watches consist of ten sub-assemblies of one hundred parts, each of which is solid in itself, and each sub-assembly is made up of ten independently solid sub-sub-assemblies, each containing ten basic parts. As a result, when Hora is interrupted he loses at most eight assembly operations performed before the interruption, whereas Tempus may lose anything up to 998 operations. If each works at the same rate, and is interrupted at the same frequency, then, Simon shows, Hora will complete almost 4,000 watches for every 1 completed by Tempus. The difference is that Hora’s watches are hierarchically structured, tree structured, while Tempus’s are not. Sampson says that Simon’s parable shows that complex entities produced by any process of unplanned evolution, such as the Darwinian process of biological evolution, will have tree-structuring as a matter of statistical necessity. (Sampson, 1997: 113)

Sampson argues that “the development of knowledge, as Popper describes it, is a clear case of the type of evolutionary process to which Simon’s argument applies”, and then, applying Simon’s argument to syntactic structures, Sampson describes how the communication system of our ancestors, which presumably consisted of words and short sentences, gradually became more complex as language learners made longer sentences, which would enter the language if they made a significant enough contribution to transmitting information more economically, or if they were semantically innovative. Similarly, a child acquires language by composing sub-assemblies from individual components, and then putting together the sub-assemblies. Only a general learning theory is involved in this explanation, which adopts a decidedly Popperian approach. The child tests various hypotheses about grammaticality against input, and slowly builds up the right hierarchically structured language by following a Popperian programme of conjectures and refutations. This supposes, of course, that the child is exposed to adequate input.

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Sampson’s argument has two main strands: following Simon, gradual evolutionary processes have a strong tendency to produce tree structures, and, following Popper, knowledge develops in a conjectures-and-refutations evolutionary way. Sampson claims that these two strands are enough to explain language acquisition. Perhaps Sampson’s criticism of one of Chomsky’s most central assumptions can serve to highlight the differences between them. Chomsky, as we have already seen, says that Linguistic theory is concerned primarily with an ideal speaker-listener, in a completely homogeneous speech community, who knows its language perfectly. (Chomsky, cited in Sampson, 1997: 53)

This assumption, which Chomsky describes as being of “critical importance” for his theory, excludes Sampson’s Popperian approach without even considering it. For Sampson, learning is a “non-terminating process”, and language has no independent existence over and above the representations of the language in the minds of the various individuals belonging to the speech community that uses it. What the language learner is trying to bring his tacit linguistic theory into correspondence with is not some simple, consistent grammar inhering in a collective national psyche… Rather, he is trying to reconstruct a system underlying the usage of the various speakers to whom he is exposed; and these speakers will almost certainly be working at any given time with non-identical tacit theories of their own — so that there will not be any wholly coherent and unrefutable grammar available to be formulated. The notion of a speakerlistener knowing the language of his community “perfectly” is doubly inapplicable — both because there is no particular grammar, achievement of which would count as “perfect” mastery of the language, and because even if there were such a grammar, there is no procedure by which a learner could discover it. (Sampson, 1997: 53–54)

From Sampson’s Popperian perspective, even if language learners were “ideal” they would not attain “perfect” mastery of the language of the community. As Sampson says Popperian learning is not an algorithm which, if followed without deviation, leads to a successful conclusion. Therefore, to assume that it makes sense to describe an “ideal” speaker-listener as inhabiting a perfectly homogeneous speech community and as knowing its language perfectly amounts, once again, to surreptitiously ruling the Popperian view of acquisition out of consideration. (Sampson, 1997: 55)

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One noticeable thing about Sampson and Chomsky’s dispute is that it takes place at a very formal level: given the nature of Chomsky’s theory and its strict logical arguments, Sampson’s attack is based largely on trying to expose nonsequiturs, and faults in Chomsky’s arguments, in an attempt to show that his conclusions are not warranted. It is widely believed that most scientific theories are criticised more in terms of how widely and well they explain the phenomena, and how well they fit the facts, than in terms of their internal consistency, and it is good to note how important formal considerations can be. It is also the case that, despite Chomskian claims to the contrary, many critics find it extremely difficult to bring any empirical tests to bear on UG theory, particularly in the field of SLA (see Section 7.2.5 below). 6.7.3 Elizabeth Bates Another well-known critic of Chomsky, Elizabeth Bates, challenges the modular theory of mind and, more specifically, criticises the nativists’ use of the accounts of “language savants” and those suffering from cognitive or language impairment disabilities to support their theory. In her review of Smith and Tsimpli’s The mind of a savant, Bates (2000) challenges the authors’ conclusions about Christopher, the savant in question, and, along the way, challenges the two main arguments supporting the UG “ideology”: the existence of universal properties of language, and the poverty of the stimulus. First, the existence of language universals does not provide compelling evidence for the innateness of language, because such universals could arise for a variety of reasons that are not specific to language itself (e.g., universal properties of cognition, memory, perception, and attention). (Bates, 2000: 5)

Bates, following Halliday, gives the analogy of eating food with ones’ hands (with or without intervening tools like a fork or chopsticks), which can be said to be universal. Rather than posit “an innate hand-feeding module, subserved by a hand-feeding gene”, a simpler explanation is that, given the structure of the human hand, the position of the mouth, and the nature of the food we eat, this is the best solution to the problem. In the same vein, we may view language as the solution (or class of solutions) to a difficult and idiosyncratic problem: how to map a rich high-dimensional meaning space onto a low-dimensional channel under heavy informationprocessing constraints, guaranteeing that the sender and the receiver of the message will end up with approximately the same high-dimensional meaning

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state. Given the size and complexity of this constraint satisfaction problem, the class of solutions may be very small, and (unlike the hand-feeding example) not at all transparent from an a priori examination of the problem itself. (Bates, 2000: 5)

Bates gives other examples to support her argument that solutions to particular problems of perception and cognition often evolve in an ad hoc way, and that there is no need no jump to the convenient conclusion that the problem was solved by nature. As she says “That which is inevitable does not have to be innate!” (Bates, 2000: 6) As for the poverty of the stimulus argument, Bates says “Linguists of a nativist orientation tend to recite this argument like a mantra, but we must remember that it is a conjecture not a proof.” (Bates, 2000: 6). Bates, who sees language as consisting of a network, or set of networks, says that neural network simulations of learning are still in their infancy, and that it is still not clear how much of human language learning they are able to capture, but she cites some research that challenges the poverty of the stimulus argument, and says that the neural network systems already constructed are able to generalise beyond the data and recover from error. “The point is, simply,” says Bates, “that the case for the unlearnability of language has not been settled one way or the other” (Bates, 2000: 6). Bates goes on to say that when the nativists point to the “long list of detailed and idiosyncratic properties” described by UG, and ask how these could possibly have been learned, this begs the question of whether UG is a correct description of the human language faculty. Bates paraphrases their argument as follows: 1. English has property P. 2. UG describes this property of English with Construct P¢. 3. Children who are exposed to English, eventually display the ability to comprehend and produce English sentences containing property P. 4. Therefore English children can be said to know Construct P¢. Bates comments: There is, of course, another possibility: Children derive Property P from the input, and Construct P¢ has nothing to do with it. (Bates, 2000: 6)

An important criticism raised by many, and taken up by Bates, against Chomsky’s theory is that it is difficult to test. In principle, one of the strong points of UG is precisely its empirical testability — find a natural language where the description does not fit, or find a mature language user of a natural

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language who judges an ill-formed sentence to be grammatical, and you have counter-evidence. However, Bates argues that the introduction of parameters and parameter settings “serve to insulate UG from a rigorous empirical test.” In the case of binary universals (e.g., the Null Subject Parameter), any language either will or will not display them, they “exhaust the set of logical possibilities and cannot be disproven.” Other universals are allowed to be silent or unexpressed if a language does not offer the features to which these universals apply. For example universal constraints on inflectional morphology cannot be applied in Chinese, since Chinese has no inflectional morphology. Rather than allow Chinese to serve as a counter example to the universal, the apparent anomaly is resolved by saying that the universal is present but silent. Bates comments: “It is difficult to disprove a theory that permits invisible entities with no causal consequences.” Finally Bates notes that when exceptions are found (e.g., “Got it, thanks.” is an apparent exception to the rule that in English the omission of the subject is not permitted in free-standing declarative sentences), a distinction is made between sentence-level grammar and utterances that have to be explained at a discourse level — a domain to which UG does not apply. While this may be a legitimate distinction, it is, says Bates a risky one. In the absence of a clear and independent metric for distinguishing between sentential phenomena and discourse-driven facts, the theorist may be tempted to throw all the inconvenient phenomena into the discourse bin. (Bates, 2000: 7)

6.8 Conclusion Chomsky’s main claims are that 1. all normal human beings are born with a language acquisition device, that is to say they are “hard-wired” for language. The main questions about the language acquisition device revolve around whether it is innate, rather than learned, and whether it is a unique module, rather than just a part of a general cognitive problem-solving apparatus. 2. language is comprised of different elements, including syntax, semantics, and pragmatics, but that a linguistic theory should concern itself with linguistic competence or I-Language, as described above. The critics reviewed above reject the first claim, and complain that the domain of UG is too limited. Their arguments concentrate on three main claims: that

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there are inconsistencies in Chomsky’s arguments, that there are alternatives to the putative language module, and that there is more to language and to language acquisition than UG. While the existence of alternative explanations to UG is perfectly acceptable, the inconsistencies in the theory (to the extent to which they exist), its evasion of empirical tests through the use of shifting concepts and ad hoc hypotheses, and its limited domain are all disallowed by the Guidelines. These issues are discussed in the next chapter.

Note 1.Chomsky’s and Fodor’s view of modularity differs in various ways. First, Chomsky says that unlike the senses, language is not only an input system: it is also an output system responsible for the verbal and written expression of thought. The input and output systems correlate, and share a common cognitive central system. Thus, Chomsky argues that unlike the senses, and in opposition to Fodor’s account, the internal workings of the language module are not oblivious to the workings of the central systems. The second disagreement between Fodor and Chomsky concerns the central systems. While Fodor considers the central systems to be unstructured, and too massively complicated to investigate, Chomsky believes that the central “system” is itself structured and composed of a variety of modules. Finally, Chomsky believes that the language faculty interprets all input from the external world, not just well-formed sentences.

Chapter 7

The role of UG in an explanation of SLA

7.1 Introduction Chomsky is mostly responsible for the shift in SLA research from a behaviourist to a more mentalistic approach, where language is seen as a kind of knowledge and attempts are made to explain the cognitive mechanisms that account for it. Such a view sees the mind, to some extent at least, as an information-processor, and builds models which attempt to understand how it works. Despite its strength as a theory, UG does not measure up well to all of the points in the Guidelines, and, more importantly, there are severe limitations to the applicability of Chomsky’s UG theory to SLA; in order to look for an explanation of SLA, we must go well beyond UG. I should emphasise that this is in no way to undermine or depreciate the contribution that Chomsky has made to the field of SLA.

7.2 Evaluating UG In many ways UG theory is a good example of a scientific theory; it has much to recommend it, and in terms of the Guidelines, it does very well, though by no means perfectly. While I will argue that UG is a bad example for SLA theorists to follow, Chomsky sets an example to those who see the search for an explanation for L1 acquisition as a strictly scientific endeavour, where the participants lay their work out for the critical appraisal of others, argue their cases as clearly as possible, support their arguments with empirical evidence, and construct theories that lay themselves open to the possibility of refutation by empirical observation. The usual imperfections that exist in any research programme are in evidence: fudged data, unwarranted conclusions, etc., but they are, precisely, in evidence, and under public scrutiny. Despite the extremely abstract nature of Chomsky’s work, it perfectly satisfies the epistemological assumptions of the Guidelines: Chomsky is a realist through and through.

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We construct explanatory theories as best we can taking as real whatever is postulated in the best theories we can devise (because there is no other relevant notion of “real”). (Chomsky: 1996: 35)

Chomsky’s rejection of Behaviourism covers point 2, of the Guidelines, and his distinction between competence and performance is completely in line with point 3. UG’s alignment with point 4 of the Guidelines is also complete. Let us now take a brief look at the difficulties UG has, according to Sampson and Bates, in meeting points 7 and 8 in the Guidelines; they, among others, claim that there are contradictions and inconsistencies in the arguments of UG theory, that UG theory keeps “moving the goalposts”, and that it has a bad empirical record. Many of these criticisms do not seem to me to be well-founded. Sampson’s suggestion that language learning is slow can hardly deal with the fact that children acquire complex grammatical ability before they acquire far less demanding cognitive and other abilities, like tying their shoes. Piaget’s claim that children must go through a “first” stage before they learn language in the “second” stage encounters a great deal of counter-evidence, as has already been mentioned above. When Sampson challenges Chomsky’s poverty of the stimulus argument by saying that many children have in fact been subjected to input like Blake’s Tyger poem, he ignores the obvious fact that many children have not, and when he says that children need input of yes/no questions in order to learn how to form them, nobody would disagree; the question remains of how the child also learns about aspects of the grammar that are not present in the input. I can see no “self-defeating” quality in Chomsky’s poverty of the stimulus argument. There is then the question of idealisation. The assumption Chomsky makes of instantaneous acquisition, like the idealisation of the “ideal speaker-listener in a completely homogeneous speech-community”, is a perfectly respectable tool used in theory construction: it amounts to no more than the “ceteris paribus” argument that allows “all other things to be equal” so that we can isolate and thus better examine the phenomenon in question. Idealisations are warranted because they help to focus on the important issues, and to get rid of distractions, which does not mean that this step is immune to criticism, of course. It is up to Chomsky to make sure that any theories based on idealisations are open to empirical tests, and it is then up to those who disagree with Chomsky to come up with some counter evidence and/or to show that the idealisation in question has protected the theory from the influence of an important factor. Thus, if Sampson wants to challenge Chomsky’s instantaneous acquisition assumption, he will have to show that there are differences in

The role of UG in an explanation of SLA

the stages of people’s language acquisition which result in significant differences in the end state of their linguistic knowledge. While on the subject of idealisations, we may deal with the criticism of sociolinguists who challenge Chomsky’s idealisation to a homogeneous speech community by saying that Chomsky is ruling out of court any discussion of variations within a community. Chomsky would reply that he is doing no such thing, and that if anybody is interested in studying such variations they are welcome to do so. Chomsky’s opinion of the scant possibility of progress in such an investigation is well-known, but he of course admits that it is only an opinion. What Chomsky is interested in, however, is the language faculty, and the acquisition of a certain type of well-defined knowledge. In order to better investigate this domain, Chomsky idealises the speech community. Sociolinguists can either produce arguments and/or data which show that such an idealisation is illegitimate (i.e. that it isolates part of the theory from the influence of a significant factor), or say that they are interested in a completely different domain. It seems to be often the case that criticisms of Chomsky arise from misunderstandings about the role of idealisations in theory construction, or about the domain of a theory. Bates’ criticisms of Chomsky’s arguments do not go very far either; while it is certainly the case that language universals could arise for a variety of reasons that are not specific to language itself, and while the poverty of the stimulus argument is of course a conjecture and not a proof, Bates provides no evidence against Chomsky’s claims. To say that “the case for the unlearnability of language has not been settled” amounts to the admission that no damning evidence has yet been found against the poverty of the stimulus argument, and, of course, such an argument can never be “proved”. In general, to suggest that learning a language is just one more problemsolving task that the general learning machinery of the brain takes care of ignores all the empirical evidence of those adults who attempt and fail to learn a second language, and the evidence of atypical populations who successfully learn their L1. Despite Bates’ unpicking of the sometimes strident claims made by nativists in their accounts of atypical populations, it is hard to explain the cases of those with impaired general intelligence who have exceptional linguistic ability (see Smith, 1999: 24), or the cases of those with normal intelligence who, after a stroke, lose their language ability while retaining other intellectual functions (see Smith 1999: 24–29), if language learning is not in fact localised. Nor, in my opinion, do the arguments against innateness, based on attacks on the “poverty of the stimulus” claim, add up to any convincing alternative

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explanation of how children accomplish the extraordinary task of acquiring their first language. Nevertheless, Chomsky’s theory runs into difficulties in confronting the question of how UG evolves, and how the principles and parameters arrive at a stable state in a normal child’s development. Furthermore, there is no doubt that the constant re-formulation of UG results in “moving the goal points” and protecting the theory from bad empirical evidence by the use of ad hoc hypotheses. Such problems are far more serious in SLA, as we will see. The most important criticism I have of UG is that it is too strict and too narrow to be of much use to those trying to build a theory of SLA. I think it is important to challenge Chomsky’s claim that questions about language use “lie beyond the reach of our minds”, and that they “will never be incorporated within explanatory theories intelligible to humans”. (Chomsky, 1978). Despite Chomsky’s assertion, I think we may assume that the L2 acquisition process is capable of being rationally and thoroughly examined. Further, I would argue that it need not be, indeed should not be, idealised as an instantaneous event; I assume that we can ask rational questions about the stages of development of Interlanguage, that we can study the real-time processing required to understand and produce utterances in the L2, that we can talk about not just the acquisition of abstract principles but of skills, and even that we can study how different social environments affect SLA. By insisting on a “scientific” status for his theory, Chomsky assumes too much (the assumptions of the Guidelines are far less demanding), and thereby severely limits its domain. Consequently, UG does not score well on point 10 of the Guidelines. To appreciate the limited domain of UG, let us remind ourselves of Chomsky’s position on modularity. Chomsky argues that in the human mind there is a language faculty, or grammar module, which is responsible for grammatical knowledge, and that other modules handle other kinds of knowledge. Not all of what is commonly referred to as “language” is the domain of the language module; certain parts of peripheral grammatical knowledge, and all pragmatic knowledge, are excluded. To put it another way, the domain of Chomsky’s theory is restricted by his distinction between I-language and E-language; as we saw earlier in this chapter, Chomsky is concerned with the individual human capacity for language, and with the universal similarities between languages — his domain deliberately excludes the community. No justification needs to be offered for deciding to focus on a particular phenomenon or a particular hypothesis, but it is essential to grasp the domain of Chomsky’s theory. Cook (1994) insists that

The role of UG in an explanation of SLA

Chomskian theory claims that, strictly speaking, the mind does not know languages but grammars; ‘the notion “language” itself is derivative and relatively unimportant’ (Chomsky, 1980, p. 126). “The English language” or “the French language” means language as a social phenomenon — a collection of utterances. What the individual mind knows is not a language in this sense, but a grammar with the parameters set to particular values. Language is another epiphenomenon: the psychological reality is the grammar that a speaker knows, not a language. (Cook, 1994: 480)

Gregg (1996b) has this to say: … “language” does not refer to a natural kind, and hence does not constitute an object for scientific investigation. The scientific study of language or language acquisition requires the narrowing down of the domain of investigation, a carving of nature at its joints, as Plato put it. From such a perspective, modularity makes eminent sense. (Gregg, 1996b: 1)

Even in the light of his most recent re-formulations, it is still the case that the knowledge Chomsky seeks to describe and explain is the cognitive state that encompasses all those aspects of form and meaning and their relation, including underlying structures that enter into that relation, which are properly assigned to the specific subsystem of the human mind that relates representations of form and meaning. A bit misleadingly perhaps, I will continue to call this subsystem ‘the language faculty’. (Chomsky 1980, cited in Botha, 1991: 51)

Pragmatic competence, on the other hand, which Chomsky describes as a system of rules and principles that determines how the tool can effectively be put to use. Pragmatic competence may include what Paul Grice has called ‘a logic of conversation’. We might say that pragmatic competence places language in the institutional setting of its use, relating intentions and purposes to the linguistic means at hand. (Chomsky, 1980, cited in Botha, 1991: 51)

is left out because there is no promising approach to the normal creative use of language, or to other rule-governed acts that are freely undertaken… the creative use of language is a mystery that eludes our intellectual grasp. (Chomsky, 1980, cited in Botha, 1991: 146.)

Chomsky would obviously agree that syntax provides no more than clues about the content of any particular message that someone might try to communicate, and that pragmatics takes these clues and interprets them according to their

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context. If one is interested in communication, then pragmatics is vital, but if one is interested in language as a code linking representations of sound and meaning, then it is not. For those interested in theories of communication, syntax might not seem like a very fertile field, but for Chomsky and other linguists, the interest of syntax lies, as Smith puts it “in that it is characteristic of a specifically human ability of a complexity sufficiently great to make possible a rich theory accounting for it” (Smith, 1999: 143). Chomsky’s strict demarcation between science and non-science effectively rules out the study of E-Language. Chomsky pays a high price for such a rigorously scientific theory; in order to ensure the scientific status of UG, Chomsky adopts an extremely limited view of what language is and consequently his theory neither describes nor explains many of the phenomena that interest linguists, and far less does UG describe or explain the phenomena of SLA. Since UG denies the usefulness of attempts to explain aspects of language use and usage that fall outside the domain of I-Language, it cannot be taken as the only valid frame of reference for SLA research and theory construction, or even as a good model.

7.3 UG and SLA The theory of UG, that principles and parameters of UG constitute an innately given body of knowledge that constrains first language acquisition (now being modified to the claim that the setting of parameters in variations of functional lexical items explains differences in languages), offers a powerful explanation of how people acquire linguistic competence in their L1. UG offers a description of language, and an explanation of the process by which first languages are acquired. Many of those who argue that UG has an important role to play in any attempt to explain SLA (e.g., Cook, 1993, Towell and Hawkins, 1994, White 1996, Gregg, 1996, Flynn, 1996) insist that any full theory of SLA also needs to address both issues: a theory of language acquisition depends on a theory of language. We cannot decide how something is acquired without having an idea of what that something is. (White, 1996: 85)

Secondly, there is the related distinction Chomsky makes between competence and performance. The domain of UG theory is not the behaviour of speakers but rather the mental system underlying that behaviour. Those who adopt a UG

The role of UG in an explanation of SLA

framework in SLA research argue that people do not acquire utterances, and that it is the acquisition of knowledge that we need to explain. How does UG relate to SLA? There are four main hypotheses: 1. There is no such thing as UG. 2. UG exists, but second language learners only have indirect access to it via the L1. 3. UG exists, but L2 learners only have partial access to it. 4. Second language learners have full access to UG. As for hypothesis 1, those who deny the existence of UG (like Piaget, Sampson, and Bates, discussed in the last chapter) see no need to postulate a language module, and no need to look for linguistic universals either. O’Grady (1996) takes this approach, but I think a better example of such an approach is the Competition Model, which is examined in Chapter 9. The best-known hypothesis regarding the second position, that UG exists, but that second language learners only have indirect access to it, is BleyVroman’s Fundamental Difference Hypothesis (Bley-Vroman, 1989a, 1989b). Bley-Vronan argues that the mind is modular, and that there exists a language faculty (UG) which is essential for the development of L1, but that UG is not directly at work in SLA. According to Bley-Vroman, adult second language learners do not have direct access to UG; what they know of universals is constructed through their L1, and they then have to use general problemsolving abilities, such as those that operate in non-modular learning tasks: hypothesis testing, inductive and deductive reasoning, analogy, etc. The Bley-Vroman approach provides an explanation for the “poverty of the stimulus”, or “logical” problem of SLA — the complex L2 knowledge or interlanguage grammar which second language learners develop is (partly) a result of UG’s influence on L1. As Gregg says of those who adopt this approach Superficially it might seem that they want it both ways: if the learner succeeds it is because of UG via the L1, if the learner fails it is because UG is not available. But in fact the claims are more precise. … If a given L2 instantiates a principle not instantiated in the L1, that principle will not be acquired, and if the L2 setting of a given parameter is more restrictive than the L1 setting, it will not be acquired, in the absence of negative evidence. (Gregg, 1996a: 65)

The third hypothesis, partial access, claims that L2 learners have access to principles but not to the full range of parameters. Schachter (1988) and Clahsen and Muysken (1989) have argued this case. It differs from the “indirect access” position in that it predicts that no evidence of “wild grammars” will be found,

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and that L2 learners will not reset the values of parameters of the L2 when these differ from the L1 settings. Finally, the full access hypothesis claims that UG is an important causal factor in SLA, although not, of course, the only one. Those adopting the full access view (e.g., Flynn, 1987) claim more than that the L1 UG affects the second language learning process. They claim that principles not applicable to the second language learner’s L1, but needed for the L2, will constrain the L2 learner’s interlanguage. For example, the principle of Subjacency, which constrains the kind of wh-movement permitted, is irrelevant to languages that lack wh-movement. While those adopting the partial access approach would claim that a Korean native speaker learning English would not be affected by the Subjacency Principle, since it is irrelevant to Korean, those taking a full access stance would expect the Subjacency principle to constrain the Korean learner’s interlanguage grammar. In regard to parameter re-setting, the full access position, contrary to the partial access position, suggests that while the learner may pass through a stage where the L1 setting is applied to the L2, he will eventually attain the L2 setting, assuming a sufficient amount of relevant input.

7.4 Discussion Attempts to use theories of UG to explain SLA have met with various criticisms, and, not surprisingly, many of them echo the criticisms of Chomsky’s theories made by Piaget, Sampson, Bates and others, discussed in Chapter 6. Before summarising the criticisms made by those in the field of SLA of UG, a clarification is in order. Linguistic competence is an abstraction that posits an unconscious faculty and process, and there is thus no direct way of observing it. Bearing in mind the distinction already made in Chapter 5 between phenomena and data, this is not a problem. Chomsky’s distinction between competence and performance in no way disqualifies performance data from providing evidence for or against the explanation he offers of the linguistic knowledge that is the focus of his enquiry. As White (1989) argues various aspects of linguistic performance can give us insights into competence. Some aspects of linguistic performance are more revealing than others, and are amenable to experimental manipulation which can help in determining the nature of the L2 learner’s underlying knowledge. (White, 1989: 57)

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White goes on to say that spontaneous oral production data is not sufficient since although it might include examples of violation of UG principles, the absence of such examples is not enough to assume UG is in operation, and presence of violation might be “random rather than systematic” (White, 1989: 58). Thus the researcher needs to manipulate the sentence types being investigated. The methodology used to this end consists of grammaticality judgement tasks, act-out tasks, picture identification tasks, sentence-joining tasks, and card-joining tasks. Grammaticality judgement tasks are by far the most common method used, and involve the learner making an assessment of various sentences, some of which are not grammatical. If the subjects reject sentences which violate UG principles, this is seen as supporting evidence that UG is at work. As we shall see later in this chapter, there have been various criticisms of this methodology in practice when it is applied to SLA. The empirical evidence (we will, in a moment, have to question the extent to which it is empirical evidence) for the various positions that argue for some role for UG in the SLA process is mixed. Here are a few examples. A study by Ritchie (1978, cited in Ellis, 1994: 442) of Japanese students of English gave “preliminary support to the assumption that linguistic universals are intact in the adult.” White (1989) reports on a study of Japanese learners of English who, despite having no knowledge of question formation involving complex subjects, successfully acquired this knowledge in English. White argues that the learners must have had access to the principle of structural dependence. Flynn (1996, cited in Mitchell and Myles, 1998: 66), reviewed research on Japanese learners of English, and claimed that it supported the view that UG constrains L2 acquisition. Mitchell and Myles (1998: 66) also cite work by Thomas (1991, cited in Mitchell and Myles, 1998: 66), and by White, Travis and Maclachlan (1992, cited in Mitchell and Myles, 1998: 66) who offer studies that also claim to support the full access to UG hypothesis. On the other hand, a study by Bley-Vroman, Felix, and Ioup (1988) of Korean learners of English concluded Given the results, it is extremely difficult to maintain the hypothesis that Universal Grammar is accessible to adult learners. (Bley-Vroman, Felix, and Ioup,1988, cited in Ellis, 1994: 443.)

A study by Meisel in 1997 of the acquisition of negation in French and German by L1 and L2 learners (cited in Mitchell and Myles, 1998: 65) concludes that the UG principle of structure-dependency is not available to L2 learners. Schachter’s (1989) test on Subjacency gave much more doubtful results than

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White’s, which she says constitute a “serious challenge” to the claim that UG is available to adult learners. In general, then, it seems that there is conflicting evidence for all positions, although Cook and Newson claim that there is “a great deal of evidence” that knowledge of some aspect of language has been acquired in an L2 that is not learnable from input, that was not part of the learners’ L1 and that is unlikely to have been taught by language teachers. (Cook and Newson, 1996: 293)

Let us now deal with the doubts about empirical evidence and see to what extent UG-related research in SLA complies with the crucial Point 8 of the Guidelines: theories should have empirical content, propositions should be capable of being subjected to an empirical test. The problem here is that L2 learners do not begin at the same stage as do very young children in L1, and nor is there any general homogeneity in their “end state” as there is in L1 acquisition. Ellis (1994) discusses various problems with grammaticality judgements that stem from the different beginning and end states in L2 learning. The first problem is how to ensure that the subjects have the requisite level of L2 proficiency to demonstrate whether or not a particular principle is operating in their interlanguage grammar — learners might violate a principle not because of non-availability of UG, but because the structure in question is beyond their present capacity. White acknowledges this problem and suggests adopting Otsu’s solution (1981, cited in White, 1989: 61), which is to include a syntax test with the UG test. The second problem dealt with by Ellis is how to rule out the effects of the L1. If subjects act in accordance with UG this might be because they have access to it, or because they are drawing on their L1. Thus it is necessary to use subjects whose L1 does not manifest the principle under investigation. White (1989) also accepts this problem and points out that since not all UG principles operate in all languages, the problem can be solved. A third problem is that of literacy. Birdsong (1989, cited in Ellis, 1994: 441) says that grammaticality judgement tests are not appropriate for learners with poor L2 literacy, and that differences in the metalinguistic skills of literate learners will affect responses. Birdsong also argues that learners often lack confidence, and are therefore reluctant to commit themselves to a definite judgement, a point borne out by a study by Ellis (1994) on Chinese and Japanese learners of English who changed their judgements as much as 46% of the time. White does not respond to this criticism, but Ellis accepts that better designed tests and re-testing could overcome it.

The role of UG in an explanation of SLA

While all the problems so far mentioned may in principle be overcome by better experimental design, in Ellis’s opinion “in one respect grammaticality judgements seem insuperably problematical” (Ellis 1994: 442). A study by Bialystok (1979) indicates that L2 learners make use of both implicit and explicit knowledge in reaching judgements, and, as several studies have shown (e.g., Seliger 1979), learners’ explicit knowledge is often anomalous, with the result that their judgement of any sentence may be uncertain and inconsistent. Ellis concludes Unless some way can be found to ensure that L2 learners do not use their explicit knowledge, it is not clear how the data obtained from such a task can be used to make claims about the role of UG in L2 acquisition. (Ellis, 1994: 442)

Cook (1993) states the problem of the methodology of UG-based SLA research even more forcefully and succinctly: What can count as data for knowledge of a second language? L1 acquisition starts from the single sentences accepted by native speakers on the deliberate assumption that there is a native speaker standard. Whatever the merits of an idealisation to a normalised native speaker, this is less convincing in an L2, since there is no clear norm of what a successful L2 learner should look like, other than the monolingual; L2 learners vary extremely in the level of language they attain while L1 children do not. L2 research can therefore be based with difficulty on the same kind of single sentence evidence used with L1 research… Most researchers therefore resort to grammaticality judgements … as their main source of data — a source of evidence that has to be treated with extreme caution as it is unclear how directly it taps the individual’s knowledge of language; (Cook, 1994: 482)

Cook’s point needs emphasising since, in my opinion, it gives support to my argument that neither the domain of UG nor its research methodology is appropriate to SLA research. Another aspect of the problem of the empirical adequacy of UG when applied to SLA is the degree to which UG theory is in fact falsifiable. Gass and Selinker (1994) raise a number of objections to the work of those taking a UG approach to SLA, all concerning falsification. They argue that while UG theory is well-defined, and thus able to make more accurate predictions, because of the changing nature of the linguistic constructs on which it is based, UG-based research is difficult to falsify. Upon being confronted with data apparently contradicting the predictions of UG access, it is always possible to argue that the

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underlying linguistic formulation was not the correct one. Furthermore, they argue, apart from “moving the goalposts”, UG researchers have not always heeded falsifying evidence. They suggest that when predictions are not borne out, there are three options: assume a no-access to UG position, say methodological problems are to blame, or assume the theory is false. Gass and Selinker state that in their opinion the third position seems the most likely, but surprisingly, give no reasons for this opinion. They conclude that since predictions are based on theoretical constructs which are abstractions, and consequently “have to be argued rather than being empirically verified”, and since the theory is still not finished, but rather in a state of development, there is little concrete evidence one can bring to bear that the linguistic analysis of the parameter is indeed the correct one. (Gass and Selinker 1994: 130)

The fact that a theory uses abstract constructs does not in any way imply that it has to be argued rather than empirically tested, as has been noted already. Of course, the constructs will never be empirically verified, but, in the case of the constructs used by Chomsky, they can be, and are, subjected to empirical tests, and so they can be supported or challenged. Nevertheless, to the extent that the theoretical constructs do in fact change, or the goalposts move, and to the extent that empirical tests are problematic, then the theory is difficult to falsify. Gass and Selinker go on to criticise those who argue that we must allow for “temporary” violations of universals, since these are evidence of change in the interim system, and thus the violations only count as falsifying evidence if they persist, i.e. if they continue after the interim system has stabilised. They claim that this is one more example of trying to rescue a theory from unfavourable results. Larsen-Freeman and Long (1991), in addition to misgivings about falsifiability, question three assumptions of Chomsky’s explanation of language acquisition. The first is that learning occurs quickly and is mostly complete by age five. In fact, a good deal of complex syntax is not mastered until much later… English dative movement, for example, is not fully learned until about age sixteen. (Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 236)

Other examples of “late” acquisition include some WH questions and yes/no questions. The second questionable assumption

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is that certain syntactic principles are unlearnable, and therefore innate. This is increasingly being challenged. General cognitive strategies and notions, such as conservative hypothesis-formation, developmental sequences based on cumulative complexity, and avoidance of discontinuity are being used to reexamine such UG icons as structure-dependence, PD phenomena, subjacency and binding principles. (Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 236–237)

Larsen-Freeman and Long cite the work of O’Grady (1996), and Parker (1989) in this area. The Competition Model, examined in Section 9.3, is another example. The third assumption made by Chomsky and challenged by LarsenFreeman and Long is that the input available to learners (and particularly the lack of negative evidence) is inadequate and thus implies innate linguistic knowledge. As with the second assumption, a different explanation can be offered by a general learning theory. I would say that while it is uncontroversial that a general learning theory could, in principle, explain linguistic knowledge, this is in itself no criticism of Chomky’s explanation. What we need is a rival explanation that gets beyond the limitations of the UG domain and that nevertheless satisfies the Guidelines. Larsen-Freeman and Long conclude that UG is following tradition where linguists and SLA research are concerned: while attractive because they offer precise, testable, theoretically-motivated predictions, UG-inspired analyses suffer from the same static, target-language orientation that has plagued other approaches to IL development based upon theories of language rather than language learning. (Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 240)

This seems to me to get to the heart of the matter: what should a theory of SLA explain, what is the domain of a theory of SLA? I have already touched on this issue in the section (Section 5.5.3) on Gregg, and in the discussion of UG at the end of Chapter 7. I repeat, then, that UG is essentially a description of core grammar: it is not really a theory of learning at all. According to Chomsky we do not “learn” our I-Language in the usual sense of the word: we are born with linguistic competence, and all we need is some positive evidence to trigger particular parameters so that the particular version of UG corresponding to our L1 becomes instantiated in the mind. Thus the process of acquisition is not interesting, the main task is to describe the components of the core grammar. In SLA on the other hand, as Larsen-Freeman and Long suggest, we are interested in explaining the language learning process. We are also interested, as was indicated in Section 1.1, in a variety of phenomena such as variability, fossilisation, and individual differences, all of which are deliberately ruled out of a

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theory of UG, not because Chomsky might think their study cannot be scientific, but because they have nothing to do with the acquisition of L1 linguistic competence. We may use Cook’s (1993) summary of the general arguments that have been made against continued access to UG for those learning a second language to make the same point. Cook lists four main arguments: a. Knowledge of L2 is not so complete or so good… b. All languages are not equally easy to learn as second languages… c. Learners get ‘fossilised’ at some stage… d. L2 learners vary in level of success and in ways of learning… (Cook, 1993: 211)

Cook then points out that these arguments are, to some extent, a straw man argument that overstates the claims of UG: they fail to recognise the domain of UG theory. Only if it can be shown that L2 learners are deficient in the areas of core grammar covered by UG do the four arguments listed have any weight. While Cook’s intention is to defend UG, his argument can also serve to emphasise how little UG has to say about important questions about SLA. In summary then, the limited domain of Chomsky’s theory means that there are many aspects of L1 acquisition that fall outside it; Chomsky has nothing to say about pragmatics and discourse, linguistically he concentrates heavily on syntax, and even there only on core grammar; the acquisition of language-specific tense and case morphology, for example, are not included. Wolfe-Quintero comments: “UG may account for the successful acquisition of core grammar, but there is much more to language learning than that.” (WolfeQuintero, 1996: 343). In the case of SLA, the limitations of a UG approach are even greater. Even assuming that UG exists, that UG theories of L1 acquisition are true, and that L2 learners have at least some access to UG, most of the questions that concern SLA researchers remain unanswered, indeed they are not addressed. Cook (1993) says this: My own chief worry with the UG model in Second Language Acquisition research has been that too much is expected of it; …the UG theory is only concerned with core grammar and has no brief to make claims outside this area. Within a broad framework of SLA research, it has a part to play but that part should not be exaggerated; much, or even most, of the totality of L2 learning lies outside the core. (Cook, 1993: 241)

While UG-inspired research in SLA, probing the question of to what extent L2 learners have access to UG, has been prolific, its role should, I suggest, be to

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influence hypotheses, models and theories of SLA that necessarily go beyond it. At the very best (assuming “full access”), UG can be no more than “a part of a part” of a theory of SLA. O’Grady (1996) and Bley Vroman (1989a, 1989b) make interesting suggestions, Hawkins and Towell (1994, see Section 9.2.10 below) make extensive use of UG in their model, Herschensohn (2000), and Hawkins (2001) have outlined more recent models of SLA which take the acquisition of syntax as the main problem (and which draw on Chomsky’s most recent work on the Minimalist Program), but UG itself can do no more than provoke questions and research which ultimately must be in the service of a very different theory: a theory that explains the phenomena of SLA. In the final part of this book, I will examine examples of research and theory construction that take a wider view of competence than Chomsky’s, that pay more attention to the process of language development, and that attempt to explain the process of SLA. The hypotheses, models and theories that result have little in common with the theory of UG, although some make use of UG, and the majority are influenced by it. Some of these attempts at explaining various phenomena of SLA are bad (see Chapter 8) and some are better (see Chapter 9), but none is an adequate general theory that covers all the phenomena. In the end, any unified theory of SLA would need a description of what is being acquired, and those who take a Chomskian approach to SLA are right to criticise explanations that do without any such description. This does not, however, force us to adopt a Chomskian framework, or to try to emulate Chomsky’s concern for scientific status.

Chapter 8

Approaches to SLA that offend the guidelines

8.1 Introduction The purpose of this chapter is to give some examples of attempts to explain SLA that seem to me unlikely to prosper, because they are either based on faulty epistemological assumptions (assumptions that go against Assumptions 1 to 6 of the Guidelines), or because they clash head-on with the criteria laid down in Points 7 to 11 of the Guidelines for evaluating theories of SLA. I think it is significant that there are only two examples of what I would describe as “epistemological outsiders”. The only entries in this category are – –

a model which illustrates an outdated paradigm, and emphasises my opposition to empiricism in general and to behaviourism in particular. a study which relies on “thick descriptions”, leans on a postmodernist epistemology, and has no proper theory to back it up.

The significance of this is that most approaches to SLA theory construction that actually inform research today easily fall inside the very broad epistemological scope of the Guidelines. What are excluded are those studies that embrace a postmodernist, radically relativist approach and also, almost ironically, the strict empiricist approach which the postmodernists claim to be struggling against. Positivism and empiricism are dead, and the postmodernists are, to that exent, tilting at windmills. Despite the considerable interest that has been aroused by postmodernists in the SLA field, when it comes to an examination of present day research, there is very little of it that can claim to be making any serious contribution to the construction of a theory of SLA. The first entry is contrastive analysis. Contrastive analysis has considerable historical significance and it serves to situate the great paradigm shift that occurred soon afterwards when Chomsky burst onto the stage (see Chapter 7). Equally important, contrastive analysis can highlight the limitations of positivism in general, and behaviourism in particular.

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The second entry is an example of postmodernist research. In Chapters 3 and 4 I dealt at some length with the relativists challenge to rationalism, and in the Introduction and Chapter 1, I indicated that relativists are active in the field of SLA. Although there are a growing number of papers appearing in SLA journals that take an ethnographic approach, and claim to be engaged in “hermeneutic” research, it is difficult for me to find anything in this growing body of research worthy of comment. As far as I know the postmodernist approach has led to no interesting new hypothesis, model or theory of SLA, and while its proponents encourage opposition to the dominance of what they wrongly call the “positivist” or “scientific” approach to SLA research, there are few signs of productive results coming from them. The example I have chosen of this type of research is, I think, a fair one, but of course it is no more than an example. The rest of the chapter deals with work that falls inside the very wide epistemological boundaries set by the Guidelines, but that nevertheless seriously conflicts with the research criteria suggested in Points 7 to 11 of the Guidelines. Throughout this chapter I ask the reader to keep in mind that my intention is to indicate the strictures of the Guidelines and to demonstrate that they have practical consequences. It is not my intention to give any kind of comprehensive survey of present theories of SLA, or to argue that sociolinguistics is “bad” and psycholinguistics is “good”. Rather, by a careful choice of examples of SLA research and explanation that suit my case, I aim to support the argument that the best chance of progress towards a stronger theory of SLA comes from adhering to the kind of rationalist epistemology and criteria for theory assessment contained in the Guidelines.

8.2 Contrastive analysis Contrastive analysis takes an approach to SLA that is “out of bounds” according to the Guidelines; in particular it clashes with the assumption of Point 2, which rejects the behaviourist epistemology. Contrastive Analysis examined the role of the native language in SLA, and suggested that “language transfer” was the key to SLA. The Contrastive Analysis Hypothesis (CAH) was founded on a. structural linguistics, which was a corpus-based descriptive approach, providing detailed linguistic descriptions of a particular language, and b. behavioural psychology, which held that learning was establishing a set of habits.

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Lado (1957), following the behaviourist argument, assumed that learning a language was like learning anything else, and that, in line with this general learning theory, learning task A will affect the subsequent learning of task B. Consequently SLA is crucially affected by learning of the L1. If acquisition of the L1 involved the formation of a set of habits, then the same process must also be involved in SLA, with the difference that some of the habits appropriate to the L2 will already have been acquired, while other habits will need to be modified, and still others will have to be learned from scratch. Lado went on to suggest that there were two types of language transfer: positive transfer (facilitation) and negative transfer (interference). There were, in turn, two types of interference: retroactive, where learning acts back on previously learned matter (language loss), and proactive inhibition, where a series of responses already learned tend to appear in situations where a new series of responses is needed. To summarise, the CAH claimed that language learning is habit formation and SLA involves establishing a new set of habits. By considering the main differences between L1 and L2, one can anticipate the errors learners will make when learning an L2: errors indicate differences and these differences have to be learned. The CAH had little empirical support: studies showed that errors occurred when not predicted by contrastive analysis, and did not occur when predicted. Subsequent research provided more counter evidence. Zobl (1980) found that while English-speaking learners of French negatively transferred English postverbal pronoun placement to produce ungrammatical utterances such as “Le chien a mangé les” (Le chien les a mangés), French-speaking learners of English did not make such errors, even though both languages have postverbal object pronouns. This is a case of a one-way learning difficulty. Furthermore, not all areas of similarity between an L1 and an L2 lead to positive transfer. Odlin (1989), for example, reported that although Spanish has a copula verb similar to English “be” in sentences like “That’s very simple”, or “The picture’s very dark”, Spanish-speaking learners of L2 English usually omit the copula in early stages of acquisition, saying “That very simple”, and “The picture very dark”. More systematic classification of learners’ errors suggested that only a small percentage of them could be attributed to contrasting properties between L1 and L2. Lococo (1975) for example found that in the corpus she examined, only 25% of errors resulted from L1/L2 contrast, and Dulay and Burt’s study (1975) claimed that only 5% of errors were thus accounted for. (The Dulay and Burt study was subsequently seriously questioned (see Ellis, 1994: 45).)

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8.2.1 Discussion Contrastive analysis has a lot to recommend it. As a theory of SLA, the following points can be made about the CAH: – –

–

–

–

–

It is a coherent and cohesive consequence of a general theory of learning, and thus it satisfies Point 7 of the Guidelines, which calls for cohesion and clarity. It embraces a well-developed theory of languages. Just as learning is seen in behaviourist terms, so languages are seen from a well-defined structuralist viewpoint: languages are studied in the true Baconian, “botanist” tradition, and it is the careful description and analysis of their differences which is the researcher’s main concern. It occupies a limited domain, dealing almost exclusively with the phenomenon of transfer of properties of the L1 grammar into the L2 grammar. While this goes against the requirement of Point 10 of the Guidelines for a broad domain, nevertheless, given that it is backed by two general theories, it forms part of a wider account of SLA. In terms of Point 6 of the Guidelines (referring to the “context of discovery”, and to paradigmatic theories), we may note that in Kuhn’s terms the CAH is a good example of an auxiliary hypothesis working in a period of normal science under the protection of two theories which formed part of a secure, confident paradigm. In Lakatos’ terms, it forms part of the “protective belt”, while the two big theories are key components in the “hard core”. It is a testable hypothesis: empirical evidence can support or challenge it and research studies can be replicated. The research methods can be scrutinised and improved. It thus satisfies Point 8 of the Guidelines. It is extremely economical in its use of key terms and constructs; Point 11 of the Guidelines, calling for simplicity, is met.

It may also be noted that there are crystal-clear pedagogical implications. Contrastive Analysis indicates what particular habits have to be learned, and pedagogical practice — the audio-lingual method (speech is primary, and is learned through drills and practice) — fits perfectly with the theory of SLA. One would venture to say that this was no coincidence, that the agenda of the early SLA researchers was clearly focused on pedagogical concerns. The fundamental difficulty of the theory lies in its underlying behaviouristic theory of learning, according to which all learning is repetition, a question of habit-formation. This is an example of the empiricist epistemology described

Approaches to SLA that offend the guidelines

earlier, i.e. a positivist approach that denies the validity of the mind as a construct, or the possibility of causal explanations. I have already argued (see Section 2.3 and Section 4.3 above) that the empiricist/positivist approach is fundamentally mistaken. The theory thus clashes with the Assumptions of the Guidelines, which collectively insist that the goal of a theory is to give a causal explanation. It should be noted that the shift away from behaviourism implied saying farewell to a very comfortable state of affairs in the teaching of second languages. Before the shift, learning a second language was explained in terms of a general learning theory, and there was no doubt as to the practical applications of that theory: you learn the L2 in the same way as you learned the L1, and in the same way as you learn anything else, by forming stimulus-response behaviour patterns. We should also note that behaviourism remains an established research tradition today, especially in psychology. Perhaps this partly explains the slow rate of progress in that field. A strict empiricist epistemology is fundamentally mistaken, and no adequate theory can come from it — unless there is a sleight of hand. Connectionist approaches to learning are seen by many as a return to behaviourism. The relevance of Connectionism to this book is that it now informs a growing research programme in SLA whose aim is to challenge the Chomskian “special nativist” approach (see Chapter 7). While the Guidelines reject empiricism, they in no way imply a rejection of Connectionism, which I regard as an extremely promising development, and which is dealt with briefly below (see Section 9.3). It is instructive to see what happened to the CAH. While the strong claims of the CAH have not been supported by research findings, there has rarely been any doubt that the L1 does indeed affect SLA. Later studies concentrated on when and how the L1 influenced SLA. Regarding when, Wode (1978) suggests that it is the similarities, not the differences, between L1 and L2 which cause the biggest problems, and Zobl (1982) proposed that “markedness” constrains L1 transfer. Zobl argued that linguistically unmarked L1 features will transfer, but linguistically marked features will not, where markedness is measured in terms of infrequency or departure from something basic or typical in a language. Regarding how, Zobl identified two patterns of L1 influence on SLA: (a) the pace at which a developmental stage is traversed (where the L1 can inhibit or accelerate the process), and (b) the number of developmental structures in a stage. Larsen-Freeman and Long, in their discussion of markedness conclude:

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When L1 transfer occurs, it generally does so in harmony with developmental processes, modifying learners’ encounters with interlanguage sequences rather than altering them in fundamental ways. (Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991:106)

In terms of the lessons we may learn for SLA theory construction, two final comments are in order. First the perceived role of transfer has been reversed: it is now said to be almost the opposite of what those in the1950s claimed it to be (see Chapter 9, Sections 9.2. and 9.3). To what extent, we might ask, is this a reflection of the fact that the new paradigmatic theory, or rather cluster of theories, inspired by Chomsky, are the opposite of the behaviourist theories, i.e. theories of learning and language that stress mental processes and the qualities that languages share? Secondly, we should note that a strict application of the scientific criterion of falsification to the CAH would have resulted in abandoning it, which would have been premature, and have led to throwing the baby out with the bath water. As I argued in Chapter 4, “naive falsificationism” is a mistake, and thus one must not be over-zealous in one’s pursuit of the scientific method; after all, according to the Assumptions of the Guidelines, there is no such thing.

8.3 The ethnography of communication, and hermeneutic research Mitchell and Myles describe the ethnography of communication as the study of “the social roles of languages, in structuring the identities of individuals and the culture of entire communities and societies” (Mitchell and Myles 1998: 164). They give examples of studies of speech events like telephone conversations, shopping, and job interviews, and say that, as far as SLA is concerned, themes dealt with include “gatekeeping and power relations in L2 communication”, and “speakers’ social identity, face and self-esteem”. I have already conceded that it is possible to conduct research into sociocultural and sociolinguistic aspects of SLA inside the Critical Rationalist position that I proposed in Chapter Four, and there is no necessary reason why ethnographic, longitudinal studies should not be carried out within such a framework. But there is, alas, a growing body of ethnographic research which rejects the rationalist methodology in favour of a radically relativist approach, and which relies on “hermeneutic”, “ethnomethodological”, “constructivist” or “post-modernist” research methods. I will examine a paper by Jerri Willett (1995) which is representative of what I find wrong with the postmodern qualitative approach and the relativist epistemology that I assume inspires it. I suggest that this is the least promising

Approaches to SLA that offend the guidelines

way of all to go about the task of explaining SLA. I have chosen the Willett paper because it was not only given pride of place in a special issue of TESOL Quarterly (Vol. 29, 3, 1995) dedicated to qualitative research in ESOL, but also given extensive treatment in Mitchell and Myles’ general review of SLA theories, where the paper is described as “one of the clearest attempts to apply a socialisation perspective to L2 learning” (Mitchell and Myles, 1998: 185) Davis (1995), in her introduction to the TESOL Quarterly volume, sets the scene, and tone, of what is to follow. She explains that Linguistic anthropologists, ethnographers of communication, and other qualitative researchers interested in language issues have offered an alternative to mainstream SLA studies in viewing acquisition not only as a mental individualistic process, but one that is also embedded in the sociocultural context that is equally important. To arrive at an understanding of social influences on language acquisition, socioculturally oriented qualitative researchers take a semiotic approach. The central consideration in conducting research from a semiotic perspective is the immediate and local meanings of action, as defined from the actors’ point of view. … Studies based on a semiotic perspective clearly presume a philosophy that is substantially different from that utilised by mainstream psychological schools both in theory and in practice. One fundamental difference involves the reliance on emic versus etic theory of and data collection procedures. An interpretative qualitative study utilises interviews, observations, and other forms of data collection within the time frame necessary for gaining an understanding of the actors’ meanings for social actions. (Davis, 1995: 432–433)

As an example of this alternative approach, Davis gives the example of a study she did of language planning in Luxembourg (1994) where she participated in the daily life of the school and conducted interviews and observations over the course of a year in order to determine the patterns of meaning different languages held for individuals and the ways these meanings affected language behaviour within different socio-economic communities. (Davis, 1995: 433)

A full study of this type is then provided by Willett (1995) who, in an ethnographic report on L2 socialisation “thickly describes” the participation of ESL children in the daily classroom events of a first-grade classroom. The theoretical orientation framing this study is language socialisation: language learning is the process of becoming a member of a sociocultural group. (Willett, 1995: 475)

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Language socialisation “occurs through the micropolitics of social interaction”, which Willett summarises as follows: People not only construct shared understandings in the process of interaction, they also evaluate and contest those understandings as they struggle to further their individual agendas. As people act and react to one another, they also construct social relations (e.g., hierarchical relationships), ideologies (e.g., inalienable rights of the individual), and identities (e.g., good student). These constructions both constrain subsequent negotiations and sustain extant relationships of power, solidarity and social order. … In the process of constructing shared understandings through negotiation, the social practices in which the interaction is embedded are altered and the relations, ideologies and identities are reshaped. (Willett, 1995: 475)

Willett’s report focused on the ways that three ESL girls worked together to make sense of the classroom in which they were placed, and used that social environment to participate in phonics seatwork. (Willett, 1995: 499)

Willett participated as a teacher’s aide while she systematically audiotaped the three girls. It is important to note here that there were four limited English proficient children in the Room 17 classroom (the school year began with six, but two had left by the time Willett began her study). Apart from the three girls, a Maldivian, an Israeli and a Palestinian, there was a Mexican-American boy who, unlike the girls, refused to wear the harness needed to hold the tape recorder Willett used to audiotape them, and who thus did not form part of the experiment. Willett also took field notes in class, took notes of her interaction with the other children in class, kept notes concerning the life of the classroom as a whole, as well as life in the school and the community, collected artefacts from the classroom, had access to school records, and conducted extensive interviews with the teacher and parents. Another research tool Willett employed was “a sociometric test”, which she used “to corroborate my ethnographic analyses of the social structure in the class” (Willett, 1995: 479). She used generic theorising processes and general analytic procedures (Goetz and LeCompte, 1984) to construct an interpretative description of the processes and outcomes of L2 socialisation in the classroom. These processes and procedures involved scanning the data, noting patterns, looking for counterevidence and selecting important domains for further analysis. Three broad questions guided the analyses within and across data types:

Approaches to SLA that offend the guidelines

1. What was the nature (linguistically and socially) of the recurring events selected for focus? 2. How did the ESL children participate in these events designed for native speakers? 3. How did their participation change over time as their competence grew? (Willett, 1995: 479)

Willett also conducted “microanalyses” of selected tapescripts and of workbooks and other written texts. The broad questions guiding the microanalyses were: – What participant roles do these children play (Erickson, 1982)? – How is the event structured (Hymes, 1974)? – How are the conversation and written texts structured (Coulthard, 1992; Moerman, 1988)? – What are the contextual cues that children use to communicate (Gumperz, 1982)? – What identities, social relations, and ideologies are indexed by the intertextualities that the children constructed (Bloome, 1992)? (Willett, 1995: 479)

These microanalyses enabled Willett “to construct a detailed description of the processes and outcomes of language socialisation across the year” (Willett, 1995: 479). All this work is “interwoven” into the main part of Willett’s report which consists of a narrative. The narrative begins with a description of the school and the community, continues with a description of “the social and academic world of Room 17”, and goes on to look at the ESL children’s participation in phonics seatwork, first focusing on their interaction with adults and then on their interactions with each other. The final section examines the micropolitics of gender relations, identities and ideologies and shows how the politics of Room 17 shaped the children’s access to the languculture of the classroom. (Willett 1995: 474)

The main conclusion Willett draws from the year-long study is that the three ESL girls found little difficulty in participating in the phonics seatwork, and in addition were successful academically and socially, while the only ESL boy in the class was, despite achieving as good a score on a Bilingual Syntax measure as the girls, not considered successful, either academically or socially. This, says Willett shows how the micropolitics of gender and class worked to position the boy as a problematic learner and the girls as successful learners in this particular sociocultural setting. (Willett 1995: 475)

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8.3.1 Discussion If we recall that the article by Willett was given pride of place in the TESOL special issue, then I suggest that this, together with its endorsement from Mitchell and Myles, makes it fair to take Willett’s article as a “good example” of modern ethnographic research. Of course, it would be quite wrong to judge all ethnographic research on the basis of the shortcomings of Willett’s paper, but Willett’s paper represents a modern trend that I oppose, and that serves as a good example of research that offends the Guidelines. The paper also gives me the opportunity to make, or to stress, the point that those doing research within a hermeneutic, ethnographic framework, or claiming to adopt a constructivist or postmodernist approach, often react to criticism by claiming that their critics are working under a different (“mentalist”, “empirical”, “positivist”) framework, and that this somehow invalidates the criticisms made of their work. Such attempts to deflect criticism offend the assumption in the Guidelines that all rational theories are commensurate; the attempts are, quite simply, either outside the framework laid down by the Guidelines, or no defence whatsoever. While Willett nowhere explicitly claims to be adopting a postmodernist or relativist approach, the study is thoroughly at odds with the assumptions of the Guidelines. In particular, it flies in the face of Point 4 of the Guidelines; her “rich description” of events is not in the service of any explanatory theory. There is no attempt to explain well-defined phenomena, no attempt to go beyond description to some testable hypothesis, there is no causal theory in sight, no wider more general theory that might take the Willett study beyond the realms of anecdote. And this, I suggest, is no accident. It is not, I think, that Willett has not yet got around to articulating her theory, it is that such a demand would be seen by Willett as unreasonable, “positivist”, outmoded. Willett’s study is a model, it is evidence of a radically different epistemological point of view, a point of view that I profoundly disagree with. If one accepts the assumptions laid out in the Guidelines, one must judge Willett’s study as offering no explanation of anything. Neither is Willett’s study fruitful, broad in scope or simple. Finally, it also offends Point 7 of the Guidelines which objects to ill-defined terms, muddled thinking and faulty arguments. In Willett’s study, the girls were seated together because they were all taking part in her research project, and the boy, excluded from the project because he was unwilling to wear the harness the girls agreed to wear, was seated between two girls — both native English speakers. Could not the facts that the three girls rapidly made friends with each other, became popular with the rest of the class,

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and became successful learners, while the boy felt insecure, became isolated, and was increasingly regarded as a problematic learner, be at least partly explained by the influence of Willett and her research design? Indeed it could: The seating arrangements, the result of ideologies about gender and academics (not to mention research) had serious consequences. (Willett 1995: 496, italics added.)

It seems that this is all part of the rich texture of language socialisation, and the possibility that Willett’s methodology might have played a part in such an unfortunate outcome for the boy goes unremarked. As to the results of the study, that “as people act and react to one another, they also construct social relations, ideologies, and identities”, that these constructions “both constrain subsequent negotiations and sustain extant relationships of power, solidarity and social order”, and that “in the process of constructing shared understandings through negotiation, the social practices in which the interaction is embedded are altered and the relations, ideologies and identities are reshaped”, will surely come as a surprise to nobody. The question is how and why they do so. Likewise, it is not surprising to hear that the social situation in which the three ESL girls found themselves affected their learning, that the relationship between the teacher and the students was affected by the teacher’s position, age and character, that boys and girls tended to group themselves by gender, that the boys were rowdier than the girls, that everybody concerned was trying to “work out their own agenda”, and so on. What we need to know, I suggest, is how the girls were affected by various factors, to what extent seating arrangements affect how students learn in classrooms, etc. But no such questions are addressed. There is then the question of Willett’s style. Willett’s paper uses an enormous array of pseudo-technical terms, which is, I suggest, a characteristic of this type of paper. The “sociometric test” Willett administered “to corroborate my ethnographic analyses of the social structure in the class”, amounted to asking each child in a glass-enclosed room, from which the child could observe the class, “Who do you hope will be in your second-grade classroom next year?” Their choices were rank ordered so that a nonparametric multidimensional scaling analysis could be used to create a visual representation of the social structure of the class. (Willett, 1995: 489)

What the visual representation looks like and whether, or to what extent, it corroborated her ethnographic analyses (whatever they were) Willett does not tell us.

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Willett’s prose style offends Point 7 of the Guidelines and seems intended more to impress than to clarify. When Willett tells us that she “used generic theorising processes and general analytic procedures (Goetz and LeCompte, 1984) to construct an interpretative description of the processes and outcomes of L2 socialisation in the classroom”, and that “these processes and procedures involved scanning the data, noting patterns, looking for counter-evidence and selecting important domains for further analysis”, I presume she means that she participated in and observed classroom activities, making recordings and taking notes which she later examined. The fifth of the “broad questions” guiding Willett’s research (which was supposed to be answered by the subsequent “microanalyses” she performed) deserves quoting again: What identities, social relations, and ideologies are indexed by the intertextualities that the children constructed (Bloome, 1992)? (Willett, 1995: 479)

Is this not a case of using terminology in an attempt to gain authority, without paying much heed to what the words actually mean?

8.4 Krashen’s 5 hypotheses: The Monitor Model We are now inside the epistemological constraints outlined in the Assumptions of the Guidelines. The model examined here is an example of a linguistic approach to SLA, heavily influenced by the paradigm provided by Chomsky’s UG theory (see Chapter 6), and it is probably the best known theory included among the “offenders” in this chapter. It is included because of its fame and because it is a good example of hypotheses that offend Points 7 and 8 of the Guidelines; the hypotheses use badly-defined terms, circular arguments, and they lack empirical content. Krashen (1985) re-formulated what Corder (1967) had called in relation to SLA a “built-in syllabus” into a Natural Order Hypothesis. To my knowledge, this hypothesis was first proposed by Corder (1967). It states that we acquire the rules of language in a predictable way, some rules tending to come early and others late. The order does not appear to be determined solely by formal simplicity, and there is evidence that it is independent of the order in which rules are taught in language classes. (Krashen, 1985: 14)

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Krashen (1977a, 1977b, 1978, 1981, 1982, 1985) developed these hypotheses into the Monitor Model, which contains the following five hypotheses: A. The Acquisition–Learning Hypothesis According to Krashen, adults have two ways of developing competence in second languages. The first way is via acquisition, that is, by using language for communication. This is a subconscious process and the resulting acquired competence is also subconscious. The second way to develop second language competence is by language learning, which is a conscious process and results in formal knowledge of the language. For Krashen, acquisition, picking up a language naturally like children do their L1, is a process still available to adults, and is far more important than language learning. Furthermore, knowledge gained through one means (e.g., learning) cannot be internalised as knowledge of the other kind (e.g., acquisition), and only the acquisition system produces language, the learned system serving only as a monitor of the acquired system, checking the correctness of utterances against the formal knowledge stored therein. B. The Natural Order Hypothesis The rules of language are acquired in a predictable way, some rules coming early and others late. The order is not determined solely by formal simplicity, and it is independent of the order in which rules are taught in language classes. C. The Monitor Hypothesis The learned system has only one, limited, function: to act as a Monitor. Further, the Monitor cannot be used unless three conditions are met: 1. Time. “In order to think about and use conscious rules effectively, a second language performer needs to have sufficient time.” (Krashen, 1982: 12) 2. Focus on form “The performer must also be focused on form, or thinking about correctness.” (Krashen, 1982: 12) 3. Knowledge of the rule. D. The Input Hypothesis If there is a Natural Order, how do learners move from one point to another, from one stage of competence to the next? The Input Hypothesis explains the learner’s progress. Second languages are acquired by understanding language that contains structure “a bit beyond our current level of competence (i + 1)” by receiving “comprehensible input”. “When the input is understood and there is enough of it, i + 1 will be provided automatically. Production ability emerges. It is not taught directly.” (Krashen, 1982: 21–22)

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E. The Affective Filter Hypothesis The Affective Filter is “that part of the internal processing system that subconsciously screens incoming language based on … the learner’s motives, needs, attitudes, and emotional states” (Dulay, Burt, and Krashen, 1982: 46). If the Affective Filter is high, (because of lack of motivation, or dislike of the L2 culture, or feelings of inadequacy, for example) input is prevented from passing through and hence there is no acquisition. The Affective Filter is responsible for individual variation in SLA (it is not something children use) and explains why some learners never acquire full competence. 8.4.1 Discussion Krashen’s hypotheses have very serious deficiencies as a theory of SLA, and these are explained immediately below. They are a good example of how a rigorous theory (in this case, Chomsky’s) can be misappropriated, and of how what seems like a powerful, intuitively-appealing theory turns out on closer inspection to be lacking in coherence, content and explanatory power. The biggest problem with Krashen’s account is that, in contradiction to point 8 of the Guidelines, its propositions are not capable of being subjected to an empirical test. There is no way of testing the Acquisition–Learning hypothesis: we are given no evidence to support the claim that two distinct systems exist, nor any means of determining whether they are, or are not, separate. Similarly, there is no way of testing the Monitor hypothesis: with no way to determine whether the Monitor is in operation or not, it is impossible to determine the validity of its extremely strong claims. The Input Hypothesis is equally mysterious and incapable of being tested: the levels of knowledge are nowhere defined and so it is impossible to know whether i + 1 is present in input, and, if it is, whether or not the learner moves on to the next level as a result. Thus, the first three hypotheses (Acquisition–Learning, the Monitor, and Natural Order) make up a circular and vacuous argument. The Monitor accounts for discrepancies in the Natural Order, the learning–acquisition distinction justifies the use of the Monitor, and so on. Nor does Krashen’s account satisfy the Guidelines’ requirement for hypotheses to have explanatory power: there is no proper causal explanation, as demanded by point 4. At the heart of the hypotheses is the Acquisition–Learning Hypothesis which simply states that L2 competence is picked up through comprehensible input in a staged, systematic way, without giving any explanation of the process by which comprehensible input leads to acquisition. Similarly, we

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are given no account of how the Affective Filter works, of how input is filtered out by an unmotivated learner. How, for example, is the Filter selective in terms of grammatical structures? Gregg (1984) gives the example of a Chinese native speaker with near native-like knowledge of English who had not, however, acquired 3rd person singular -s. If the Affective Filter explains this, how did it let most of the input through and filter out the 3rd person singular? Still addressing Point 4 of the Guidelines (explanatory adequacy), intuitively one feels that what has been learned can become part of the acquired system and the burden is on Krashen to disprove this, which he does not do. Likewise, McLaughlin (1978) and Gregg (1984) both question the claim of the Monitor hypothesis that learning is available for use in production, but not in comprehension, which is highly counter-intuitive. Gregg calls it “an extraordinary claim” which Krashen offers no evidence whatever for. Furthermore, Point 7 of the Guidelines is not met since Krashen’s use of key terms, such as “acquisition and learning”, and “subconscious and conscious”, is vague, confusing, and, not always consistent. In summary, while the model is broad in scope and is intuitively appealing, Krashen’s key terms are ill-defined, and circular, so that the set is incoherent. The lack of empirical content in the five hypotheses means that there is no means of testing them. As a theory it has such serious faults that it is not really a theory at all. Nicola (1991) suggests that criticisms of Krashen’s theory can be compared with contemporary criticisms of Newton’s theory. In order to explain why the moon moved around the earth (instead of travelling in a straight line, which, according to Newton, is what all bodies naturally do) Newton hypothesised that a body can exert a force on another body at a distance, and called this force “gravity”. Nicola says that Newton was subjected to the same main criticisms as Krashen — first that the onus was on him to prove his counter-intuitive hypothesis (about motion), which he did not do, and second that he gave no explanation for gravity any more than Krashen gives an explanation for how comprehensible input results in acquisition. Nicola continues the analogy by reminding us that, as Mach demonstrated, Newton’s laws were riddled with logical problems, such as the famous first law which states that every body perseveres in its state of rest or uniform motion, except when a force is impressed on it, which allows for a new “force” to be invented to explain any counter-observation. Mach re-formulated Newton’s theory and then Einstein took it an important step further. Nicola argues that while Gregg’s and McLaughlin’s critiques of Krashen are important, they are not necessarily fatal

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to his theory and that “by wholesale rejection of the theory the critics are passing up a valuable opportunity to accomplish for SLA theory what Mach and Einstein accomplished for physics” (Nicola, 1991: 23). Nicola suggests that in order to make the input hypothesis less than vacuous, i.e. to give it empirical content, we need to operationalise “comprehensible input”. While Nicole agrees with McLaughlin that comprehension is an introspective act that is “woefully inadequate” for empirical research, she argues that nonetheless “a workable operational definition for classroom purposes is not difficult to attain.” She suggests that classroom teachers can develop a faculty for “reading” student comprehension of input in somewhat the same way as an experimental physicist develops a faculty for quick and accurate reading of laboratory instruments from extended work with them. The teacher can thus help the researcher in the quest for precise operational definitions of concepts. (Nicola, 1991: 25)

Most of Nicola’s argument deals with what Point 6 of the Guidelines refers to as the context of discovery. It is certainly true that many extremely important theories in the history of science, Newton’s and Darwin’s among them, started off with badly-defined terms and a poor track record in terms of empirical testability. I have already made clear that awareness of the history of science should make us tolerant in our assessment of young theories. But more important, in my opinion, is that all theories, including Krashen’s of course, should be subjected to the most thorough criticism possible. The ability of a theory to survive criticism is often explained by its fruitfulness and breadth, its success in making predictions and in solving persistent problems in its domain (Points 9 and 10 of the Guidelines) both of which apply to Newton and Darwin, but not to Krashen. In order to give the hypotheses in Krashen’s model more empirical content, a good start would be, as Nicola suggests, to operationalise the concepts, starting with comprehensible input. My own view is that the set of hypotheses are too vacuous to waste any more time on, especially since most of the issues dealt with by Krashen have since received far more rigorous attention (see Chapter 9). The most important claim that Krashen makes is that no consciouslylearned linguistic information can become part of one’s unconscious linguistic knowledge, and it seems that, unless we stick to circular arguments that make it so, this claim is contradicted by the evidence. But certainly it is true that as Nicola says, the hypotheses together have clear pedagogical implications, and so any teacher interested in testing them could arrive at a good enough working

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definition of comprehensible input to begin the task of exploring them. The Natural Approach (Krashen and Terrell, 1983), which summarised Krashen’s views and also suggested how they could be implemented in the second language classroom, became widely-read and even more widely referred to by language teachers. Krashen’s explanation of SLA was intuitively appealing, and it “clicked” with all those who had embraced the so-called “Communicative Language Learning” approach, and who had rejected the old audio-lingual methodology in favour of “language in context” and methodologies that recognised the importance of affective factors. But its implications for teaching were far more radical than most teachers realised: the acquisition–learning hypothesis suggests that not just the old oral presentation and practice method, but also, for example, grammar-based syllabuses, overt grammar instruction, pronunciation work, structurally-focused writing and speaking practice, are all of little use in helping learners acquire a second language. Rather than help researchers to improve the definition of “comprehensible input” or to operationalise any of the concepts Krashen employed, the vast majority of teachers took Krashen’s theory as a simple “explanation” that articulated many of their intuitions without informing their pedagogical practice very much, and without any appreciable “wash-back” effect on the theory itself.

8.5 Variable competence models Variable competence models take a sociolinguistic approach to SLA, and abandon Chomsky’s distinction between competence and performance, viewing competence as variable, not homogeneous. Chomsky’s “competence”, we recall, refers to underlying linguistic (grammatical) knowledge, and performance refers to the actual day to day use of language, which is influenced by an enormous variety of factors, including limitations of memory, stress, tiredness, and so on. Chomsky argues that while performance data is important, it is not the object of study (it is, precisely, the data): linguistic competence is the phenomenon that he wants to examine. 8.5.1 Tarone Tarone argues that “capability” underlies performance, and that this capability consists of heterogeneous “knowledge” which varies by speech style, which in turn is related to the task being undertaken by the learner, the interlocutor, and

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the topic. In other words there is no homogeneous competence underlying performance but a variable competence or “capacity” which underlies specific instances of language performance. According to Tarone (1983a, 1983b, 1984, 1988) L2 learners acquire a continuum of “styles” or rules for the L2, ranging from the most informal vernacular style to the most careful style. When speakers use the vernacular style they pay least attention to what they say, and as a result it will be the least target-like, but the most internally-consistent, the least variable, whereas the careful style is the most target-like, the least internally-consistent, the most variable. Tarone claims that the variability in the production of L2 learners is caused by style-shifting along the capability continuum, which in turn is linked to the amount of attention the learner pays to language form. Thus, according to Tarone, L2 learners have several interlanguages which they use for different types of situation. 8.5.2 Ellis Ellis, while not adopting the continuum of styles model, suggests that the L2 learner’s interlanguage grammar allows variable rules, whereas the target grammar does not. The observed variability of L2 learners’ performance is explained by learners at early stages having a non-variable representation for a grammatical property in the L2, but then successively noticing forms in the input which are in conflict with the original representation. The learner does not initially abandon the original representation, but adds the forms to the representation, so that he or she acquires more and more versions of the original rule. This leads to either free variation (where forms alternate in all environments at random) or systematic variation where one variant appears regularly in one linguistic context, and another variant in another context. 8.5.3 Discussion Tarone’s and Ellis’ models are examples of a certain type of general learning theory — learners acquire the L2 by general learning strategies such as noticing novel aspects of the language, hypothesis testing, etc. The novelty is the suggestion that L2 learners use different “styles” of the interlanguage in different contexts (Tarone), or that the way their interlanguage develops has the peculiarity of the sorts of variation Ellis describes. Such models confront the immediate problem of assuming that the

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development of L2 interlanguages is random, i.e. the models assume that the order in which new items enter a developing L2 grammar, and the subsequent stages of development of that grammar, are random. When the learner notices a discrepancy between the prediction of his interlanguage grammar and a sample of input, this new form enters his grammar and then gradually spreads, either along a continuum in Tarone’s case, or to linguistically or task-determined contexts in Ellis’ case. But which particular forms enter at any particular moment is random, an assumption that goes against a great deal of evidence suggesting that there is a predictable order in these stages of development (see Chapter 9). Moreover, some areas of variability in SLA are more quickly resolved by L2 learners than others. The development of negation in English, for example, often starts with “no”, and following this stage, learners soon add other forms, such as “don’t”, “can’t”, “isn’t”, “won’t”, “didn’t”, and eventually seem to have internalised the auxiliary verb + n’t. In this case we observe the stage of free variation giving way to systematic variation, which then gives way to target-like invariance. Other aspects of the L2 grammar, however, appear to be persistently variable (where the target language is not). As Towell and Hawkins say: Although both Tarone and Ellis “appear” to have a model for handling the variable production of L2 learners, and “appear” to be able to link variability to staged development, in essence, why particular L2 forms enter L2 grammars when they do, and how they spread through L2 grammars, are as mysterious as the notion of “acquisition” is in Krashen’s system. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 41)

Thus, the Variability model fails to satisfy Point 7 of the Guidelines: the root of the problem of the variable competence model is that there are serious conceptual objections to it. Chomsky made the distinction between performance and competence because it fits his theory of language and first language acquisition. Competence is what we know about language, it is, in Chomsky’s theory, a welldefined phenomenon which is explained by appeal to an innate human capacity which the vast majority of human beings are born with. The job of linguists is to describe the rules that make up this linguistic competence and then test empirically the theory that all languages obey these rules. In order to test these rules, Chomsky says that we cannot just use performance data, since much of it cannot be counted as evidence for or against the theory. In contrast to Chomsky, Tarone and Ellis argue for an underlying variable competence, but do not define that competence, or make it the source for generalisations or general explanations. It seems to be a theoretical “bolt-on”

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which sits uneasily with a clearly descriptive approach to what L2 learners do, particularly in classroom settings. While it is perfectly valid to collect data about L2 (classroom) performance, and to suggest patterns and tendencies in this data, the suggestion that this is evidence of an acquired competence seems not only unjustified but incongruous. As Gregg (1990:368) argues, Tarone and Ellis offer a description of language use and behaviour, which they confuse with an explanation of the acquisition of grammatical knowledge. If we abandon the idea of a homogeneous underlying competence, Gregg says, then we are stuck at the surface level of the performance data: any research project can only deal with the data in terms of the particular situation it encounters, describing the conditions under which the experiment took place. The positing of any variable rule at work would need to be followed up by an endless number of further research projects looking at different situations in which the rule is said to operate, each of which is condemned to uniqueness, no generalisation about some underlying cause being possible. At the centre of the variable competence model are variable rules. Gregg points out that Labov (1969) first proposed variable rules to account for the variation in the copula in Black English vernacular speech, i.e. it was a tool of sociolinguistic research used with native speakers whose L1 competence was fully-developed. Gregg suggests that such a tool cannot become a theoretical construct used in attempts to explain how people acquire linguistic knowledge. Labov attempted to explain under what conditions and in what environments variants of the copula were observed, and concluded that the variation was systematic. His variable rule amounts to including a probabilistic element to the grammar of a natural language: where a normal rule states that F appears in environment E, … a variable rule says that F appears in E with probability P. (Gregg, 1990: 371)

But while variable rules may serve well as a tool of analysis for sociolinguistics, statements of the type “in given circumstances a given person has a given probability of using a given variant” do not imply that any variable rule has been acquired. In order to turn the idea of variable rules from an analytical tool into a theoretical construct, Tarone and Ellis would have to grant psychological reality to the variable rules (which in principle they seem to do, although no example of a variable rule is given) and then explain how these rules are internalised, so as to become part of the L2 learner’s grammatical knowledge of the target language (which they fail to do). Tarone suggests that

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a new approach to grammar-writing might be needed, because grammars must be written to describe and model several language styles at a single point of time, each style containing both variable and categorical regularities. (Tarone 1985, cited in Gregg 1990: 373)

The variable competence model, according to Gregg, confuses descriptions of the varying use of forms with an explanation of the acquisition of linguistic knowledge. The forms (and their variations) which L2 learners produce are not, indeed cannot be, direct evidence of any underlying competence — or capacity. To quote Gregg again: There is no rule for producing ellipted or non-ellipted sentences in English. Or rather, there is no such rule in the grammar, although there may very well be pragmatic rules controlling ellipses, just as their are Gricean rules, rules of politeness, etc. (Gregg, 1990: 374)

By erasing the distinction between competence and performance “the variabilist is committed to the unprincipled collection of an uncontrolled mass of data” (Gregg 1990: 378). Tarone, in a reply to Gregg, labels Gregg’s approach “rationalist”, and complains that “such scholars, perhaps motivated by ‘physics envy’, are trying to turn the study of language into an exact science” (Tarone, 1990: 395). Ellis, in his response to Gregg, claims that there are two styles of SLA research: the theory-then-research style (Gregg’s), and the research-then-theory style (Ellis’), and that these two styles “are reflected in different theories of language, and different research methodologies” (Ellis, 1990: 384). Ellis says I remain strongly committed to ethnographic and descriptive studies of classroom learners. It follows that I must also remain a variabilist. (Ellis, 1990: 385)

Ellis goes on to assert that Gregg fails to recognise “the context-dependency of theory construction”, that performance data is the only data SLA researchers have at their disposal, and that the crux of the argument is whether “a mentalist (Chomsky), or functional (Halliday) explanation best fits the facts” (Ellis, 1990: 390). Point 3 of the Guidelines insists that a theory must explain phenomena, not describe data. In contradiction to this, and to Point 7 of the Guidelines, the arguments of Ellis and Tarone are confused and circular; in the end what Ellis and Tarone are actually doing is gathering data without having properly formulated the problem they are trying to solve, i.e. without having defined the phenomenon they wish to explain.

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Both Tarone and Ellis reply to Gregg’s criticisms by invoking some version of the incommensurability argument. Tarone, for example, accuses Gregg of “science envy” and of trying to insist that researchers treat the study of language as an exact science. I have already argued (see Section 5.3) that such attempts to deflect criticism put those who use this type of argument out of bounds. Tarone’s “argument” is, of course, no reply whatsoever to Gregg’s criticisms. Neither does Ellis’ reply, quoted above, do any better. Ellis’ claims that there are two styles of SLA research: the theory-then-research style, and the research-thentheory style, each with its own different theory of language, and different research methodology, likewise fails to deal with Gregg’s criticisms of the model itself. The Guidelines are informed by the view that there is room for all sorts of different methodologies, and for researchers to pursue different programmes within a rationalist framework. At the same time, there is no justification for attempting to deflect criticism of one’s published work by claiming that one’s critic is talking a different language. Such attempts smack very much of the kind of approach taken by the postmodernists and constructivists described in Chapter 3. What, we need to ask Ellis, constitutes an “ethnographic, descriptive” approach to SLA theory construction? How does one go from studying the everyday rituals and practices of a particular group of second language learners through descriptions of their behaviour to a theory that offers a general explanation for some identified phenomenon concerning the behaviour of L2 learners?

8.6 The acculturalisation/pidginisation approach This is another example of a sociolinguistic approach, and here the “offence” it gives to the Guidelines is that its terms are ill-defined and thus it cannot be subjected to empirical tests as required by Point 8. The approach grew out of the Harvard Project, a ten-month study by Schumann (1978a, 1978b, 1978c) and others of the acquisition of ESL by various immigrants to the United States, including a 33-year old working class Costa Rican called Alberto. Alberto lived with a couple from Costa Rica in a predominantly Portuguese section of Cambridge, Massachusetts, worked in a factory among mostly non-native speakers, and socialised mostly in Spanish-speaking environments. Alberto was the least successful at acquiring English of all those studied: his English seemed to have fossilised at a very rudimentary level. (For example, sentence negation was usually effected by placing “no” in front of the verb.)

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Schumann, attempting to explain why Alberto had acquired so little English, and having ruled out age and cognitive ability as factors, suggested that it was because of Alberto’s social and psychological distance from speakers of the target language. Schumann argued that social distance is a group phenomenon, consisting of eight factors: 1. Social Dominance: Alberto was a member of a group that was politically, economically, and technically subordinate to, and therefore distant from, the target-language group. 2. Integration: Alberto was a member of a group which at times tried to preserve its own cultural distance (implying distance from the target language group) and at times tried to assimilate into the target language culture (which, according to the model, would facilitate the SLA process). 3. Enclosure: Alberto was a member of a group with its own bars, clubs, churches, newspapers, etc., i.e. a group with high enclosure, increasing social distance. 4. Cohesiveness: Alberto was a member of a cohesive group, which again limits the need for contact with the target language and thus increases distance. 5. Size: Alberto’s group was large, leading to more intra-group than intergroup contact. 6. Cultural Congruence: Alberto’s group and the target language group were not very culturally congruent. 7. Attitude: inter-group attitudes were often neutral to hostile. 8. Intended length of residence: Alberto’s group did not anticipate a long stay in the United States, once again increasing social distance. (Abridged from Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 256) Psychological distance, on the other hand, is an individual phenomenon, with four variables: language shock, culture shock, motivation and ego permeability. Schumann says these individual variables become more important when the social distance factors are relatively neutral. Schumann noted that the interlanguages of all the learners in the project, including those who went on to attain much higher levels of English proficiency than Alberto, were linguistically similar in the early stages. He also argued that the social and psychological conditions of Alberto’s learning context were similar to those associated with pidginization. Schumann concluded that the processes underlying pidginization and the early stages of naturalistic SLA were analogous and universal: both concentrated solely on the communicative

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function (giving and getting information) of the second language. Later stages of development in the target language by learners only appear as the social distance of the learners vis-à-vis the target language group is overcome, and the learner is “acculturated” into the target language community. When the learner is interested in making his mark on this community, of expressing himself more richly, — i.e. in expanding the function of his interlanguage to include integrative and expressive purposes, then he will begin to produce the “communicatively redundant” grammatical items of the target language, and his lexicon will expand. In brief, Schumann claims that SLA is “just one aspect of acculturation” and that the more a learner acculturates to the target language group, the better he will acquire the second language. 8.6.1 Discussion The theory at least conforms to Point 4 of the Guidelines in that it attempts to explain incompleteness, and, to some extent, it also offers an explanation of staged development and variability. However, it fails to meet Point 8 of the Guidelines: the model is not testable since social distance and psychological distance are terms which have yet to be defined in any measurable way. Similarly, Schumann, by arguing that individual psychological factors can sometimes override the social factors, covers all possible outcomes. If, for example, social factors in a particular learner’s case indicate high social distance, but the learner nevertheless quickly acquires grammatical forms beyond those predicted, then the individual psychological factors rescue the model. Consequently, it is impossible to falsify the model. The model also fails to satisfy Point 7 of the Guidelines: there are conceptual problems with it. The model relies on the notion of a “simplified” L2 grammar which links the nature of early stages of L2 productions to a notion of “communicative economy”. Towell and Hawkins comment: Such a view necessarily imputes to the learner the ability to segment data from the L2 into lexical items and grammatical morphemes, and then reject grammatical morphemes on the grounds that they are not relevant to communication. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 42)

This imputation strikes Towell and Hawkins as “bizarre”. They point out that the same view is held by Ellis, and suggest that a better view would be to see L2 learners at first sub-consciously constructing representations for the L2 on the basis of the input they receive.

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The fact that they appear “simplified” is merely an effect of what Bley-Vroman (1983) calls the “comparative fallacy”, that is the analyst making a comparison between the L2 learner grammar and the target language grammar, when a more appropriate comparison would be between the L2 learner grammar and the input that had been available in the construction of that grammar. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 42)

Finally, and leading on from the point made immediately above, as a consequence of the view Schumann adopts about the nature of interlanguage development, he is unable to explain how the social and psychological factors he describes influence the acquisition (or not) of various grammatical structures. The two essential problems of the acculturalisation/pidginisation approach are the use of ill-defined key constructs (social and psychological distance), and the unwarranted, and unsupported assumption that L2 users make use of a “simplified grammar”. Like Krashen’s hypotheses, there is no way of testing this putative explanation, but unlike Krashen’s account, it has little intuitive appeal — surely such complicated phenomena as those under investigation cannot be explained in such a simplistic way.

8.7 Theories of aptitude and motivation I have chosen these two examples of a socio-psychological approach to SLA because I think they are the strongest of the “Individual Differences” (ID) factors to have been isolated and studied, but yet I believe that even they offend the Guidelines. This illustrates the importance, and the difficulty, of “pinning down” psychological and social variables that are claimed to explain SLA. While the Guidelines allow for the examination of a far wider range of phenomena than Chomsky’s narrow “scientific” approach grants credence to, and while the Guidelines allow (and I recommend) a “multi-method approach”, even so, it is sociolinguistic approaches to SLA that most frequently have serious difficulty in conforming to Points 7 and 8 of the Guidelines — those that call for welldefined constructs, operationally-defined variables, and empirical content. The general question of individual differences, and the particular issues of aptitude and motivation, are vital for an explanation of the fifth phenomenon identified by Towell and Hawkins, 1994 (see Section 1.1.3), namely, “incompleteness”. I agree with Sawyer and Ranta (2001) who suggest that “the clearest fact about SLA that we currently have” is that L2 learners “differ dramatically in their rates of acquisition and in their ultimate attainment” (Sawyer and Ranta,

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2001: 319). Unfortunately, as Sawyer and Ranta admit, despite its importance, L2 research into the sources of individual differences has lagged far behind research in other areas. The problem is partly due, as Sawyer and Ranta say, to the reliance on correlational research designs, and partly to the inherent difficulty of finding reliable and valid measures of the traits examined. Sawyer and Ranta (2001) have attempted to revitalise Carroll’s work (1974) on aptitude, and Dörnyei (2001) has done something to rectify the problems with Gardner’s work (1985) on motivation. I do not want to argue that studying these factors will never provide useful results, or that an explanation of individual factors will never be incorporated into a general theory of SLA; Dörnyei and Ottó’s process model of L2 motivation (see Dörnyei, 2001: 85 to 100) shows that some progress has been made. The model Gardner used, and which is examined below, has been updated by Gardner, improved by the Tremblay and Gardner 1995 model (see Dörnyei, 2001: 53) and others (see Dörnyei, 2001: 18 to 100 for a comprehensive review). The collection of papers in Robinson (2002), especially the thoughtful paper by Skehan, is further evidence that researchers in what Robinson rightly calls the “challenging” area of individual differences, continue to make some progress. Thus, I am not ruling out attempts to explain individual differences in general; I limit myself to the general observation that it is difficult to pin down factors that are claimed to explain individual differences, and to the particular claim that Carroll’s and Gardner’s work does not satisfy the Guidelines. By examining Carroll’s and Gardner’s work, and the criticisms made of it by other scholars, I hope to highlight the problems involved in operationalising variables, and to stress the importance of Points 4, 7 and 8 of the Guidelines. Just as my criticisms of Krashen’s hypotheses do not rule out a theory that explains the SLA process in cognitive terms, so my criticisms of the work of Carroll and Gardner do not rule out an explanation of the differences in individual rates of acquisition and final attainment that rest on social factors or personality. 8.7.1 Aptitude Carroll defined foreign language learning aptitude as some characteristic of an individual which controls, at a given point of time, the rate of progress that he will make subsequently in learning a foreign language. (Carroll, 1974, 320)

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Carroll also operationalised aptitude in terms of speed of learning in the context of formal instruction delivered by a teacher or by a course of home study materials. Carroll and Sapon (1959) produced the Modern Languages Aptitude Test (MLAT), and Carroll (1962) went on to propose a “four component” view of language aptitude: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Phonemic Coding Ability Grammatical Sensitivity Inductive Language Learning Ability Rote learning activity for foreign language materials

These components were tested by five sub-tests: Number Learning, Phonetic Script, Spelling Clues, Words in Sentences, and Paired Associates. Scores on the MLAT have yielded multiple correlations of between 0.40 and 0.60. This according to Skehan (1989) is “encouraging” (although he adds that the figures are “well short of unity, implying that there are many other influences on language learning and that aptitude is not the whole story” (Skehan 1989: 28). According to Sawyer and Ranta (2001) These are considered moderate to strong correlations, and although they imply that considerable learner variation remains to be explained by additional factors, they also demonstrate that language aptitude has consistently been the single best predictor of subsequent language learning achievement. (Sawyer and Ranta, 2001: 320)

8.7.1.1Discussion Sawyer and Ranta (2001) discuss a number of problems with Carroll’s treatment of aptitude. First, there is a mismatch between the four categories and the five subtests of the MLAT. The mismatch is especially clear given his admission that one of the factors — inductive language learning ability — is not really measured on the MLAT, and one of the sections — Spelling Clues — has at best a tenuous conceptual connection to any of the factors as Carroll himself conceptualised them. (Sawyer and Ranta, 2001: 327)

Second, as Oller (1983) has most forcefully argued, language attitude is really just general intelligence as applied to the task of foreign language learning, and there is therefore little point in studying it as a special learner trait. Third, we must ask if aptitude is innate, a capacity that declines with age, linking it to the “critical period” argument, or is it a matter of skill development?

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Fourth, is aptitude only related to formal instruction, and if so, what kind of formal instruction? Cook (1996) argues that the aptitude tests are not relevant to current L2 teaching methodology: Such tests are not neutral about what happens in the classroom nor about the goals of language teaching. They assume that learning words by heart is an important part of L2 learning ability, that the spoken language is crucial, and that grammar consists of structural patterns. In short, MLAT mostly predicts how well a student will do in a course that is predominantly audiolingual in methodology rather than in a course taught by other methods. (Cook, 1996: 101)

The fifth problem with Carroll’s account of aptitude is that, as already hinted at in the passage from Cook in the previous paragraph, it is linked to behaviourism. Behaviourism was the ruling paradigm, and the theoretical model of acquisition that Carroll assumed at the time. Behaviourism gave Carroll’s account some theoretical adequacy, without which it would have amounted to little more than the accumulation of data, but it is now generally discredited, and ruled out on epistemological grounds by the Guidelines. While later work on aptitude is not tied to a behaviourist epistemology, much of it suffers precisely from a lack of theoretical adequacy. In principle, such an inadequacy can be overcome, but the nature of the investigation seems to me to make this a daunting enterprise; either accounts of second language learning aptitude rely on general theories of learning, or they equate aptitude with intelligence and, at the cost of blurring the phenomenon under study, rely on theories of intelligence to provide the background. Neither, in my opinion, is likely to provide a satisfactory explanation of the slippery phenomenon of aptitude. One example of attempting to provide theoretical adequacy is the CANAL-F theory of foreign language aptitude (Grigorenko, Sternberg and Ehrman, 2000: 392). It argues that “one of the central abilities required in FL acquisition is the ability to cope with novelty and ambiguity” (Grigorenko, Sternberg and Ehrman, 2000: 392) and provides a new test of foreign language aptitude. However successfully the test might predict learner’s ability, the theory fails to explain aptitude in any causal way. The theory of human intelligence that the CANAL-F theory is grounded in fails to illuminate the description given of FL ability; we do not get beyond a limiting of the domain in which the general ability to cope with novelty and ambiguity operates. What explains the individual differences between foreign language learners’ ability? Some are better at coping with novelty and ambiguity than others. Whatever construct validity might be claimed for CANAL-F, and however well the test might

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predict ability, it simply adds to the bank of tests already available (see the list the authors give at the beginning of their article) and leaves the question of what precisely aptitude at foreign language learning is, and how it contributes to SLA, unanswered. MacWhinney (1995) suggests that when addressing the question “Why are some students successful language learners and some not?”, a second question, namely “Are some languages easier for a certain type of student and other languages easier for another?” needs to be added. In attempting to answer these questions, MacWhinney uses the framework of the ANOVA model of “main effects and interactions”. The main effects are the language learning ability of the learner and the difficulty of the language. For any two learners (Le1 and Le2), there can be a main effect for the difference: Le1 > Le2 This is to say that if a particular learner Le1 is generally better at learning languages than another learner Le2, we would expect Le1 to surpass Le2 across a wide variety of language-learning experiences. Similarly, for any two languages (La1 and La2) there can be a main effect for the difference: La1 > La2 (MacWhinney, 1995: 294)

Languages can be grouped in terms of difficulty, ranging from the easiest languages of western Europe, through those with non-Roman orthographies and complex grammatical systems, to exotic languages like Eskimo “which present the learner with major challenges in lexicon, grammar, and underlying conceptual organisation” (MacWhinney, 1995: 294). If all prediction of the outcomes of language instruction were the results of these main effects, we would expect to see patterns of this type: Le1La1 > Le1La2 and Le2L1 > Le2La2 (because La1 > la2) Le1La1 > Le2La1 and Le1La2 > Le2La2 (because Le1 > Le2) However, if there are interactions between learners and languages, we would expect to see two types of reversal patterns: 1. Learner reversals which takes the form: Le1La1 > Le2La1 but Le1La2 < Le2La2 Here the normal learner order is retained for La1, but reversed for La2 because Le1 has particular problems learning this type of language

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2. Language reversals which take the form: Le1La1 > Le1La2 but Le2La1 < Le2La2 Here the normal language order is retained for Le1, but reversed for learner Le2 who seems to do particularly well in learning the more difficult language La2. (MacWhinney, 1995: 294–295)

MacWhinney goes on to say that two additional types of reversal, stage reversal and skill reversal, may be expected. MacWhinney suggests that combining the psycholinguistic study of individual differences in language learning abilities with contrastive linguistic analyses can yield a theory of skill-language interactions that would be able to predict the outcome of foreign language instruction. He goes on to suggest areas that need to be explored in order to predict the four types of reversal described. First, there are individual differences in language processing, and MacWhinney lists mechanisms that could be involved: local processing, commitment and plasticity, integrative circuits, functional neural circuits, strategic control, level of attention, monitoring, L1 skills, and autosupport. Next MacWhinney considers ways in which “linguistic structures can emerge as major roadblocks to progress”. The learning of new orthographic systems, phonetic learning, lexical learning, morphosyntactic learning, and syntactic processing and learning are all considered. MacWhinney’s aim in this paper is to point out that the interactions of language learning abilities with complex linguistic structures are often not that predicted by the the general framework of the main effects of language learning ability and language difficulty. For my purposes, his paper illustrates the complexity of the task of defining foreign language learning aptitude and of then situating it inside a theory that explains its role in the wider context of SLA. Showing a similar awareness of the complexity of the issue, and addressing the problem of how to define aptitude, Skehan (1989, 2002) argues that aptitude should be seen as multidimensional, not a monolithic construct, so that learners can be seen in terms of their strengths and weaknesses (e.g., a learner scores highly on inductive language learning and poorly on phonemic coding ability). Nevertheless, in reply to the criticism that other factors (e.g., motivation, cognitive style, intelligence, degree of acculturation, personality, attitude) are far more significant than aptitude, Skehan replies that This criticism is really an empirical question and what is needed is evidence. In fact, such evidence as is available from quantification-based studies generally indicates that aptitude is at least as important and usually more important, than any other variable investigated. (Skehan, 1989: 38)

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Skehan continues In fact what is most striking is that the superiority of variables other than aptitude has often been assumed, with the result that a measure of aptitude is often not even included in research studies (see, for example, the dismissal of aptitude in Schumann’s work, when an alternative, and unchecked explanation for the failure of learners such as Alberto would simply be that they have low aptitude. (Skehan 1989: 38)

But how can aptitude explain differential success in a causal way? Even if aptitude can be properly defined and measured without falling into the familiar trap of being circular (those who do well at language aptitude tests have an aptitude for language learning), how can we step outside the reference of aptitude and establish more than a simple correlation? Let us continue with a brief look at two more variables, which, I believe, emphasise the problem. 8.7.2 Motivation and attitude Gardner and Lambert (1972), building on Mowrer’s views (1950) on individual development which emphasise the importance of identification with a valued person, suggested that learners who identify positively with the people and culture of the target language, wishing to resemble the foreign people concerned, to understand their culture and to be able to participate in it, could be said to have “integrative motivation”, and by way of contrast, they introduced the concept of “instrumental motivation” where a learner is motivated to learn an L2 for utilitarian purposes, such as getting on in a job, or passing an exam. Gardner and Lambert hypothesised that in the long run integrative motivation is more effective because it is rooted in the personality of the learner, and so the learner is more likely to make the effort required to achieve sustained progress. As Skehan says “The Gardner and Lambert theory generated an enormous quantity of research” (Skehan 1989: 53). While Spolsky concluded from a study of newly arrived foreign students at US universities that the desire to join a secondary society “is a major factor in learning” (Spolsky 1969), the results of other studies were not so favourable, and it has been suggested that there is too much ambiguity in the definition of integrative and instrumental motivation. (An example of the problem is the description “having friends who speak English”, which could be said to be evidence of either type of motivation.) Partly in answer to the criticisms levelled at the two types of motivation, later work by Gardner (1985) gave rise to the following equation:

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Motivation = Effort + Desire to Achieve a Goal + Attitudes. Effort is made up of several components (e.g., desire to please teacher or parent, a high need to achieve, social pressures) not related specifically to learning a language, but, as Skehan says attitudes are thought of as the sustaining base for the middle term of the equation, the desire to achieve a goal, which is the place at which an integrative orientation is important. It is here that the particular goal that is involved, language learning in this case, and the particular viewpoint on it, integrative orientation, shapes the direction for the motivation to operate. (Skehan 1989: 55)

Gardner used the Attitude Motivation Index (AMI) as his measuring instrument, which consists of eleven measures: six attitudinal measures, the two orientation indices (integrative and instrumental), two indices of effort, and one anxiety measure. The first ten are added together, unweighted, and then the score for the class anxiety measure is subtracted. The AMI attempts to relate to achievement, perseverance, and classroom behaviour and the acquisition processes. As for achievement, Gardner (1980) examined the correlation between the AMI, the Modern Language Aptitude Test, and French grades, for a large number of different locations and secondary school ages. Skehan comments that the results demonstrate that “the AMI is a significant and consistent correlate of grades, … and what is measured by the AMI is certainly relevant to foreign language achievement” (Skehan, 1989: 56). Studies using the AMI to see the effect of motivation and attitude on perseverance and classroom behaviour also indicate a high level of correlation, but it is not clear which aspects of the AMI are responsible. Larsen-Freeman and Long mention various studies by Oller and his colleagues (cited in Larsen-Freeman and Long 1991: 180–182) which question the validity of Gardner’s measurements of motivation and attitude. Oller et al. argue that Gardner’s results depend on data which themselves depend upon the self-awareness and candour of the learners’ answers to questions about themselves in Gardner’s questionnaires. Oller suggests that Gardner’s data could be artefacts of the instruments of measurement, specifically that the questionnaires used by Gardner were influenced by three factors: the approval motive (answering the questions to win the approval of the administrator, self-flattery (answering the questions on the basis of personal biases rather than attempting to be honest and objective), and response set (answering questions consistently, without contradictions). A further argument is that Gardner’s findings are due to learners’ intelligence and language proficiency. To quote Larsen-Freeman and Long

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Their argument is that a learner must be able to fully understand the questions in order to provide valid answers, but if the learner is able to do so, then his or her responses might be affected by one or more of the three sources of nonrandom variance discussed above. (Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 182)

Skehan finds this putative argument ridiculous. A series of facetious questions come to mind when faced with this argument. Do less intelligent people have difficulty flattering themselves? Do they have difficulty in telling the difference between “yes” and “no”? … Can you be clever and not ingratiating? (Skehan 1989: 62)

Skehan argues that verbal intelligence does not underlie foreign language proficiency, and that while it is of course possible that attitudinal factors are influenced by factors such as the approval motive, Gardner’s critics used invalidated measures themselves and frequently argue from an anecdotal level. Skehan then summarises the arguments that Gardner marshalled in his own defence. Gardner claims that research shows that the AMI has predictive content and construct validity. The predictive validity is borne out by the substantial correlation with other variables. The content validity depends on the procedures Gardner followed: (i) careful definition of the variables of interest based on theory and research, (ii) generation of a pool of possible items, (iii) pre-testing to eliminate poor items. Thus the scales produced are reliable and homogeneous, unlike Oller’s measures, which have often been single items. While research designs that examine multiple items singly will throw up anomalous results, and permit many interpretations, the safeguards of scale construction and the piloting and validation of measures by recycling recommended by Gardner go a long way to guard against such distortions. Skehan continues: Construct validity, too, has been well-established. Correlational and factor analyses with the AMI and other measures have shown acceptable internal relations and factor structure. (Skehan 1989: 64)

Skehan concludes Gardner’s work has surely demonstrated that considerable progress has already been made. The painstaking nature of the approach to scale construction should be an example to other investigators of how measurement problems can be made more tractable in the social sciences. (Skehan 1989: 64)

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8.7.2.1Discussion Gardner investigates a factor that seems clearly linked to L2 learning; the difficulty, as we have seen, is to define the key construct ‘motivation’. As Gardner and Tremblay put it: There seems to be a general agreement … that motivation plays a major role in second language learning. Disagreement arises, however, when we try to capture the essence of the motivation construct. … When working with latent constructs such as motivation, substantial effort needs to be directed towards construct validation. This step cannot be bypassed if we want to explain the big picture rather than remote and often redundant segments of motivation. (Gardner and Tremblay, 1994, in Dörnyei, 2001: 213)

Dörnyei comments: The issue of using the appropriate terminology occurs at two concrete levels in L2 motivation research: – when importing concepts from related disciplines – when labelling composite multi-item scales An example of the first case is when authors (inspired by self-determination theory) talk about intrinsic and extrinsic motivation to learn a L2 without specifying how these relate to integrative and instrumental motives. With regard to the second case, in order to illustrate how difficult it can be to decide on the proper label, let me refer to a study with which I have been involved: Clement et al. (1994) found a factor that was determined by indices of social attitude, motivational intensity, need for achievement and social identification indices. This was identified as an “Integrative Motive”, even though one of the major ingredients of the ‘integrative motive’ as defined by Gardner (1985) — ‘ attitude toward the learning situation’ — was absent from it because it emerged as a separate factor. Thus when we concluded that ‘integrative motivation’ and the ‘appraisal of the classroom environment’ were two separate constituents of L2 motivation, this was not in accordance with Gardner’s established terminology. (Dörnyei, 2001: 213)

While Gardner thus clearly articulates the importance of defining his key term, Dörnyei’s examples emphasise how difficult it is to (a) pin down the motivation construct, and (b) subsequently ensure that the construct is always used uniformly as its author intended. Motivation, seen at an intuitive, commonsense level is no doubt of enormous importance to any kind of learning, but Gardner’s attempts to define it illustrate how easy it is to go round in circles or to be left with “redundant segments.” It seems that once we leave the common sense idea of motivation, there are just too many inter-related factors, and the

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job of teasing them all out is too daunting. Skehan himself points out that Gardner’s work is at a very low level of theorising, yet how could it be otherwise? How does one work with such extremely subjective terms? How does one operationalise the constructs in any rich way? And then, crucially, how does one get past correlation to a causal explanation? In order for this type of research to be more explanatory, there is an obvious need for more complex research designs than those that investigate the correlation between individual variables and learner performance. Gardner’s first attempts to define motivation used factor analysis to investigate correlations between isolated factors (see Dörnyei 2001: 219–221 for a discussion of a number of “pitfalls” concerning the application of factor analysis to data), but Gardner now relies more on structural equation modelling (usually referred to by Gardner as “causal modelling” or ‘LISREL’). The advantage of this approach is that by using experimental research design (where one (or more) of the variables is deliberately manipulated) some causal links can be established among the variables. This is a big step in the right direction, and the model provided by Gardner, Tremblay and Masgoret in 1997 (see Dörnyei, 2001: 231) certainly addresses the “big picture” and provides a framework for the myriad of learner characteristics it attempts to investigate. The problem of circularity remains, but perhaps more research carried out using structural equation modelling will yield a better model and provide a real theory of motivation. To summarise then, Gardner’s treatment of motivation and attitude illustrate the enormous difficulties of operationalising constructs so that a theory in line with the Guidelines can emerge. My main point is to stress that it is not enough to identify more and more variables that might influence second language learners; what is crucially needed for a theory of SLA is not a taxonomy, but an explanation. While there is nothing wrong with a bottom-up approach, nothing wrong with observing the world with no “big theory” already in mind, and nothing wrong with attempts in the social sciences to explain interesting phenomena by explaining them in terms of various psychological and social constructs, there is no possibility of these endeavours leading to a theory which provides a causal explanation and yet conforms to the requirements of critical rationalism, as set out in Points 7 to 11 of the Guidelines, unless the constructs are defined so as to avoid circularity, and to have empirical content. There is also, of course, the problem of incorporating the constructs into a framework that gives it explanatory power.

Chapter 9

Signs of progress

9.1 Introduction In this chapter I will look at some examples of attempts made in the last forty years to develop a theory of SLA, which, in my opinion, more closely conform to the Guidelines. Most of the studies can be said to fall inside the domain of a cognitive approach to SLA, although the Competition Model might be seen as a linguistic model. I will argue that there are clear signs of progress here; in other words, I suggest that, for all their faults and limitations, the explanations of the phenomena of SLA outlined in Chapter 1 offered by the hypotheses, models and theories examined in this chapter get steadily better, and that improvement and progress is indicated by the ability of the theories to increasingly conform to the Guidelines. Wittingly or not (and it must be said that Chomsky has shown little interest in SLA research), one effect of Chomskian linguistics on SLA research has been to encourage a cognitive approach to the task of theory construction. Questions of UG access to SLA, combined with the parallel development of general nativist theories and other theories of information-processing like Connectionism (see Section 9.3 below), have all helped in the development of a more complete and more sophisticated theory of “interlanguage development”, a term that in itself owes much to Chomsky. Despite the debt that this psycholinguistic approach owes to Chomsky, the approach is, nevertheless, far broader and less-well defined than Chomskian linguistics: it is interested in exploring how L2 students develop their interlanguage over time, how they deal with incoming messages, how those messages are decoded, stored and transformed, and how L2 learners produce language in real time. This is a far cry from the Chomskian domain, it is indeed a domain which, as I suggested in Chapter 6, Chomsky would consider too wide and too badly-defined to offer much hope of arriving at a satisfactory scientific explanation. All the research referred to in this chapter can be seen as stemming from the paradigm shift from behaviourism to “mentalism” described in Chapter 6, and

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it has in common a cognitive view of language learning. It illustrates the attempts that have been made to construct a theory that provides a general, causal explanation of the process of SLA, often flying in the face of Gregg’s demand (see Section 5.5.2) for a property theory. There are limitations to the explanations provided; some are limited in domain, some are difficult to test, some rely on inconclusive, insufficient, or flawed research, none provides a full or satisfactory explanation of all the phenomena. But all of the research and all of the theories that emerge from that research are compatible with the Assumptions of the Guidelines, and, in terms of the criteria for research methodology, all agree on the need for close scrutiny of published results by others in the community, and all demand clear exposition, rigorous reasoning, and empirical evidence. For precisely this reason, I believe, we can see evidence of progress towards a better, stronger, fuller explanation of the phenomena in question.

9.2 Error analysis We may begin with Pit Corder, who, while committed to the objective of informing and improving second language learning pedagogy, illustrates the post-Chomskian shift to a more cognitive approach to SLA. Corder argued in 1967 that errors were neither random nor best explained in terms of the learner’s L1; errors were indications of learners’ attempts to figure out an underlying rule-governed system. Corder distinguished between errors and mistakes: mistakes are slips of the tongue and not systematic, whereas errors are indications of an as yet non-native-like, but nevertheless, systematic, rule-based grammar. It is easy to see such a distinction as reflecting Chomsky’s distinction between performance and competence, and to interpret Corder’s interest in errors as an interest in the development of a learner’s grammar. But error analysis, by concentrating exclusively on errors, failed to capture the full picture of a learner’s linguistic behaviour. Schachter (1974) compared the compositions of Persian, Arabic, Chinese and Japanese learners of English, focusing on their use of relative clauses. She found that the Persian and Arabic speakers had a far greater number of errors, but she went on to look at the total production of relative clauses and found that the Chinese and Japanese students produced roughly half as many relative clauses as did the Persian and Arabic students. Schachter then looked at the students’ L1 and found that Persian and Arabic relative clauses are similar to English in that the relative clause is placed after the noun it modifies, whereas in Chinese and Japanese the relative clause

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comes before the noun. She concluded that Chinese and Japanese speakers of English use relative clauses cautiously but accurately because of the distance between the way their L1 and the L2 (English) form relative clauses. While Schachter’s main aim was to challenge the strong claims of the Contrastive Analysis Hypothesis (see Section 8.3), it also became apparent that one needed to look at what learners get right as well as what they get wrong. 9.2.1 Discussion Error analysis was important because of the comparison it made between the errors the L2 learner made in producing the target language, and the target language form itself. The main goal was pedagogical: by identifying, classifying, and quantifying errors, remedial work could be planned, based on the kind and frequency of the error. Error analysis was thus mainly a tool. Nevertheless, the seeds of a powerful SLA theory, covering a much wider domain, have been planted. Although Corder saw his objective as helping to make teaching methodology more effective, the long-term effects of error analysis were to take SLA research away from such clear pedagogical objectives. The important shift was, following Chomsky, away from a behaviouristic approach to learning towards a cognitive one. Pit Corder helped SLA research adopt the new paradigm; he encouraged the view that language learning is a cognitive affair involving the active formulation and internalizing of rules on the basis of exposure to the language and some kind of internal processing.

9.3 The morpheme order studies While not in a strict chronological sense, the next development in SLA theory was provoked by the morpheme order studies. Dulay and Burt (1975) claimed that fewer than 5% of errors were due to native language interference, and that errors were, as Corder suggested, in some sense systematic, that there was something akin to a Language Acquisition Device at work not just in first language acquisition, but also in SLA. The morpheme studies of Brown in L1 (1973) led to studies in L2 by Dulay and Burt (1973, 1974a, 1974b, 1975), and Bailey, Madden and Krashen (1974), all of which suggested that there was a natural order in the acquisition of English morphemes, regardless of L1. This became known as the L1 = L2 Hypothesis, and further studies (by Ravem (1974), Cazden, Cancino, Rosansky and Schumann (1975), Hakuta (1976), and

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Wode (1978), cited in Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991), all pointed to systematic staged development in SLA. Some of these studies, particularly those of Dulay and Burt, and of Bailey, Madden and Krashen, were soon challenged. Among the objections to the findings were: –

– – – –

The Bilingual Syntax Measure was claimed to have skewed results — it was suggested that any group of learners taking the test would have produced similar results. The category “non-Spanish” was too wide. Morphemes of different meanings were categorised together, e.g., the English article system. Accuracy orders do not necessarily reflect developmental sequences. The total picture of a learner’s use of a form was not taken into account. The type of data elicited was “forced”.

Long and Sato (1983) reviewed these problems, but Larsen Freeman and Long (1991) later added that since the original studies, over fifty L2 morpheme studies were carried out. Many of the later studies used more sophisticated data collection and analysis procedures (including an analysis of the subjects’ performance in supplying morphemes in non-obligatory, as well as obligatory, contexts), and the results of these studies went some way to restoring confidence in the earlier findings. (Larsen Freeman and Long, 1991: 91) 9.3.1 Discussion For all its faults, this research marked a decisive turning-point in the development of SLA theory, since it prompted researchers to look more carefully at learners’ staged development in the L2. We can see clearly the development and progression of this line of SLA research, which respects many of the points listed in the methodological part of the Guidelines: replication of studies, the formulation of hypotheses, the need for rigorous testing and for the public scrutiny and criticism of results. We can also see that not all researchers always lived up to these standards, and also that, as mentioned above, such was their enthusiasm for the new line of investigation that many researchers precipitously discarded the idea of language transfer. Furthermore, the morpheme studies left most questions unanswered: even if English morphemes are acquired in a predictable order, it does not mean that all acquisition takes place in a predictable order. This is still a very limited explanation, most of the phenomena listed in Chapter 1 are not explained, and

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as Gregg (1984) argues, the morpheme studies lacked any explanation of why this “natural order” should be systematically observed. There is no underlying theory informing the research, and it is not clear what the morpheme studies actually explain. The morpheme studies are thus not an explanation in the sense outlined in Section 5.3 and required by Assumption 4 of the Guidelines, and they also score badly on Points 4, 9 and 10 of the Guidelines. They are, nevertheless, a step forward.

9.4 Other early staged development studies The emerging cognitive paradigm of language learning perhaps received its full expression in Selinker’s (1972) paper which argues that the L2 learners have their own autonomous mental grammar (which came to be known, pace Selinker, as interlanguage (IL) grammar), a grammatical system with its own internal organising principles, which may or may not be related to the L1 and the L2. One of the first stages of this interlanguage to be identified was that for ESL questions. In a study of six Spanish students over a 10-month period, Cazden, Cancino, Rosansky and Schumann (1975) found that the subjects produced interrogative forms in a predictable sequence: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Rising intonation (e.g., “He works today?”), Uninverted WH (e.g., “What he (is) saying?”), “Overinversion” (e.g., “Do you know where is it?”), Differentiation (e.g., “Does she like where she lives?”).

A later example is in Larsen-Freeman and Long (1991: 94). They pointed to research which suggested that learners from a variety of different L1 backgrounds go through the same four stages in acquiring English negation: 1. 2. 3. 4.

External (e.g., No this one./No you playing here), Internal, pre-verbal (e.g., Juana no/don’t have job), Auxiliary + negative (e.g., I can’t play the guitar), Analysed don’t (e.g., She doesn’t drink alcohol.)

9.4.1 Discussion Attention is now being overtly focused on the phenomena of staged development and systematicity in L2 learning; the work is attempting to explain the process of SLA, and to suggest what mechanisms were involved. To the extent

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that such studies can be taken as support for the view that interlanguage development is at least in part explained by language universals, they can be seen as directly related to UG theory, but I would stress the distance between this type of analysis and that of Chomsky’s; it might be suggested that these developments in SLA theory, while inspired by Chomsky’s work in L1 acquisition, are almost incommensurate in the sense discussed in Section 2.6, although I would not go as far as that. Interlanguage is not seen in terms of principles and parameters, it is seen in a far more general way and is concerned, among other things, with the surface grammar, with processing, with skills acquisition. The distinction Chomsky makes between performance and competence is almost completely ignored, and a totally different use of the two terms is adopted. Mention must also be made of the agreement among researchers at this time that incompleteness was a widespread phenomenon: most L2 learners’ ultimate level of L2 attainment falls short of native-like competence. Here again, the difference between L1 acquisition and SLA, and the resultant differences in the appropriate approaches to research and explanation in the two fields is clear. Selinker and Lamendella (1978) suggested that both internal factors (e.g., age, lack of desire to acculturate) and external factors (e.g., communicative pressure, lack of input and opportunities to practice, lack of negative feedback) are at work, but the precise role these factors play and how they interact was not explained. Again, these studies do not measure up very well to Points 7, 8 and 10 of the Guidelines, but they are another push in the right direction, and to that extent can claim to comply with Point 9. The account in Section 9.2 as a whole is intended to illustrate my argument that progress has been made. We will see that problems of defining key terms and constructs (particularly the implicit/explicit, procedural/declarative, automatic/controlled dichotomies) are worked on (if not, alas, completely worked out) so that a stronger theory can emerge. One more example of this progress is the treatment of the question related to staged development, namely: how are the stages that L2 learners are said to go through separated? The dynamic nature of SLA means that differentiating between different stages is difficult, the stages overlap, and there are variations within stages as McLaughlin’s theory suggests (see Section 9.2.6). Developmental stages of acquisition of various structures have been studied, negation, questions, word order, embedded clauses and pronouns being the most important areas (see Braidi, 1999: 7 to 11 and 19 to 46) and Braidi indicates the increasingly successful attempts to agree on a precise definition of terms and of research methodology.

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At a more general level, there is the issue of what it means to say that a structure has been acquired by an L2 learner. In the L1 acquisition of morphemes, a structure was assumed to be acquired when it occurred three times in a row in an obligatory context at a rate of 90%. The problem with such a measurement is, first, how one defines an “obligatory” context, and second, that by only dealing with obligatory contexts, it fails to look at how the morphemes might occur in incorrect contexts. Pienemann (see Section 9.2.7) takes acquisition of a structure as the point at which it emerges in the interlanguage, its first “non-imitative use”. Statistical measures can also be used using an experimental group of L2 learners and a control group of native speakers. The performance of both groups are measured, and if the L2 group performance is not significantly different from the control group, then the L2 group can be said to have acquired the structure under examination. In line with the arguments put forward in Section 4.3, the adoption of a research methodology that gives prime place to the public criticism of papers which make the maximum attempt to use clearly-defined terms and operationally-defined variables, maximises the chances of progressing towards a more powerful, more explanatory theory.

9.5 Processing approaches: Introductory remarks In exploring SLA, many researchers have taken a processing approach which sees L2 learning as the process by which linguistic skills become automatic. Initial learning requires controlled processes, which require attention and time; with practice the linguistic skill requires less attention and becomes routinized, thus freeing up the controlled processes for application to new linguistic skills. The adoption of a common processing approach to SLA does not amount to the adoption of any paradigm (Point 6 of the Guidelines makes clear that none is needed), and indeed there are various statements of the problem of processing, and various proposals for its solution. While McLaughlin (1990) likens the SLA process to driving a car with a clutch (where the proficient driver no longer needs to think about how to use the clutch), Bialystok (1994, 2001) likens the L2 learner to a library user. Bialystok sees the L2 learner’s knowledge as a mental library — the contents of the learner’s linguistic knowledge. The knowledge can be structured to different degrees, and this represents different degrees of control over the knowledge. The learner’s ability to retrieve a book represents his access to the linguistic knowledge he has. The learner’s knowledge can be more or less analysed; according to Bialystok the information is the

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same, but the more it is analysed, the more the learner is aware of the structure of the information. Bialystok therefore seems to be arguing the opposite of McLaughlin: more conscious control is necessary to speed access and processing. To some extent the differences are due to the differences between the definition or use of different terms, and it is precisely the attempts to work out these ambiguities and contradictions that allows progress to be made. Another key element of the process approach is the argument that the L2 knowledge acquired is restructured during the process, a widely-accepted example being that there is a U-Shaped process of learning (see Section 9.2.6). Briefly, then, SLA is seen as a process by which attention-demanding controlled processes become more automatic through practice, a process that results in the restructuring of the existing mental representation. The adoption of such a framework gives focus and strength to the research: well-defined problems can be articulated, and other more powerful and daring solutions can be offered to the one that has been tentatively established. 9.5.1 McLaughlin: Automaticity and restructuring In an attempt to overcome the problems of finding operational definitions for concepts used to describe and explain the SLA process, McLaughlin argues (1990) that the distinction between conscious and unconscious should be abandoned in favour of clearly-defined empirical concepts. Lacking an adequate theory of mind that allows us to decide that particular mental states or operations are “conscious” or “unconscious,” one cannot falsify claims regarding consciousness in second language learning. (McLaughlin, 1990: 617)

McLaughlin substitutes the use of the conscious/unconscious dichotomy with the distinction between controlled and automatic processing. Controlled processing requires attention, and humans’ capacity for it is limited; automatic processing does not require attention, and takes up little or no processing capacity. The L2 learner begins the process of acquisition of a particular aspect of the L2 by relying heavily on controlled processing; through practice the learner’s use of that aspect of the L2 becomes automatic. McLaughlin uses the twin concepts of Automaticity and Restructuring to describe the cognitive processes involved in SLA. Automaticity occurs when an associative connection between a certain kind of input and some output pattern occurs. Many typical greetings exchanges illustrate this:

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Speaker 1: Morning. Speaker 2: Morning. How are you? Speaker 1: Fine, and you? Speaker 2: Fine. Since humans have a limited capacity for processing information, automatic routines free up more time for such processing. To process information one has to attend to, deal with, and organise new information. The more information that can be handled routinely, automatically, the more attentional resources are freed up for new information. Learning takes place by the transfer of information to long-term memory and is regulated by controlled processes which lay down the stepping stones for automatic processing. The second concept, restructuring, refers to qualitative changes in the learner’s interlanguage as they move from stage to stage, not to the simple addition of new structural elements. These restructuring changes are, according to McLaughlin, often reflected in “U-shaped behaviour”, which refers to three stages of linguistic use: – – –

Stage 1: correct utterance, Stage 2: deviant utterance, Stage 3: correct target-like usage.

In a study of French L1 speakers learning English, Lightbown (1983) found that, when acquiring the English “ing” form, her subjects passed through the three stages of U-shaped behaviour. Lightbown argued that as the learners, who initially were only presented with the present progressive, took on new information — the present simple — they had to adjust their ideas about the “ing” form. For a while they were confused and the use of “ing” became less frequent and less correct. 9.5.1.1Discussion The question of implicit and explicit knowledge, conscious and unconscious knowledge, acquisition and learning, is one that, in different ways, vexes many of those working on a theory of SLA. The problem is how to conceptualise this difference in such a way that the explanation it offers of the SLA process is noncircular. McLaughlin suggests that we need to get rid of those concepts which cannot be clearly defined in an empirically testable way. Whether or not McLaughlin is right to claim that the conscious–unconscious distinction is untestable depends, obviously, on how these two terms are defined, but in any case we may note yet again that a necessary condition for a theory is that it is testable.

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Stage 1

Correct utterances

Stage 3

Stage 2 Deviant utterances Time Accurate and appropriate use of -ing Stage 1 He is taking a cake.

Stage 3 He is taking a cake.

Stage 2 Incorrect use of -ing He take a cake. Time

Figure 11.U-shaped behavior. Adapted from Gass and Selinker, 1994.

And the inevitable question is raised of to what extent the terms “controlled processing” and “automatic processing” are empirically testable. Are they simply measured by the length of time necessary to perform a given task? This is a weak type of measure, and one that does little to solve the problem it raises. A second comment on McLaughlin’s account is that, as noted in Section 9.2.5, the “U-shaped” nature of staged development has been influential in successive attempts to explain interlanguage development. Finally, we may note that McLaughlin’s account of the process of SLA adopts the computer metaphor, which has become the most popular, widelyused nomenclature today. McLaughlin and Bialystok were among the first scholars to apply general cognitive psychological concepts of computer-based information-processing models to SLA research. Chomsky’s Minimalist Program confirms his commitment to the view that cognition consists in carrying out computations over mental representations. Those adopting a connectionist view, though taking a different view of the mind and how it works, also use the same metaphor. Indeed the basic notion of “input — processing — output” has become an almost unchallenged account of how we think about and react to the world around us. While in my opinion the metaphor can be extremely useful, it is worth making the obvious point that we are not computers. One may well sympathise with Foucault and others who warn us of the blinding power of such metaphors.

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9.5.2 Schmidt: Noticing Schmidt’s influential paper on the role of consciousness in second language learning argues that “subliminal language learning is impossible”, and that “noticing is the necessary and sufficient condition for converting input into intake” (Schmidt, 1990: 130). Schmidt, rather than accept McLaughlin’s advice to abandon the search for a definition of “consciousness” (see Section 9.2.6), attempts to do away with its “terminological vagueness” by examining three senses of the term: consciousness as awareness, consciousness as intention, and consciousness as knowledge. Consciousness and awareness are often equated, but Schmidt distinguishes between three levels: Perception, Noticing and Understanding. The second level, Noticing, is the key to Schmidt’s eventual hypothesis. Noticing is focal awareness. When reading, for example, we are normally aware of (notice) the content of what we are reading, rather than the syntactic peculiarities of the writer’s style, the style of type in which the text is set, music playing on a radio in the next room, or background noise outside a window. However, we still perceive these competing stimuli and may pay attention to them if we choose. (Schmidt, 1990: 132)

Noticing refers to a private experience, but it can be operationally defined as availability for verbal report, and When problems of memory and metalanguage can be avoided, verbal reports can be used to both verify and falsify claims concerning the role of noticing in cognition. (Schmidt, 1990: 132)

Consciousness as intention is used to distinguish between awareness and intentional behaviour. “He did it consciously”, in this second sense, means “He did it intentionally.” The third sense of the term — consciousness as knowledge — is the one that, as we have seen to some extent above, often causes problems in attempts to explain the SLA process. Schmidt cites White (1982) who argued that “experiential consciousness and knowledge are not at all the same thing”, and warned that the contrast between conscious and unconscious knowledge is conceptually unclear when different authors are compared, since the ambiguities are combined with those of knowledge, equally difficult in psychological terms. (Schmidt, 1990: 133)

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Schmidt comments: It is unfortunate that most discussion of the role of consciousness in language has focused on distinctions between conscious and unconscious knowledge, because the confusion warned against by White is apparent. (Schmidt, 1990: 133)

Schmidt suggests that the ambiguities of “conscious” and “unconscious” can be tackled by recognising that it refers not to a single question but to six different contrasts: 1. Unconscious learning refers to unawareness of having learned something. 2. Conscious learning refers to awareness at the level of noticing and unconscious learning to picking up stretches of speech without noticing them. Schmidt calls this the “subliminal” learning question: is it possible to learn aspects of a second language that are not consciously noticed? 3. Conscious learning refers to intention and effort. This is the incidental learning question: if noticing is required, must learners consciously pay attention? 4. Conscious learning is understanding principles of the language, and unconscious learning is the induction of such principles. This is the implicit learning question: can second language learners acquire rules without any conscious understanding of them? 5. Conscious learning is a deliberate plan involving study and other intentional learning strategies, unconscious learning is an unintended by-product of communicative interaction. 6. Conscious learning allows the learner to say what they appear to “know”. While, according to Schmidt, most of the literature has been concerned with the last two issues, Schmidt considers the issues of subliminal, incidental, and implicit learning more important. Addressing the issue of what he calls “subliminal” learning, Schmidt notes that although the concept of intake is crucial, there is no agreement on a definition of intake. While Krashen seems to equate intake with comprehensible input, Corder distinguishes between what is available for going in and what actually goes in. Schmidt notes that neither Krashen nor Corder addresses the fact that all the input used to comprehend a message is unlikely to function as intake for the learning of form. Schmidt also notes the distinction Slobin (1985), and Chaudron (1985) make between preliminary intake (the processes used to convert input into stored data that can later be used to construct language), and final intake (the processes used to organise stored data into linguistic systems).

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Schmidt proposes that intake be defined as that part of the input which the learner notices … whether the learner notices a form in linguistic input because he or she was deliberately attending to form, or purely inadvertently. If noticed, it becomes intake. (Schmidt, 1990: 139)

The only study mentioned by Schmidt in support of his hypothesis is by Schmidt and Frota (1986) which examined Schmidt’s own attempts to learn Portuguese, and found that his notes matched his output quite closely. Schmidt himself admits that the study does not show that noticing is sufficient for learning, or that noticing is necessary for intake. Nevertheless, Schmidt does not base himself on this study alone; there is, Schmidt claims, evidence from a wider source: Because of memory constraints, failure to report retrospectively that something has been noticed does not demonstrate that the event was not registered in conscious awareness at the time of the event. Therefore, the primary evidence for the claim that noticing is a necessary condition for storage comes from studies in which the focus of attention is experimentally controlled. The basic finding, that memory requires attention and awareness, was established at the very beginning of research within the information processing model. (Schmidt, 1990: 141)

Addressing the second issue, of incidental learning versus paying attention, Schmidt acknowledges that the claim that conscious attention is necessary for SLA runs counter to both Chomsky’s rejection of any role for conscious attention or choice in L1 learning, and the arguments made by Krashen, Pienemann and others for the existence of a natural order or a developmental sequence in SLA. Schmidt says that Chomsky’s arguments do not necessarily apply to SLA, and that natural orders and acquisition sequences do not pose a serious challenge to my claim of the importance of noticing in language learning, …they constrain but do not eliminate the possibility of a role for selective, voluntary attention. (Schmidt, 1990: 142)

Schmidt accepts that “language learners are not free to notice whatever they want” (Schmidt, 1990: 144), but, having discussed a number of factors that might influence noticing, such as expectations, frequency, perceptual salience, skill level, and task demands, and citing various studies, including the Schmidt and Frota study of his own attempts to learn Portuguese, concludes that those who notice most, learn most, and it may be that those who notice most are those who pay attention most. (Schmidt, 1990: 144)

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Nevertheless, Schmidt accepts that incidental learning is possible, and suggests that more studies be carried out to determine how, in task-based language teaching, task characteristics affect message comprehension. The third issue Schmidt examines is that of implicit learning versus learning based on understanding. How do second language learners generalise from instances and go on to form hypotheses about the L2? Does such learning depend on unconscious processes of induction and abstraction or does it depend on insight and understanding? While those such as White (1987, cited in Schmidt, 1990:145) who take a Chomskian approach to SLA argue that the process is unconscious, a number of cognitive psychologists cited by Schmidt argue that there is no learning without awareness. Schmidt judges the question of implicit second language learning to be the most difficult “because it cannot be separated from questions concerning the plausibility of linguistic theories” (Schmidt, 1990: 149). What Schmidt sees no reason to accept is the null hypothesis which claims that, as he puts it, “understanding is epiphenomenal to learning, or that most second language learning is implicit” (Schmidt, 1990: 149). 9.5.2.1Discussion Schmidt’s work indicates that further progress has been made in the development of a coherent theory: we are a long way now from Corder’s original hypothesis, and indeed from Krashen’s “acquisition/learning” dichotomy. Schmidt’s hypothesis manages to clear up a lot of confusion surrounding the use of terms used in psycholinguistics, and, furthermore, to improve one crucial part of a general processing theory of the development of interlanguage grammar. Not surprisingly perhaps, Schmidt’s hypothesis caused an immediate stir within the academic community and quickly became widely-accepted. Given this assessment, we would expect the hypothesis to conform well to the Guidelines, as in many ways it does, but there is a problem: Point 8 of the Guidelines (so often the “bogeyman”) insists that we take a closer look at Schmidt’s concept of noticing — what exactly does it refer to, and how can we be sure when it is, and is not being used by L2 learners? In his 1990 paper, Schmidt claims that noticing can be operationally defined as “the availability for verbal report”, “subject to various conditions”. He adds that these conditions are discussed at length in the verbal report literature, and cites Ericsson and Simon (1987, 1993), and Faerch and Kasper (1987), but he does not discuss the issue of operationalisation any further. Schmidt’s 2001 paper gives various sources of evidence of noticing:

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– –

–

–

–

Learner production. The problem here is how to identify what has been noticed. Learner reports in diaries. Schmidt cites Schmidt and Frota (1986), and Warden, Lapkin, Swain and Hart (1995). The problem here, as Schmidt himself points out, is that diaries span months, while cognitive processing of L2 input takes place in seconds. Furthermore, as Schmidt admits, making diaries requires not just noticing but reflexive self-awareness. Think-aloud protocols. Schmidt agrees with the objection made to such protocols that studies based on them cannot assume that the protocols include everything that is noticed. Schmidt cites Leow (1997), Jourdeais, Ota, Stauffer, Boyson, and Doughty (1995) who used think-aloud protocols in focus-on-form instruction, and Schmidt concludes that such experiments cannot identify all the examples of target features that were noticed. Learner reports in a CALL context (Chapelle, 1998) and programs that track the interface between user and program — recording mouse clicks and eye movements (Crosby 1998). Again, Schmidt concedes that it is still not possible to identify with any certainty what has been noticed. Merikle and Cheesman (1987) distinguish between the objective and subjective thresholds of perception. The clearest evidence that something has exceeded the subjective threshold and been consciously perceived or noticed is a concurrent verbal report, since nothing can be verbally reported other than the current contents of awareness. Schmidt argues that this is the best test of noticing, and that after the fact recall is also good evidence that something was noticed, providing that prior knowledge and guessing can be controlled. For example, if beginner level students of Spanish are presented with a series of Spanish utterances containing unfamiliar verb forms, are forced to recall immediately afterwards the forms that occurred in each utterance, and can do so, that is good evidence that they did notice them. On the other hand, it is not safe to assume that failure to do so means that they did not notice. It seems that it is easier to confirm that a particular form has not been noticed than that it has: failure to achieve above-chance performance in a forced-choice recognition test is a much better indication that the subjective threshold has not been exceeded and that noticing did not take place.

Schmidt goes on to claim that the noticing hypothesis could be falsified by demonstrating the existence of subliminal learning either by showing positive priming of unattended and unnoticed novel stimuli or by showing learning in

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dual task studies in which central processing capacity is exhausted by the primary task. The problem in this case is that in positive priming studies one can never really be sure that subjects did not allocate any attention to what they could not later report, and similarly, in dual task experiments one cannot be sure that no attention is devoted to the secondary task. Jacoby, Lindsay, and Toth (1992, cited in Schmidt, 2001: 28) argue that the way to demonstrate true non-attentional learning is to use the logic of opposition, to arrange experiments where unconscious processes oppose the aims of conscious processes. In conclusion, it seems that Schmidt’s noticing hypothesis rests on a construct that still has difficulty measuring up to Point 8 of the Guidelines; it is by no means easy to properly identify when noticing has and has not occurred. Despite this limitation, however, Schmidt’s hypothesis is still a good example of the type of approach recommended in the Guidelines: all the Assumptions are fully adhered to, and only Point 8 provides a problem. Its strongest virtues are its rigour and its fruitfulness, in the sense used in Point 9 of the Guidelines. Schmidt argues that attention as a psychological construct refers to a variety of mechanisms or subsystems (including alertness, orientation, detection within selective attention, facilitation, and inhibition) which control information processing and behaviour when existing skills and routines are inadequate. Hence, learning in the sense of establishing new or modified knowledge, memory, skills and routines is “largely, perhaps exclusively a side effect of attended processing”. (Schmidt, 2001: 25). This is a daring and surprising claim, with similar predictive ability, and it contradicts Krashen’s claim that conscious learning is of extremely limited use. It is also noteworthy that the hypothesis is supported by a lone study, cowritten by Schmidt himself, about Schmidt’s own learning of Portuguese. What kind of evidence is that? one might ask. In fact, as Schmidt admits, it is slender evidence, and provides no support whatsoever for part of the claim. But more studies can be carried out, Schmidt’s construct of noticing is operational, at least to some extent, and, as I have said, the hypothesis makes strong, indeed, daring, predictions which can be tested. The strength and force of the hypothesis come from insight, and from the effort that Schmidt has made to literally come to terms with the knotty problems of consciousness and awareness. Such a paper is surely worth a thousand field studies where data are gathered for no very obvious purpose.

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9.5.3 Long’s Interaction Hypothesis Long’s hypothesis has matured and its current form has benefited from Schmidt’s definition of, and claims for, noticing, discussed in the previous section. Long (1983c), critical of Krashen’s Input Hypothesis, dissatisfied with much of the descriptive research into the kind of input that L2 learners were exposed to, and looking for a more rigorous formulation of the idea of comprehensible input, suggested that linguistic and conversational adjustments between native speakers (NS) and non-native speakers (NNS) promoted comprehension of input, and that comprehensible input promoted acquisition. Long’s research (1980, 1981, 1983a, 1983b) involved studying sixteen NS-NS, and sixteen NS-NNS pairs, and showed that the NS-NNS pairs were much more likely to use a variety of strategies or functions in order to try and solve ongoing problems of communication during the conversations. Specifically, Long says that the NS-NNS pairs used repetition, confirmation checks, comprehension checks, and clarification requests. The prime trigger for these tactics is the perception that the interlocutor is having difficulty with comprehension, and Long suggests that in the ongoing negotiation of meaning the NS-NNS partnership is making sure that the NNS is getting comprehensible input. Modification of the interactional structure of conversation … is a better candidate for a necessary (not sufficient) condition for acquisition. The role it plays in negotiation for meaning helps to make input comprehensible while still containing unknown linguistic elements, and, hence, potential intake for acquisition. (Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 134)

This hypothesis has very clear implications for classroom-based SLA and, not surprisingly, the classroom environment is where it has been most tested. In a more general review of research into linguistic and conversational adjustments to non-native speakers, Larsen-Freeman and Long (1991, 128–139) suggested that five questions emerge: 1. What is the effect of deviant input on SLA? Do second language learners who are exposed only or predominantly to ungrammatical foreigner talk acquire a marked, substandard variety of the target language? 2. What is the role of conversation in developing syntax? Hatch suggests that to suppose that second language learners acquire syntactic structures which they then put to use in conversation is putting the cart before the horse: “language learning evolves out of learning how to carry on conversations” (Hatch 1978, cited in Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991:130). Larsen-Freeman

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and Long comment that, as in the first question, little research has been done to answer this question, but related studies (e.g., Fourcin 1975, cited in Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 132) show that conversation is not necessary for success. 3. Does input frequency affect acquisition sequence? Studies by Long (1980, 1981) support an input frequency/accuracy order relationship, but the late acquisition of articles (the most frequent item in (ESL) input), for example, makes it clear that frequency is not the only factor involved, and no study has demonstrated any causal relationship. 4. Does input modification enhance second language comprehension? The answer seems to be “yes”, but with the usual caveat that more research is needed to identify which types of modification are most beneficial. 5. What is the relationship between comprehension and SLA? Is Krashen’s Input Hypothesis correct? This final question is obviously answered negatively by the Interaction Hypothesis, just as we would expect the answer to Question 4 to be positive. Long’s Interaction Hypothesis argues that the negotiation of meaning causes L2 learners who are essentially concerned with meaning rather than form to pay attention to the form in order to understand the message. Long re-defined the Interaction Hypothesis in 1996, in order to give more importance to the individual cognitive processing aspect of SLA, and in particular to noticing and the role of negative feedback. The newly-defined Interaction Hypothesis states that: Environmental contributions to acquisition are mediated by selective attention and the learner’s developing L2 processing capacity, and that these resources are brought together most usefully, although not exclusively, during negotiation for meaning. Negative feedback obtained during negotiation work or elsewhere may be facilitative of L2 development, at least for vocabulary, morphology, and language-specific syntax, and essential for learning certain specifiable L1-L2 contrasts. (Long, 1996: 417)

9.5.3.1Discussion There is more evidence here of theory progression, of how an originally wellformulated hypothesis is upgraded in the light of criticism and developments in the field. The commitment to classroom-based research is evident, and there are obvious implications here for second language teaching. Two of the important implications of Long’s hypothesis are that a task-based approach to classroom

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teaching is the most efficient, and that tasks can be selected and manipulated so as maximise the opportunities for learners to turn input into intake. These implications have been tested in a number of classroom-based studies (see Doughty and Williams, 1998) and indeed the Interaction Hypothesis has led to growing support for a task-based approach to classroom-based teaching where opportunities for the “negotiation of meaning” in Long’s sense, and for “noticing” in Schmidt’s sense are created. To that extent the Interaction Hypothesis may be termed “fruitful” in the same way as Schmidt’s hypothesis was deemed to be, and thus in conformity with Point 9 of the Guidelines. While the hypothesis is generally in keeping with the Guidelines, it occupies a limited domain and leaves untouched most of the questions relating to the SLA process. 9.5.4 Pienemann’s Processability Theory This model started out as the Multidimensional Model, which came from work done by the ZISA group mainly at the University of Hamburg in the late seventies. A full account can be found in Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 270–287. I will describe the original model as briefly as possible. One of the first findings of the group was that all the children and adult learners of German as a second language in the study adhered to the five-stage developmental sequence shown in Figure 10. Learners did not abandon one interlanguage rule for the next as they progressed; they added new ones while retaining the old, and thus the presence of one rule implies the presence of earlier rules. The explanation offered for this developmental sequence was that each stage reflects the learner’s use of three “speech-processing strategies” (Clahsen 1987). Clahsen and Pienemann argue that processing is “constrained” by the strategies available to the learner at any one time, and development consists of the gradual removal of these constraints, or the “shedding of the strategies”, which allows the processing of progressively more complex structures. The strategies are: i. The Canonical Order Strategy. The construction of sentences at Stage X obeys simple canonical order that is generally assumed to be “actor – action – acted upon.” This is a pre-linguistic phase of acquisition where learners build sentences according to meaning, not on the basis of any grammatical knowledge. ii. The Initialisation-Finalisation Strategy. Stage X+1 occurs when learners notice discrepancies between their rule and input. But the areas of input where

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Stage X — Canonical order (SVO) die kinder spielen mim ball the children play with the ball (Romance learners’ initial SVO hypothesis for GSL WO is correct in most German sentences with simple verbs.) Stage X + I- Adverb preposing (ADV) da kinder spielen there children play (Since German has a verb-second rule, requiring subject–verb inversion following a preposed adverb {there play children}, all sentences of this form are deviant. The verbsecond (or ‘inversion’) rule is only acquired at stage X + 3, however. The adverbpreposing rule itself is optional.) Stage X + 2- Verb separation (SEP) alle kinder muss die pause machen all children must the break have (Verb separation is obligatory in standard German.) Stage X+3- Inversion (INV) dann hat sie wieder die knoch gebringt then has she again the bone brought (Subject and inflected verb forms must be inverted after preposing of elements.) Stage X+4- Verb-end (V-END) er sagte, dass er nach hause kommt he said that he home comes (In subordinate clauses, the Finite verb moves to final position.) Figure 10.Developmental Sequence for GSL Word Order Rules (based on Pienemann 1987). From Larsen-Freeman and Long, 1991: 271.

discrepancies are noticed are constrained by perceptual saliency — it is easier to notice differences at the beginnings or the ends of sentences since these are more salient, according to the model, than the middle of sentences. As a result, elements at the initial and final positions may be moved around, while leaving the canonical order undisturbed. Stage X+2 also involves this strategy, but verb separation is considered more difficult than adverb fronting because the former requires not just movement to the end position but also disruption of a continuous constituent, the verb + particle, infinitive, or particle. Thus the strategy of continuity of elements within the same constituent must be shed before verb separation can be acquired. Stage X+3 is even more complex, since

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it involves both disruption and movement of an internal element to a nonsalient position, and so requires the learner to abandon salience and recognise different grammatical categories. iii. The Subordinate Clause Strategy. This is used in Stage X+4 and is held to require the most advanced processing skills because the learner has to produce a hierarchical structure, which involves identifying sub-strings within a string and moving elements out of those sub-strings into other positions. The prediction is that L2 learners will assume that German subordinate clauses have the same word order properties as main clauses until advanced stages of acquisition. These constraints on interlanguage development are argued to be universal; they include all developmental stages, not just word order, and they apply to all second languages, not just German. Apart from the developmental process, the ZISA model also proposed a variational dimension to SLA, and hence the name “Multidimensional”. While the developmental sequence of SLA is fixed by universal processing restraints, individual learners follow different routes in SLA, depending primarily on whether they adopt a predominantly “standard” orientation, favouring accuracy, or a predominantly “simplifying” one, favouring communicative effectiveness. Pienemann (1998) expands the Multidemensional Model into a Processability Theory which predicts which grammatical structures an L2 learner can process at a given level of development. This capacity to predict which formal hypotheses are processable at which point in development provides the basis for a uniform explanatory framework which can account for a diverse range of phenomena related to language development. (Pienemann, 1998: xv)

The theory sees SLA as “the acquisition of the skills needed for the processing of language”. (Pienemann, 1998: 39), and attempts to demonstrate the same case that most cognitive perspectives state: what is easy to process is easy to acquire. Pienemann is concerned to account for the route described by the Multidimensional Model in the development of Interlanguage grammar, to determine the sequence in which procedural skills develop. His theory proposes that for linguistic hypotheses to transform into executable procedural knowledge the processor needs to have the capacity of processing those hypotheses. (Pienemann, 1998: 4)

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Pienemann, in other words, argues that there will be certain linguistic hypotheses that, at a particular stage of development, the L2 learner cannot access because he does not have the necessary processing resources available. Pienemann claims that his concern is to explain the production of, and access to, linguistic knowledge; he insists that he is not attempting to describe that knowledge or to explain its origins — like McLaughlin, Pienemann adopts “a modular approach to the theory of SLA in which a linguistic theory and processing theory take on complementary roles” (Pienemann, 1998: 42). The processing resources that have to be acquired by the L2 learner will, according to Processability Theory, be acquired in the following sequence: 1. lemma access, 2. the category procedure, 3. the phrasal procedure 4. the S-procedure, 5. the subordinate clause procedure — if applicable. (Pienemann, 1998: 7)

The theory states that each procedure is a necessary prerequisite for the following procedure, and that the hierarchy will be cut off in the learner grammar at the point of the missing processing procedures and the rest of the hierarchy will be replaced by a direct mapping of conceptual structures onto surface form. (Pienemann, 1998: 7)

The SLA process can therefore be seen as one in which the L2 learner entertains hypotheses about the L2 grammar and that this “hypothesis space” is determined by the processability hierarchy. As Braidi puts it: Each developmental stage represents a hypothesis space in which certain structural hypotheses are possible because they are processable. As a result, the hypothesis space defines which IL grammars are options but does not determine which ones will be chosen. Pienemann has thus incorporated the developmental focus of the Multidimensional Model and has extended the application of the earlier model to grammatical information exchange beyond word order phenomena. He has formulated the Processability Theory as a component in L2 acquisition that is complementary to a linguistic theory (such as Lexical Functional Grammar), which would in turn address the issues of the nature and origins of the learner’s IL grammatical rules. (Braidi, 1999: 126)

For a discussion of Pienemann’s theory, see the peer commentaries in the first issue of the journal Bilingualism: Language and Cognition (vol. 1, number 1, 1998), which is entirely devoted to Processability Theory.

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9.5.4.1Discussion The Processability Theory is a good example of a cognitive approach to SLA, where the focus is on the learning process; the cognitivists are interested in the construction of L2 grammars and in performance: how do learners access linguistic knowledge in real time, and how do they cope with their deficiencies? In this account the mechanism is an information processing device, which is constrained by limitations in its ability to process input. The device adds new rules while retaining the old ones, and as the limiting “speech-processing strategies” that constrain processing are removed, this allows the processing of progressively more complex structures. The Processability Theory also addresses several problems that were encountered with the Multidimensional Model. In the earlier version, falsifiability of some aspects of the model was difficult. Morphemes seemed to contradict the predicted stages of development in the model, and the theory was saved by calling these morphemes “chunked morphemes” each time they appeared. This is an ad hoc measure which damaged the theory. In the same way, if a grammatical item was learned by a student whose current stage of development predicted that it was not learnable, then the theory was saved by calling this item a variational feature (i.e. the distinction between grammatical items which are bound by processing restraints and those that can be acquired at any stage is not clearly defined). By extending the scope of the model to include grammatical forms, Pienemann has to some extent answered these criticisms. Ellis (1994) discusses a problem already alluded to in Section 9.2.4, that of the operational definition of “acquisition”. Whereas the original research by the ZISA group quantified all the features examined by 85% production in obligatory contexts, Pienemann re-defined acquisition in terms of “onset”, i.e., the first appearance of a grammatical feature. Many (e.g., Larsen-Freeman and Long: 1991) consider this “onset” definition essential in order to explain the process of SLA, but there is still the problem of defining “onset” and of deciding what is evidence for the operation of a predicted processing strategy. The problem of operational definitions, and in general of defining the concepts used in a theory, is at the heart of the research methodology proposed in the Guidelines. While, as the discussion in Section 4.3.3 argues, there is no easy litmus test that can decide the issue, it behoves those working in the field to do their utmost to define terms in a non-ambiguous way, and in a way that allows empirical tests to be carried out. As for empirical adequacy, the Processability Theory suggests that transfer is not important, and while, as we have seen, some studies support this suggestion,

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there are other cases where differences between different L1 speakers learning an L2 seem to challenge the theory. For example, Towell and Hawkins (1994: 51) cite Hulk’s 1991 study of L1 Dutch speakers acquiring French, where in the earliest stages the learners adopted Germanic word order not the Canonical word order suggested by the Multidimensional Model. Selinker, Swain and Dumas (1975) showed that French L1 speakers learning English have persistent problems with the post-verbal placement of adverbs in sentences such as “Mary eats often oysters”, which is against the canonical order, and violates “continuity”. White (1989) who observed differences between L1 English speakers acquiring French and L1 French speakers acquiring English in their ability to acquire frequency adverbs found similar results. More fundamentally problematic for the theory is that it is assumed to be self-evident that our cognition works in the way the model suggests. We are told that people see things in a canonical order of “actor – action – acted upon”, that people prefer continuous to discontinuous entities, that the beginnings and ends of sentences are more salient than the middles of sentences and so on, without being offered any justification for such a view, beyond the general assumption of what is easy and difficult to process. As Towell and Hawkins say of the Multidimensional Model: They require us to take on faith assumptions about the nature of perception. The perceptual constructs are essentially mysterious, and what is more, any number of new ones may be invented in an unconstrained way. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 50)

This criticism still applies to Pienemann’s 1998 account of Processability Theory. It is not such a damning criticism as it might appear in fact — whatever new assumptions “may be invented” can be dealt with if and when they appear. As Pienemann makes clear, the assumptions he makes are common to most cognitive models, and most importantly they result in making predictions that are highly falsifiable. The two main strengths of this theory can be immediately appreciated: first, it provides not just a description, but an explanation of interlanguage development, and second, it is testable. The explanation is taken from experimental psycholinguistics, not from the data, and is thus able to make wide, strong predictions, and to apply to all future data. The predictions the theory makes are widely-applicable and, to some extent, testable: if we can find an L2 learner who has skipped a stage in the developmental sequence, then we will have found empirical evidence that challenges the theory. Since the theory also

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claims that the constraints on processability are not affected by context, even classroom instruction should not be able to change or reduce these stages. Pienemann’s Teachability Hypothesis, first proposed in 1984, predicts that items can only be successfully taught when learners are at the right stage of interlanguage development to learn them. In summary, then, the Processability Theory’s weaknesses are on Points 4, 8, and 9 of the Guidelines. The explanation is not complete: it makes some innocuous but unfounded assumptions, and has little to say about transfer. It clashes with some empirical evidence, and the question of exactly what constitutes the acquisition of each level is not entirely resolved. Finally, the domain is limited; the theory restricts itself to an account of processing that accounts for speech production, and while it suggests that a certain type of linguistic theory should complement it, it does not go into the details. These are significant issues, but they do not detract from the theory’s considerable strengths: it is well-argued, it has high empirical content, it makes daring predictions, it has clear and wide-ranging teaching implications, it is broad in scope, it encourages and facilitates more research, it can be seen as “progressive” in Lakatos’ terminology — it is extending its domain, refining its concepts, making the variables more operational, attracting more research.

9.6 Towell and Hawkins’ Model of SLA Towell and Hawkins (1994) use both UG and general cognitive learning theory to explain SLA, and their model brings together many of the strands we have examined so far in the development of a psycholinguistic theory of SLA. Towell and Hawkins argue that the “logical and developmental” problems of SLA are best explained by an appeal to UG. The “logical” problem is that of the poverty of the stimulus (already examined above), and Towell and Hawkins claim that access to UG in L2 explains it; UG constrains hypotheses about the L2. The model thus begins with UG, which sets the framework within which linguistic forms in the L1 and L2 are related. According to Towell and Hawkins, learners of an L2 after the age of seven years old have different access to UG, and the learning of their L1 changes their understanding of what language is. Essentially, Towell and Hawkins argue that while L2 learners have access to UG principles, they will transfer parameter settings from their L1, and where such settings conflict with L2 data, they may construct rules to mimic the surface properties of the L2. The second internal source is thus the first language.

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Learners may transfer (t) a parameter setting, or UG may make possible a kind of mimicking (m). This process is presented in Figure 12. UNIVERSAL GRAMMAR (t)

(m)

THE FIRST LANGUAGE

INTERNALLY DERIVED HYPOTHESES

Figure 12.The Place of UG. From Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 247.

The straight line from UG through L1 to the internally derived hypotheses suggests direct transfer, and the dashed line the potential mimicking of L2 rules. The (m) from UG to Internally derived Hypotheses follows the argument (Tsimpli and Roussou (1991) and Tsimpli and Smith (1991) that L2 learners restructure their grammars but misanalyse L2 data so that it conforms with L1 settings. The construction of mental grammars of L1 and L2 is constrained by UG but open parameter values are only available for a limited period. (see Johnson and Newport 1989). After the initial period what is available to L2 learners are the principles and the particular parameter settings of the L1. This leads to transfer in the initial stages of L2 learning. More exposure to L2 may give the learner data in conflict with the L1 parameter settings (e.g. null subjects for English learners of Spanish), in which case the learner will try to analyse the input so that it conforms to the L1 parameter setting. Hence the L2 learner restructures his or her Interlanguage, but it is not the same as the native speaker’s grammatical representation. Towell and Hawkins cite the Tsimpli and Rossou (1991) study of Greek learners of English which argued that the learners misanalysed the pronouns I, you, he, etc., as “agreement prefixes” as “I-like, you-like, he like(s), etc.” Other aspects of their behaviour were said to indicate that the learners were still using a pro-drop representation: advanced learners said “Seems Mary is happy” not “It seems (that) Mary is happy”, for example.

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The adoption of the “partial access to UG” hypothesis leads Towell and Hawkins to also adopt a modified version of Schwartz’s suggestion (1993) that there are two different sorts of knowledge which underlie the hypothesis creation and revision typical of interlanguage development: … linguistic competence (derived from UG and L1 transfer and triggered by positive evidence), and learned linguistic knowledge (derived from explicit instruction and negative feedback). (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 201)

While Schwartz argues that these two types of knowledge remain separate, Towell and Hawkins argue that “the two will be combined in some of the productions necessary for language processing” (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 210). To explain the way in which internal hypotheses about the L2 react with external evidence, or input, when simple triggering of parameters does not happen, Towell and Hawkins take Levelt’s model of language production (1989) to define declarative and procedural knowledge, the essential difference being that procedural knowledge is automatic. Mature speakers of L1 have a conceptualiser to construct the message and do not have to worry about syntax which is done by the formulator. Both are parts of procedural knowledge. The lexicon, pragmatic knowledge and world knowledge are seen as declarative knowledge. Towell and Hawkins proceed to use Anderson’s ACT (Adaptive Control of Thought) model (1983) to complete their own account of SLA. Anderson’s model proposes three types of memory which interact with each other, including two long-term memories: declarative memory and production memory. This, Towell and Hawkins argue, allows Anderson to explain how a. over time and with practice the same knowledge can be stored differently so as to be more quickly accessed b. the process of storing declarative and procedural knowledge is different, the first usually being faster than the second a. stored knowledge can be quickly accessed despite its complexity b. conflict between competing possibilities can be resolved. Anderson claims that all skills acquisition goes through three stages, as knowledge moves from declarative to procedural memory. 1. The cognitive stage: A description of the procedure is learned. 2. The associative stage: A method for performing the skill is worked out. 3. The autonomous stage: The skill becomes more and more rapid and autonomous. (Anderson, 1985, cited in Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 254)

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In summary, Towell and Hawkins claim that a combination of partial access to UG and general information mechanisms explains the SLA process. Interlanguage development is the creation and revision of internal hypotheses, and the way in which these hypotheses are turned into usable mechanisms depends on data and information processing mechanisms. The information processing mechanisms condition the way in which input provides data for hypotheses, the way in which hypotheses must be turned into productions for fluent use, and the final output of productions. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 248)

The full model is presented in Figure 13. Input and output pass through short-term memory, which determines the information available to long-term memories, and is used to pass information between the two types of long-term memory proposed: the declarative memory and the procedural memory. Short-term memory consists in that set of nodes activated in memory at the same time and allows certain operations to be performed on relatively small amounts of information for a given time. The processes are either controlled (the subject is required to pay attention to the process while it is happening), or automatic. Automatic processes are inflexible and take a long time to set up. Once processes have been automatised the limited capacity can be used for new tasks. All knowledge initially goes into declarative memory; the internally derived hypotheses offer substantive suggestions for the core of linguistic knowledge and those parameters common to both L1 and L2. The other areas of language are worked out by the interaction of data with the internally derived hypotheses. The model suggests four learning routes: Route one: confirmation by external data of an internal hypothesis leading to the creation of a production to be stored in procedural memory first in associative form (i.e. under attentional control) and then in autonomous form for rapid use via the short term memory. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 250) Route two: initial storage of a form–function pair in declarative memory as an unanalysed whole. If it cannot be analysed by the learner’s grammar but can be remembered for use in a given context, it may be shifted to procedural memory at the associative level. It may be re-called into declarative knowledge where it may be re-examined, and if it is now analysable, it may be converted to another level of

Signs of progress

UNIVERSAL GRAMMAR t

m

THE FIRST LANGUAGE t INTERNALLY DERIVED HYPOTHESES

DECLARATIVE LONG-TERM MEMORY (CONTROLLED) Time 1 Time 2 EXPLICIT RULES FORMULAS

SHORT-TERM MEMORY

Time 2a

REOGANISED MENTAL REPRESENTATIONS

SHORT-TERM MEMORY

Time 3 REORGANISED MENTAL REPRESENTAIONS

SHORT-TERM MEMORY

OUTPUT (LEARNER INTERLANGUAGE)

PROCEDURAL LONG-TERM MEMORY (AUTOMATIC) Ass. Aut. Time 1ª

INPUT (AUTHENTIC DATA) (CLASSROOM DATA)

Figure 13.A model of SLA. From Towell and Hawkins (1994: 249).

mental organisation before being passed back to the procedural level. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 250–251) Route three concerns explicit rules, like verb paradigms, vocabulary lists, lists of prepositions. This knowledge can only be recalled in the form in which it was learned, and can be used to revise and correct output. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 251)

231

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Route four concerns strategies, which facilitate the proceduralisation of mechanisms for faster processing of input and greater fluency. These strategies do not interact with internal hypotheses. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 251) Hypotheses derived from UG either directly or via L1 are available as declarative knowledge, i.e. hypotheses which are tested via controlled processing where learners pay attention to what they are receiving and producing. If the hypotheses are confirmed, Towell and Hawkins say they “can be quickly launched on the staged progression described by Anderson (1983, 1985).” 9.6.1 Discussion This model is the culmination of Towell and Hawkins’ book on approaches to SLA, and is an attempt to explain the five core phenomena they identify at the start of their enquiry, already listed here in Chapter One. UG is very important to the model; it is the biggest factor in explaining transfer, staged development and cross-learner systematicity. The UG prevents the learner from entertaining “wild” hypotheses about the L2, and allows the learner to “learn” a series of structures by perceiving that a certain relationship between the L1 and L2 exists. Towell and Hawkins’ “partial access” view of UG and SLA is reflected in their belief that there is a lack of positive evidence available to L2 learners to enable them to reset the parameters already set in the L1, and that “the older you are at first exposure to an L2, the more incomplete your grammar will be”. The belief in the effect of age is based on the well-known Johnson and Newport (1989) study of 46 Chinese L1 and Korean L1 speakers which found a strong correlation between age of arrival in the USA and their knowledge of aspects of English grammar. Those who arrived between the age of 3 and 7 years old performed like native speakers, and from age 7 to 39 there was a gradually increasing gap between their intuitions of native speakers and the L2 speakers. Since all of the subjects had had at least 5 years exposure to English, the conclusion is that the critical factor determining whether an L2 learner will attain native-like intuitions is age of initial exposure to the L2. While they reject the view that all parameters are unresettable for all time, Towell and Hawkins think that parameters are highly resistant to resetting, and that this resistance increases with age. This, of course, explains incompleteness. Variability is explained by different learners having different abilities to construct and test hypotheses, different abilities to turn declarative knowledge into procedural knowledge, and

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different abilities to compensate for the inadequacies of their current interlanguage system. How does the model stand up to the Guidelines? The epistemological Assumptions of the Guidelines (Points 1 to 6) are completely satisfied; this is a rationalist, realist theory making an attempt to treat complex mental phenomena in a way that assumes their existence and that the examination of data can serve as confirming or refuting evidence. In terms of the criteria for evaluating theories (Points 7 to 11), the Towell and Hawkins model also does quite well, there is an obvious attempt to carefully define the concepts employed and to make the model testable, although so far there is no significant body of research to help us evaluate its empirical adequacy. The combination of UG and more general information processing makes this a powerful theory which covers a wide domain. The incorporation of three different theories — those of Chomsky, Levelt, and Anderson — can be seen as an attempt to move towards a broader, more powerful, general theory of SLA, which is precisely what Point 6 suggests is the final aim of theory construction. By incorporating UG into the theory, Hawkins and Towell have attempted to provide an integrated theory, while others like Pienemann (see Section 9.2.9) and McLaughlin (see Section 9.2.6) prefer to see linguistic theory as a separate module. On the other hand, the model is not yet fully developed or tested. While access to UG is used to explain some linguistic knowledge, and while the module attempts to integrate linguistic theory with a theory of the processes of L2 learning and production, there is no attempt to describe the other knowledge acquired. Furthermore, the distinction between declarative and procedural knowledge, which is taken from Levelt (1989) and Anderson (1983) leaves unanswered the question of the nature of the storage of information in declarative and procedural forms. A third unresolved question is how the externallyprovided data interact with the internally-derived hypotheses. More generally, this is a very complex model which does not comply well with Point 11 — Occam’s Razor. There is a profusion of terms and entities postulated by the theory — principles and parameters, declarative memory and production memory, procedural and declarative knowledge, associative and automatic procedural knowledge, linguistic competence and linguistic knowledge, mimicking, the use of a language module, a conceptualiser, and a formulator — which means that only with time and the accumulation of research results will a proper evaluation be possible. Pienemann (1998) concludes that

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their model is, at this stage merely a sketch, the mechanics of which needs to be worked out before one can decide on its internal coherence and its capacity to produce empirically testable predictions. (Pienemann, 1998: 42)

There is also the central issue of to what extent the process of SLA can be seen as the conversion of declarative into procedural knowledge. Towell and Hawkins adopt their own version of the “controlled to automatic”, “explicit to implicit”, “declarative to procedural” process, with the peculiarity that in their model, all knowledge goes initially into declarative memory and eventually makes its way into one of two types of procedural memory. As we saw earlier in this chapter, McLaughlin (see Section 9.2.6) takes the same general view as Towell and Hawkins, and Schmidt (see Section 9.2.7) insists on the importance of attention as a first step, but Bialystok (1991, 2001) takes the opposite view — the acquisition of linguistic skills in her account moves from implicit to explicit. While those who take the controlled to automatic view might seem to have immediate plausibility — that is the way we would intuitively expect the process to go — we should have learned by now that intuitive plausibility is not a trustworthy criterion for theory assessment. Pienemann comments: Fifteen years later, Anderson appears to have revised his position. He states “With very little and often no deliberate instruction, children by the time they reach age 10 have accomplished implicitly what generations of Ph.D. linguists have not accomplished explicitly. They have internalised all the major rules of a language. (Anderson, 1995, 364). In other words, Anderson no longer sees language acquisition as an instance of the conversion of declarative into procedural knowledge. (Pienemann, 1998: 40)

Pienemann adds: In addition, it is well-documented that procedural knowledge does not have to progress through a declarative phase. In fact, human participants in experiments on non-conscious learning were not only unaware of the rules they applied, they were not even aware that they had acquired any knowledge. (Pienemann, 1998: 41)

In conclusion, the Towell and Hawkins model is promising, and it suggests many areas of fruitful ongoing research. It is broad in scope, indeed, it is one of the most complete models of the SLA process we have seen, but, on the other hand, it is very complex, the mechanisms it employs have not been properly tested, it has yet to prove itself.

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9.7 The Competition Model Bates and MacWhinney’s Competition Model, first outlined in 1982, challenges the two fundamental bases on which most of the theories discussed so far in this chapter rest: innateness, and a formalist approach to language. In contrast to Chomsky’s Principles and Parameters model, the Competition Model sees language learning as non-modular and non-specific, i.e. it results from the same kinds of cognitive mechanisms as those involved in other kinds of learning. Also in contrast to Chomsky, Bates and MacWhinney do not separate the linguistic form of language from its function; they argue that the two are inseparable. As a result of their rejection of both innateness and formalism, the third difference between the Competition Model and Chomsky’s theory of UG is that while Chomsky offers a theory of competence, Bates and MacWhinney offer a theory of performance. The Competition Model is concerned with how language is used, and while it is certainly true that this is also the main interest for other psycholinguistic approaches to SLA, including those discussed earlier, the difference is that instead of adopting the formalist approach to language as a given, the Competition Model, by adopting a particular version of the functional approach to linguistics, considers language to be constructed through use. MacWhinney (1997: 114) explains that the Competition Model makes a commitment to four major theoretical issues. These are: i. Lexical Functionalism. Functionalism claims that the forms of language are determined by the communicative functions they perform; language is a set of mappings between forms and functions. Forms are the external phonological and word order patterns that are used in words and syntactic constructions. Functions are the communicative intentions or meanings that underlie language usage. (MacWhinney, 1997: 115)

ii. Connectionism. The Competition Model uses connectionist models to model the interactions between lexical mappings. Connectionism rejects the assumption made by nativists that the brain is a symbol processing device similar to a digital computer, and argues that the brain relies on a type of computation that emphasises patterns of connectivity and activation. MacWhinney, in keeping with the empiricist approach he adopts, uses evidence from studies in the field of cognitive neuroscience to help build his model. The human brain is basically a huge collection of neurons. These neurons are connected through axons. When a neuron fires, it passes activation or inhibition along these axons and across synapses to all the other neurons with which

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it is connected. This passing of information occurs in an all-or-none fashion. There is no method for passing symbols down axons and across synapses. Brain waves cannot be used to transmit abstract objects such as phrase structures. Rather, it appears that the brain relies on a type of computation that emphasises patterns of connectivity and activation. Models based on this type of computation are called ‘connectionist’ models… A fundamental feature of these models is that they view mental processing in terms of interaction and connection, rather than strict modularity and separation. Although connectionist models often postulate some types of modules, they tend to view these modules as emergent and permeable (MacWhinney, 1998), rather than innate and encapsulated (Fodor, 1983). (MacWhinney, 2001: 80)

iii. Input-driven Learning. Language learning can be explained in terms of input rather than innate principles and parameters. Cue validity is the key construct in this explanation. The basic claim of the Competition Model is that the system of form–function mappings embodied in language-processing networks is acquired in accord with a property we will call cue validity… The single most common interpretation [of cue validity] is in terms of the conditional probability that an event X will occur given a cue Y, that is p(X Y). If this probability is high, then Y is a good cue to X. The most straightforward prediction from this initial analysis is that forms with a high conditional probability should be acquired early and be the strongest determinants of processing in adults. (MacWhinney, 1997: 121)

MacWhinney adds in a later paper that “the most basic” determinant of cue strength is task frequency, while “the most important and most basic cue validity dimension is the dimension of reliability. A cue is reliable if it leads to the right functional choice whenever it is present.” (MacWhinney, 2001: 75) iv. Capacity. Short-term verbal memory has limited capacity and the use of language in real time is continually subject to these limitations. “The Competition Model focuses on the role of underlying conceptual interpretation in determining the utilization of processing capacity.” (MacWhinney, 1997: 115) Although our results for online processing are still far from complete, we now have the outlines of a Competition Model approach to real-time sentence processing. This account treats sentence interpretation as a constant satisfaction process that balances the limitations imposed by verbal memory against the requirements of conceptual interpretation. Our raw memory for strings of nonsense words is not more than about four. However, when words come in meaningful groups, we can remember dozens of words, even when the message

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is unfamiliar. The most likely candidate for this additional storage is some form of conceptual representation. We…claim that words are quickly converted into integrated conceptual representations through a process of structure building (Gernsbacher, 1990). This process begins with the identification of a starting point (MacWhinney, 1977), or perspective, from which the entire clause can be interpreted. In English, this is usually the subject. (MacWhinney, 1997: 133)

In brief, the Competition Model argues that language encodes functions like ‘topic’ and ‘agent’ onto surface grammatical conventions in various ways such as word order and subject–verb agreement. Because of the limits on processing, these functional categories compete for control of the surface grammatical conventions. Speakers of languages use four types of cues — word order, vocabulary, morphology, and intonation — to facilitate their interpretation of these form–function mappings. Because of the principle of limited capacity mentioned above, human languages find different ways of using these cues. A central concept in the Competition Model is that speakers must have a way to determine relationships among elements in a sentence. Language processing involves competition among various cues, each of which contributes to a different resolution in sentence interpretation. Although the range of cues is universal, there is language-specific instantiation of cues, and languagespecific “strength” assigned to cues. Another way of putting this is to say that language forms are used for communicative functions, but any one form may realise a number of functions, and any one function can be realised through a number of forms. In English, for example, word order is very typically SVO in active declarative sentences, and, it is argued, word order is a strong cue for the realisation of many functions. Bates and MacWhinney claim that in Romance languages like Italian and Spanish, however, word order is not so important: they rely more on morphological agreement, semantics and pragmatics. Within a language, the cues often converge to give a clear interpretation of a sentence. In the English sentence “John kicks the ball.” the cues are word order (SVO), knowledge of the lexical items, the animacy criterion (balls do not kick), and subject–verb agreement. But sometimes there is competition among the cues that signal a particular function. For example, in the sentence “That teacher we like a lot.” There is competition between “teacher”, “we” and “lot” for agency. “Lot” can be eliminated because it is inanimate and follows the verb. “We” wins, because although “teacher” is in the optimum position, “we” is in the nominative case and because it agrees in number with the verb.

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So far, the discussion holds for both first and second language learning. Turning to SLA, since the connectionist view assumes that all mental processing uses a common interconnected set of cognitive structures, this implies that transfer plays a key role. The early second language learner should experience a massive amount of transfer from L1 to L2. Because connectionist models place such a strong emphasis on analogy and other types of pattern generalisation, they predict that all aspects of the first language that can possibly transfer to L2 will transfer. This is an extremely strong and highly falsifiable prediction. However, it seems to be in accord with what we currently know about transfer effects in second language learning. (MacWhinney, 1997: 119)

The Competition Model claims that the second language learner begins learning with a parasitic lexicon, a parasitic phonology, and a parasitic set of grammatical constructs. “Over time, the second language grows out of this parasitic status and becomes a full language in its own right.” (MacWhinney, 1997: 119). As far as the lexicon is concerned, this occurs by the strengthening of direct associations from the L2 phonological form to the underlying referent, and by the restructuring of the meanings of some words. If two words in L1 map onto a single word in L2, the basic transfer process is unimpeded. It is easy for a Spanish speaker to take the L2 English form know and map it onto the meanings underlying saber and conocer (Stockwell, Bowen and Martin, 1965): What is difficult is for the L1 English speaker to acquire this new distinction when learning Spanish. In order to correctly control this distinction, the learner must restructure the concept underlying know into two new, related structures. (MacWhinney, 1997: 119–120)

In phonology, the L2 learner has to gradually “undo” the inappropriate direct transfer that occurs in the early stages of learning. In grammar, “the weights connecting functions to clusters of forms must be retuned” (MacWhinney, 1997: 119–120). Sometimes, the L2 requires the learner to make new conceptual distinctions not present in the L1. In order to acquire this new category, the L2 learner begins by attempting to transfer from the L1, and in case of difficulties the learner is “resigned to picking up the pieces of this new category one by one and restructuring them into a working system” (MacWhinney, 1997: 121). The second language learner’s task is thus seen as adjusting the internal speech-processing mechanisms from those appropriate to his L1 to those

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appropriate for the target language. Ellis, in his treatment of the Competition Model, puts it another way — the learner has to discover the particular form– function mappings that characterise the target language. The task facing the L2 learner is to discover (1) which forms are used to realise which functions in the L2, and (2) what weights to attach to the use of individual forms in the performance of specific functions. (Ellis, 1994: 375)

Ellis comments that the question is: how does the learner do this? Does he use the same cues and the same weights as in his L1, or different ones? MacWhinney’s 1997 account goes some way to answering that question: the learner does it by massive transfer, and by then making the necessary adjustments on the basis of the input. The end result of this process of restructuring “is the tightening of within-language links in contrast to between-language links. In this way, a certain limited form of emergent linguistic modularity is achieved.” (MacWhinney, 1997: 120) 9.7.1 Discussion The Competition Model stands up well to the Guidelines. Let us begin with the epistemological assumptions outlined in Points 1 to 6. MacWhinney (1997) claims that the model allows us to interpret experimental data with the fewest possible theoretical assumptions, and without reference to assumptions that cannot be directly related to observed linguistic, neurological, and experimental facts. (MacWhinney, 1997: 115)

This is a very empiricist-sounding approach, an approach that seems to be doing everything possible to distance itself from the Chomskian assumption of innateness and a formalist approach to language. In Part 1, I argued that both positivism and behaviourism were to be excluded from the critical rationalist fold because their epistemological view denied the possibility of causal explanation or mental activity. Thus, while Point 2 of the Guidelines is partly designed to exclude the epistemological extremes of empiricism as represented by the logical positivists and by Skinner (see Section 2.3), an empiricist approach to cognitive psychology, cognitive neuroscience, or linguistics is, almost by definition, very different, indeed the term cognitive psychology would be an oxymoron for Skinner. Even if they wanted to, Bates and MacWhinney could not “cleanse” their model of all theorising, and, anyway, the attempt to study and explain mental processing, however much Bates and MacWhinney couch

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it in terms of the measurement of neural activity, is an attempt to explain the acquisition of knowledge. So, the Competition Model meets the requirements of the assumptions of the Guidelines contained in Points 1 to 6, although, to the extent that it adopts an emergentist agenda, epistemological problems arise. But there is still the question of to what extent it satisfies Points 3 and 4: does it provide an adequate explanation? And here the broader question becomes: Does the adoption of an empiricist view hinder any real explanation of SLA? If a staunch empiricist must deny the existence of any non-sensory knowledge, and if learning is to be reduced to associationism, can there be any talk of a causal explanation? What constitutes knowledge of L2 is, of course, a crucial issue to those interested in constructing a theory of SLA, and the arguments between nativists and empiricists, which tend also to involve arguments about formal or functional approaches to linguistics, serve to highlight some of the important underlying issues raised in Part 1 of this book. In the dispute between empiricists and the nativists the old chestnuts get yet another cooking: questions of inductive versus deductive reasoning, rationalist versus empiricist epistemologies, and, as a result of their differences, perhaps the most burning issue, incommensurability. As I argued in Part 1, and as I have attempted to show in Part 2, the problem is only in extreme positions, and even the enormous differences between the two approaches being considered here do not force us to choose one and to reject the other. One reason to believe that the two positions can be reconciled is that there is one crucial shared assumption among the adversaries: they are all committed to a critical rationalist approach as outlined in points 1 to 6 of the Guidelines. That is why it is important to stress that the Competition Model is based on a commitment to empiricism, but not an empiricism that refuses to consider causal explanations and attempts to rid observation of all “theoretical bias”. The empiricism Bates and MacWhinney champion talks of “mental processes” (though, true to the tradition of empiricism, it prefers to treat mental processes as far as possible as “neurological facts”), “conceptual interpretation”, “processing capacity”, “universals of cognitive structure” and indeed “general explanation”. What is most encouraging is that MacWhinney concludes his 1997 paper The wise reader will take these arguments for an empiricist position with a healthy grain of salt. We all know that the most reasonable and tenable positions on major issues, such as nativism versus empiricism, inevitably rest somewhere in the middle between the two extremes. However, it is often helpful to view the competing positions in their most undiluted form, so that

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we can navigate between these alternatives, coming always a bit closer to the truth. (MacWhinney, 1997: 137)

Amen to that. For the moment, let us look at other aspects of the model; I will return in the next section and in Chapter 10 to a discussion of the general issues involved in the formalist/functionalist, nativist/empiricist debate. The Competition Model scores well on the criteria set out in Points 7 to 11. It is coherent, cohesive, consistent, and its terms are reasonably well-defined. In regard to Point 8 of the Guidelines, one of the most impressive aspects of the Competition Model is that its hypotheses are precise and have a great deal of empirical content (as we would expect); researchers have been able to carry out many empirical studies that test them. The basic test format used in most of the numerous studies of the Competition Model was to present L2 learners whose native language uses cues and cue strengths that differ from those of the L2 with sentences designed to offer competing cues. The learners were asked to say what the subject of the sentence was. The analyses of the results were based on “choice” (which nouns the subjects chose) and “latency” (the time taken to make the choice). The studies found that L2 learners are indeed faced with conflicts between native language and target language cues and cue strengths, and that, to resolve the conflict, they first resort to their L1 processing strategies when interpreting L2 sentences. For example, English learners of Japanese initially made use of rigid word order as a cue: their initial hypothesis was rigid word order. Their next task was to figure out that in Japanese the order is SOV — which they then rigidly applied. On encountering incongruities, learners often resorted to meaning-based cues as opposed to word order or morphologically-based cues. In general, the studies strongly suggest transfer and indicated that the processing strategies of the L2 learners could be located between the two poles represented by the strategies used by native speakers of the two languages involved. Unfortunately, we cannot give the Competition Model full marks on Point 7 of the Guidelines, since the research methodology used in the studies is not without its problems. The task that forms the basis of the tests is extremely artificial. This is not in itself enough to invalidate the research (much of the work done in UG could be similarly criticised), but it does make it difficult to be sure that the analysis of the results is valid. Gass and Selinker give the example of learners being asked to identify the subject of the sentence “The pencil sees the boys.”

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Assume that they select the boys as the subject. Are they doing this because they have a preference for animate objects as subjects — that is, their strategy is “select the animate noun” — or do they make this selection because they are rejecting inanimate nouns as possible subjects? (Gass and Selinker, 1994: 143)

Furthermore, McLaughlin and Harrington (1989) suggest that, since many of the sentences used in the studies are extremely deviant, there is the possibility that the wrong thing is being tested. Perhaps subjects are not processing such sentences as they would in actual communicative situations, but are settling on a particular problem-solving strategy to get them through the many judgements of this nature they have to make. (McLaughlin and Harrington, 1989, cited in Ellis, 1994: 378)

In the same way that IQ tests were criticised for doing little more than measuring how good a person was at IQ tests, the removal of these, sometimes very odd, sentences from a communicative context and the “laboratory conditions” might well have affected results. On the other hand, the number of studies that have been carried out, the strong similarities in the analysis of the results, and the relative ease with which more replication studies can be done, goes some way to reassuring us of the validity of the findings. The theory certainly lays itself open to falsification; as MacWhinney himself argues, the basic claims of the Competition Model regarding transfer and cue validity effects in SLA are highly falsifiable. The clearest counter-evidence would be instances of strong cue use in L1 that failed to transfer to L2. “If transfer is possible and does not occur, the model would be strongly falsified.“ (MacWhinney, 1997: 131) MacWhinney lists over 30 studies that he, Bates, and others have conducted in over a dozen languages over a period of fifteen years on aspects of cue validity. A large number of other studies (e.g., Gass 1987, Harrington, 1987, Sasaki, 1991) have examined aspects of the model for SLA. In MacWhinney’s words “These studies have yielded a remarkably consistent body of results.” Ellis (1994), and Braidi (1999), for example, agree that the Competition Model has survived empirical tests well. Most of the tests seem to confirm that different L1 users consistently use the same weighting of cues: word order is by far the most significant factor for English, for example. The studies on L2 learning give a great deal of support to the hypothesis that transfer of L1 weightings to L2 is an important feature of SLA. Moving to Point 9 of the Guidelines, the model is very fruitful, especially perhaps for those who find the Chomskian approach barren. The model makes

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daring and surprising predictions and has the potential to solve some of the most persistent problems in the field. Many in the field of SLA see the Competition Model in particular, and connectionist approaches in general, as being one of the most promising areas of all for SLA. The model is, of course, associated with connectionism, a movement in cognitive science which attempts to explain human intellectual abilities using artificial neural networks. Neural networks are simplified models of the brain, composed of large numbers of units (the analogs of neurons) together with weights that measure the strength of connections between the units. The central task of connectionist research is to find the correct set of weights to accomplish a given task by “training” the network. An early connectionist model was a network trained by Rumelhart and McClelland (1986a) to predict the past tense of English verbs. The network showed the same tendency to overgeneralise as children, but there is still no agreement about the ability of neural networks to learn grammar. The interest in connectionism is that it may provide an alternative to the modular theory of mind. If it can be shown that these artificial networks can “learn”, then successive advances in what is known about the brain — which is seen as a neural network comprised of neurons and their connections (synapses) — may be enough to explain cognitive processes and learning without recourse to the “black box” of the mind. Point 10 of the Guidelines (a theory should have broad scope) is only moderately met: there is no clear explanation of the process whereby input becomes intake, and only the beginnings of a model for language production. Furthermore, connectionist models are still at a quite primitive stage; they still have a very long way to go. On a final upbeat note, we may note that the Competition Model could hardly do better on Point 11 of the Guidelines: Occam’s Razor was rarely so sharp.

9.8 Emergentism The growing interest in connectionist views and associative learning is reflected in the development of what has been dubbed the “emergentist” approach to SLA. Ellis (1999) explains that emergentists (he includes MacWhinney and himself among them) “believe that the complexity of language emerges from relatively simple developmental processes being exposed to a massive and complex environment.” The Competition Model is a good example of an emergentist approach, rejecting, as it does, the nativist UG account of language,

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and the nativist assumption that human beings are born with linguistic knowledge and a special language learning mechanism. Ellis’s paper “Frequency Effects in Language Processing” is another. In a special issue of Studies in Second Language Acquisition, Ellis shows how language processing is “intimately tuned to input frequency”, and expounds a “usage-based” theory which holds that “acquisition of language is exemplar based” (Ellis, 2002: 143). The power law of practice is taken by Ellis as the underpinning for his frequency-based account, and then, through an impressive review of literature on phonology and phonotactics, reading and spelling, lexis, morphosyntax, formulaic language production, language comprehension, grammaticality, and syntax, Ellis argues that “a huge collection of memories of previously experienced utterances” rather than knowledge of abstract rules, is what underlies the fluent use of language. In short, emergentists take most language learning to be “the gradual strengthening of associations between cooccurring elements of the language”, and they see fluent language performance as “the exploitation of this probabilistic knowledge” (Ellis, 2002: 173). Seidenberg and MacDonald (1999) suggest a “probabilistic constraints approach” to language acquisition, which adopts the connectionist approach to knowledge representation, and provides an alternative framework to “the generative paradigm”. In place of equating knowing a language with knowing a grammar, the probabilistic constraints approach adopts the functionalist assumption that language knowledge is “something that develops in the course of learning how to perform the primary communicative tasks of comprehension and production” (Seidenberg and MacDonald, 1999: 571). This knowledge is viewed as a neural network that maps between forms and meanings, and further levels of linguistic representation, such as syntax and morphology, are said to emerge in the course of learning tasks. An alternative to “Competence” is also offered by Seidenberg and Macdonald, who argue that the competence–performance distinction excludes information about statistical and probabilistic aspects of language, and that these aspects play an important role in acquisition. The alternative is to characterise a performance system that handles all and only those structures that people can. Performance constraints are embodied in the system responsible for producing and comprehending utterances, not extrinsic to it (MacDonald & Christiansen, 1999; Christiansen & Chater, 1999). This approach obviates the paradox created by a characterisation of linguistic knowledge that generates sentences that people neither produce nor comprehend. (Seidenberg and MacDonald, 1999: 573)

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A third difference in this approach is the way in which the language learning task confronting the learner is characterised. “The generative approach sees the task as grammar identification … The alternative view is that the child is engaged in learning to use language” (Seidenberg and MacDonald, 1999: 574). This change in orientation from grammar orientation to learning to use language has important consequences for standard poverty of the stimulus arguments. … In brief it turns out that many of the classic arguments rest on the assumption that the child’s task is grammar identification, and these arguments simply no longer apply if the task is instead acquiring the performance system underlying comprehension and production. (Seidenberg and MacDonald, 1999: 574)

As a final example of emergentism, Bates et al., (1998) look at innateness through the emergentist perspective and attempt to translate innateness claims to empiricist statements. They argue that innateness is often used as a logically inevitable, fall back explanation. In the absence of a better theory, innateness is often confused with (1) domain specificity (Outcome X is so peculiar that it must be innate), (2) species specificity (we are the only species who do X so X must lie in the human genome), (3) localization (Outcome X is mediated by a particular part of the brain, so X must be innate), and (4) learnability (we cannot figure out how X could be learned so X must be innate. (Bates et al., 1998: 590)

Instead of this unsatisfactory “explanation” Bates et al. believe that an explicit, empirically-based theory of interaction, a theory that will explain the process by which nature and nurture, genes and the environment, interact without recourse to innate knowledge, is “around the corner”. They further argue that this theory of interaction, when it arrives, will have an emergentist form. In an emergentist theory, outcomes can arise for reasons that are not predictable from any of the individual inputs to the problem. Soap bubbles are round because a sphere is the only possible solution to achieving maximum volume and minimum surface (i.e., their spherical form is not explained by the soap, the water or the little boy who blows the bubble.) … Jean Piaget argued that logic and knowledge emerge in just such a fashion, from successive interactions between sensorimotor activity and a structured world. In the same way, it has been argued that grammars represent the class of possible solutions to the problem of mapping hyperdimensional meanings onto a low-dimensional channel, heavily constrained by the limits of human information processing (e.g., MacWhinney and Bates, 1989). Logic, knowledge and grammar are not given in the world, but neither are they given in the genes. (Bates et al., 1998: 590)

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Bates et al. propose to start by specifying the constraints on emergent forms offered by genes and environment. “Innateness” is defined as a claim about the amount of information in a complex outcome that was contributed by the genes. They use a taxonomy proposed by Elman et al. to identify different types of innateness and their location in the brain. A major achievement would be to locate the “mental organ” that Chomsky and others claim is responsible for language. Pinker suggests that this innate knowledge must lie in the “microcircuitry” of the brain. We think that he is absolutely right: If the notion of a language instinct means anything at all, it must refer to a claim about cortical microcircuitry, because this is (to the best of our knowledge) the only way that detailed information can be laid out in the brain. (Bates et al., 1998: 594)

Bates et al. (1998) concede that while this kind of representational nativism is theoretically plausible and attractive “it has proven hard to defend on both mathematical and empirical grounds.” Other parts of innate constraint — innate architecture for example — are proving easier to conceptualise and locate in the brain, but in any case Bates at al. were doing no more than making the claim that it is feasible to give an account of how people learn language without resorting to innate knowledge. We cannot conclude from the presence of eccentric structures that those structures are innate — not even if they are unique to our species, universal among all normal members of that species, localized in particular parts of the system, and learnable only under specific conditions. The same facts can be explained by replacing innate knowledge (i.e. representations) with architectural and temporal constraints that require much less genetically specified information. This kind of emergentist solution to the Nature-Nurture controversy has been around for many years, but it has only become a scientifically viable alternative in the past decade. (Bates et al., 1998: 598)

9.8.1 Discussion Emergentism claims that complex systems exhibit ‘higher-level’ properties that are neither explainable, nor predictable from ‘lower-level’ physical properties, while they nevertheless have causal and hence explanatory efficacy. This would not seem to be, at first glance, a very attractive doctrine for an empiricist, but it certainly provides a way out of the difficulties empiricists encounter explaining complex representational systems. Modern empiricists, in the fields of cognitive psychology and linguistics, for example, who are attempting to do without the concept of innate knowledge (and even of the mind), could well do with such

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an added ingredient. Without wishing to impute motives to anyone, it is precisely the problem of the poverty of the stimulus that an emergentist approach can overcome. Ellis makes little reference to, or use of, what we might call the emergentist part of emergentism. His paper on frequency effects, outlined briefly in the section above, seems far more in the associationist camp. Starting from the empiricist premise that items in the mind get there through experience, associationism argues that items that go together in experience will go together in thought. If two items are paired with sufficient frequency in the environment, they will go together in the mind. In this way we learn that milk is white, -ed is the past tense marker for English verbs, and so on. Associationism shares the general empiricist view that complex ideas are constructed from simple “ideas”, which in turn are derived from sensations. The sensations are not governed by association, and are caused by interaction with the outside world. There is no explicit reference to emergentism in Seidenberg and MacDonald (1999), and, while the commitment to empiricism and to the view that complex systems can be built from relatively simple sub-systems is evident, there is no overt suggestion that the probabilistic restraints view goes any further than associationism. Nor, I believe, did the Competition Model start out with a clear emergentist epistemology. I make this attempt to distance the models and theories of those in SLA who adopt a functionalist view of grammar and an empiricist epistemology from emergentism because I think the latest radical empiricist versions of emergentism are actually quite dangerous; no more dangerous than one of those meteorites that might collide with planet earth, but dangerous. While classic emergentism was unable to explain how novel properties could emerge from complex systems, and thus remained somewhat mysterious (even smacking of dialectics), the latest versions of emergentism seem to be getting closer to a model of the process. The problem with this for a rationalist (as Dr. Slors of Tilberg University points out) is that the more it becomes possible to demonstrate the systematic interconnections between psychology and physics, for example (the more we can do away with the construct of the mind, and just talk about the brain), the closer we get to describing the necessary and sufficient conditions for psychological states in physical terms, and the closer we get to reductionism. Reductionism finds the ultimate meaning of the “object” not in its inherent qualities but in the parts which compose it, which is to say that we enter the topsy turvey world where there are only parts.

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The usual response to this problem is to argue that it is impossible to construct such a theory. Bates et al., as we have seen, think that it is just round the corner, and appear to take seriously the task of reducing the mind to the brain. This brings from me the same reaction it brought from my daughter when I told her what I was writing about: “Scary!” On the assumption that we still have a few years to go, let us return to the debate about nativism versus emergentism among those interested in constructing a theory of SLA. Gregg (2003) in his discussion of emergentism in SLA distinguishes between ‘nativist’ and ‘empiricist’ emergentists. Emergentists are a fairly heterogeneous group, although having in common a rejection of anything like a ‘Chomskian’ UG, but one can distinguish two subsets: ‘nativist’ emergentists — mainly O’Grady and his associates — and what I call ‘empiricist’ emergentists, a term that I think accurately includes all other self-proclaimed emergentists. In SLA specifically, empiricist emergentism has been forcefully and accurately advocated in a series of articles by Nick Ellis (e.g., Ellis; 1998; 1999; 2002a; 2002b; 2003). (Gregg, 2003: 43)

Gregg chooses to deal with the ‘empiricist’ emergentists, and, in order not to be confused with the O’Grady ‘special nativist’ position, uses the term used by Fodor (1984) ‘mad dog nativism’ to refer to his own, ‘Chomskian’ position. Gregg gives this succinct summary of the two positions: So the lines are drawn: On the one hand, we have mad dog nativist theories which posit a rich, innate representational system specific to the language faculty, and non-associative mechanisms, as well as associative ones, for bringing that system to bear on input to create an L2 grammar. On the other hand, we have the emergentist position, which denies both the innateness of linguistic representations (Chomsky-modularity) and the domain-specificity of language learning mechanisms (Fodor-modularity). (Gregg, 2003: 46)

Gregg argues that empiricist emergentism has no property theory to offer, but this is surely not surprising if the aim of emergentism is to do away with innate, domain-specific representational systems, and show that all that the learner needs is “an ability to do distributional analyses and to remember the products of the analyses” (Gregg, 2003: 55). What is surprising, as Gregg notes, is that Ellis seems to accept the validity of the linguist’s account of grammatical structure. As to the emergentist transition theory, Gregg takes this to be based on associative learning, which is certainly a fair description of Ellis’ position. Gregg says that these days one can model associative learning processes with connectionist networks.

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If empirical emergentism is to be a viable rival to mad dog nativism, it is important — perhaps even essential — that connectionism can be recruited to implement the emergentist transition theory. (Gregg, 2003: 55)

The severe limitations of connectionist models are highlighted by Gregg, who goes to the trouble of examining the Ellis and Schmidt model (see Gregg, 2003: 58–66) in order to emphasise just how little the model has learned and how much is left unexplained. The sheer implausibility of the enterprise strikes me as forcefully as it seems to strike Gregg. How can emergentists seriously propose that the complexity of language emerges from simple cognitive processes being exposed to frequently co-occurring items in the environment? At the root of the problem of any empiricist account is the poverty of the stimulus argument. Emergentists, by adopting an associative learning model and an empiricist epistemology (where some kind of innate architecture is allowed, but not innate knowledge, and certainly not innate linguistic representations), have a very difficult job explaining how children come to have the linguistic knowledge they do. How can general conceptual representations acting on stimuli from the environment explain the representational system of language that children demonstrate? How come, as Eubank and Gregg, put it “children know which form–function pairings are possible in human-language grammars and which are not, regardless of exposure” (Eubank and Gregg, 2002: 238)? How can emergentists deal with cases of instantaneous learning, or “knowledge that comes about in the absence of exposure (i.e., a frequency of zero) including knowledge of what is not possible (Eubank and Gregg, 2002: 238)? Gregg (2003) summarises Laurence and Margolis’ (2001: 221) “lucid formulation” of the poverty of the stimulus argument: 1. An indefinite number of alternative sets of principles are consistent with the regularities found in the primary linguistic data. 2. The correct set of principles need not be (and typically is not) in any pretheoretic sense simpler or more natural than the alternatives. 3. The data that would be needed for choosing among those sets of principles are in many cases not the sort of data that are available to an empiricist learner. 4. So if children were empiricist learners they could not reliably arrive at the correct grammar for their language. 5. Children do reliably arrive at the correct grammar for their language. 6. Therefore children are not empiricist learners. (Gregg, 2003: 48)

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This extremely telling argument leads on to the more general conclusion that emergentists have no convincing account of what language is. Which is, of course, where the scary inexplicable, unpredictable outcomes that arise from individual inputs to a problem come in. Leaving these aside, if I may, to the extent that the emergentists insist on a strict empiricist epistemology, they will find it extremly difficult to provide any causal explanation of SLA. Combining observed frequency effects with the power law of practice, for example, and thus explaining acquisition order by appealing to frequency in the input does not go very far in explaining the acquisition process itself. What role do frequency effects have, how do they interact with other aspects of the SLA process? In other words, we need to know how frequency effects fit into a theory of SLA, because frequency and the power law of practice do not provide a sufficient theoretical framework in themselves. Neither does connectionism; as Gregg points out “connectionism itself is not a theory… It is a method, and one that in principle is neutral as to the kind of theory to which it is applied.” (Gregg, 2003: 55) I conclude, yet again, that we must avoid pushing epistemological positions to extremes. The innatist — emergentist argument does not have to be a headon collision, and it is only by taking an extreme position in either camp that we arrive at irreconcilable differences, and, indeed, untenable positions. It seems to me that emergentism is best left fuzzy, and that empiricists must make some concessions and allow the possibility of some innate ideas.

Chapter 10

Explaining SLA

10.1 Introduction I began this book by outlining a number of problems confronting those interested in constructing a theory of SLA, one of which was the issue of research methodology. In Chapters 2 and 3, I examined the principles underlying the different positions of realists, empiricists, positivists and various types of relativists. In Chapters 4 and 5, I argued that despite the difficulties of maintaining what was termed a “naive falsificationist” view of science, there were no good reasons for abandoning the rationalist tradition, or for adopting a relativist epistemology. I also argued that the obvious differences between the natural sciences and the behavioural sciences did not imply that those working in SLA were, by definition of the field of SLA, unable to undertake rational, empirically-based research, and that there was no need to worry the point about where the demarcation line between science and non-science should be drawn. In the “science and culture war” inside the SLA research community, I am in the rationalist camp, with those who think that theory construction should be based on empirical research. It follows that I am completely opposed to those in the field of SLA who argue for a radically relativist epistemology where empirical tests play little or no part in theory evaluation. But I am equally against those who insist on a “scientific” approach to SLA, and who use “science” as a stick to beat their critics with. Such considerations informed the Guidelines presented at the end of Part 1. In Part 2, Chapters 6 to 9, I applied the criteria of critical rationalism to an assessment of a selection of hypotheses, models and theories in the history of SLA research. In this final chapter I will look again at the question of the domain that theories of SLA should cover, and discuss to what extent the work discussed in Part 2 offers an explanation of the phenomena that lie within that domain.

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10.2 The domain of theories of SLA Theories of SLA should not confine themselves to an explanation of how second language learners acquire knowledge of the grammar of the L2; they should explain how second language learners acquire the ability to communicate competently in the L2. In order to do so, the domain of SLA theories needs to be far wider than Chomsky’s, it needs to explain a more complex competence, and it also needs to explain performance. Ellis (1994) suggests the following framework for explaining L2 acquisition:

(2) Other knowlege (e.g., of L1

(1) social factors/ settings

input

Language processing

L2 knowledge (IL system)

output

(3) Individual learner factors

Figure 14.A framework for explaining L2 acquisition. From Ellis (1994: 194).

Ellis uses this framework to discuss studies of SLA. He says that the three aspects of SLA that need considering are: 1. the external environment 2. the “black box” (the learner’s existing knowledge, and the internal mechanisms of L2 acquisition) 3. individual learner factors and that these are interrelated in the ways indicated by the diagram. Cook (1993) suggests that a theory of SLA needs to answer the same three questions that Chomsky (1986, cited in Cook, 1993: 1) defined: i. What constitutes knowledge of language? ii. How is knowledge of language acquired? iii. How is knowledge of language put to use?

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This rests on the assumption that SLA refers to the acquisition of linguistic knowledge. While this will strike many as obvious, I suggest that it deserves closer attention. Interestingly, the phenomena that Towell and Hawkins (1994) and Mitchell and Miles (1998) give as those that a theory of SLA should address (see Section 1.1.3) do not directly refer to Chomsky’s first question; linguistic knowledge is not one of the phenomena they list. We must assume that the question of linguistic knowledge is at least implicit in the Towell and Hawkins list, since such reliance is placed on UG, but why was it not made explicit? Whatever the reason, I think that we need to air the question: does L2 competence refer to linguistic knowledge? What is acquired in the L2 process? The question of what is acquired is often interpreted as requiring a linguistic theory, and it is suggested that this “what” question requires a different kind of explanation to the type which I outlined in Section 5.3, incorporated into the Guidelines in Point 4, and outlined in Chapter 2. The classic view of explanatory theories is that they try to find causal relationships among variables: they attempt to explain the causes of things. Newton’s laws of mechanics serve as the best example of a scientific theory which embodies this type of explanation. Cummins’ distinction between property theories and transition theories (Cummins, 1983) has been used by many in the field of SLA, particularly Gregg (see Section 5.5.3) to suggest that an explanation of the question of what linguistic competence consists of needs a property theory, an explanation by analysis. For example, if the capacity of a computer to process information is explained by a delineation of what its component units do, and how they interact, that is a systematic explanation. (Crookes, 1992: 433)

Crookes’ “systematic explanation” is Cummins’ (and Gregg’s) property theory. In brief, the argument goes: to explain how L2 competence is instantiated in the mind/brain needs a property theory, and various answers have been suggested: in the form of connectionist nodes, or in the form of general knowledge representations, or in the form of rules of discourse, Gricean maxims, or in the form of UG. (Gregg, 1993: 279)

To explain how L2 competence is acquired on the other hand needs a transition theory which narrates how the mind changes from a state of not knowing X to a state of knowing X (where X can be any part of what is necessary for L2 competence). Thus, a satisfactory theory of SLA must describe the L2-related interlanguages (IL grammars) and other aspects of the L2 competence finally attained by learners, and also explain how learners acquired them.

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Gregg, as we have seen, thinks that UG is the best candidate to provide the framework for describing the IL grammar. I suggest that UG is of very little use in providing a framework for describing L2 competence. It is perhaps striking that so few in the field of SLA have attempted to meet Gregg’s challenge; even those who adopt a UG framework do not really engage in the debate with Gregg, much less do they give any clear indication of what the “property theory” that Gregg calls for might look like. One attempt to deal with this demand for a property theory was made by Eckman (1996), who claims that Gregg’s argument rests on the assumption that IL systems are grammars. Eckman suggests that perhaps IL grammars are not the same type of system as L1 grammars, and that whether or not they are is an empirical issue. Eckman concludes: Gregg’s claim that a theory of SLA must include a theory of grammar begs the question of whether L1 grammars and IL grammars are governed by the same general theory. And since this is an open, empirical question which is currently under investigation, Gregg’s statement simply carries no force in the debate over the content of a theory of SLA. (Eckman, 1996: 405)

It is surely Eckman’s statement, not Gregg’s, that carries no force. I understand Gregg to be saying that some property theory, some formal description of the IL system that second language learners acquire, is needed. No doubt Gregg would agree that the question of whether IL systems and L1 grammars share the same properties and constraints is an empirical issue; indeed, for Gregg it is a matter of the utmost importance that, unlike in L1 research, in SLA research there is no consensus among those who adopt a UG approach as to how to apply UG to the domain of SLA. Nor does Gregg say that UG is the only candidate; while he sees it as the strongest candidate, he recognises the claims of those using general learning principles, for example. And, of course, Gregg recognises that other parts of L2 knowledge, and language use, need completely different descriptions and explanations. What Gregg objects to is the attempt to construct theories of SLA without any theory at all of what is being acquired. According to Gregg, relying on surface structures (e.g., the morpheme studies), or on performance data (e.g., the variability theories of Tarone and Ellis), or simply ignoring the issue (e.g., Krashen’s account), will not do. Are we not forced to agree with Gregg that UG is the best theory of linguistic competence there is, and that nativism of the Chomskian kind is the best way to explain how we achieve that competence? I think we are. I think there is no serious rival to UG and the Language Acquisition Device, as an explanation for how children acquire their knowledge of the L1 grammar.

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Nevertheless, I (still!) maintain that 1. UG is of little use in describing the knowledge involved in SLA, since most of the knowledge and skills involved in SLA fall outside the UG domain. 2. UG is of no use in explaining the SLA process, since it is a property theory and thus has nothing to say about any process. 3. the poverty of the stimulus argument has no force in relation to constructing a theory of SLA since the L2 learner already has a representational system in place. I have already discussed point 1 at some length (see Chapter 7), and point 2 should by now be clear enough. UG is not a causal explanation, it is a description of the universal properties of language. Special (or mad dog) nativism is what explains how a child acquires language, not UG. Those in the field of SLA who take the approach that second language learners have full or partial access to UG can be seen as either lucky to have a cogent framework to guide their work, or unlucky to be restricted to such a tiny domain. The third point, that the poverty of the stimulus argument does not apply to SLA, has been forcefully argued by Carroll (2001). Carrroll develops a theory of SLA around an adaptation of Jackendoff’s Representational Modularity theory (cited in Carroll, 2001: 50) and the Induction Theory of Holland et al. (cited in Carroll, 2001: 130). In the following extract from Carroll, the term “ilearning” appears. In order to distinguish between induction as defined by Holland et al. and induction as defined by her own Autonomous Induction Theory, Carroll refers to the latter construct as i-learning. In a section entitled “There is no logical problem of second language acquisition” Carroll begins by accepting that “UG is necessary to explain how a learner comes to have a representational system capable of encoding phonological and morphosyntactic information” (Carroll, 2001: 208) and then explains why this does not imply that there is the same logical problem (poverty of the stimulus) for SLA. i-learning a given language requires some initial representational system(s) in which the various acoustic/phonetic, phonological, morphosyntactic and semantic properties of language are encoded. In the case of primary language acquisition this set … includes at least those representational primitives made available by UG, a priori acoustic and visual perceptual representation systems… and the initial conceptual system. In the case of second language acquisition, the relevant set consists of every representational system the learner has in place at the point in time where L2 acquisition occurs, including

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a mature and rich culture-specific conceptual system, the specific grammar of the L1, the specific parsing and production systems associated with the L1, a mature acoustic perceptual system, a mature visual perception system, a mature set of domain-specific problem-solving systems, and so on. All the evidence available provides support for the assumption that adults come to the acquisition task capable of deploying their mature representational systems to the purpose of acquiring the L2. … It is true that a theory of SLA must explain properties of the initial state, but one is free to hypothesise that adults are transferring knowledge which has been arrived at in any number of ways. It could be a priori knowledge, acquired through selective learning or canalisation, or it could be l-learned. Consequently one cannot argue that “access” to UG is logically necessary in SLA in order to explain the fact that adults are capable of representing language in terms of linguistic structures. There is no separate logical problem of language acquisition for each particular language that an individual might acquire. Consequently, there is no logical problem of second language acquisition. Carroll, 2001: 209–210)

Recall that Laurence and Margolis’ formulation of the poverty of the stimulus argument, summarised by Gregg and quoted above, ends: If children were empiricist learners they could not reliably arrive at the correct grammar for their language. Children do reliably arrive at the correct grammar for their language. Therefore children are not empiricist learners.

Gregg (2003) continues And Mutatis Mutandis for adult L2 learners: If adults were empiricist learners, they would not reliably arrive at certain kinds of L2 knowledge; adults do (often, sometimes) arrive at such knowledge; therefore, adult L2 learners are not empiricist learners. (Gregg, 2003: 48)

Carroll’s argument shows up the fault in Gregg’s argument: adults, who were once not exclusively empiricist learners, can learn an L2 emprically and still arrive at certain kinds of L2 knowledge — by various types of transfer. The question remains: What is acquired? Let us return to Bachman’s Communicative Language Ability (CLA), discussed in Chapter 1 (Section 1.1.2.1), and examine a discussion of it by Skehan (1995). Hymes (1972) criticised the Chomskian account of competence as too limited and argued that knowledge of the appropriacy of language use was also important. Canale and Swain (1980) described communicative competence in terms of three components, and Canale (1983) proposed four components: linguistic, sociolinguistic, discourse, and strategic. Strategic competence was said to come

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into play when the language user faced a communicative problem caused by gaps in his/her linguistic, sociolinguistic, and discourse knowledge of the L2. Bachman’s model (see page 8) has strategic competence performing not a compensatory role, but rather a central role of mediating between meaning intentions, underlying competencies, background knowledge, and the context of the situation. It does this by determining communicative goals, assessing communicative resources, planning communication, and then executing the plan. This, as Skehan (1995) argues, is a model of performance. Performance … draws upon the component competencies in some way to enable actual communication to occur. (Skehan, 1995: 93)

Skehan argues that by considering strategic competence as not just compensatory but central to all communication The nature of the relationship between competence and performance is being redefined, since Bachman is proposing a dynamic for communication. He sees this relationship as being mediated through the operation of a pervasive strategic competence. (Skehan, 1995: 93–94)

Skehan (1995) examines Bachman’s strategic competence and asks if the four operations listed immediately above relate more to competence or to performance, and if consciousness of one’s own strategic competence in operation leads us to performance or to competence issues. How is linguistic competence represented psychologically? Skehan makes use of Widdowson’s (1989) distinction between analysability (which is concerned with linguistic competence, and therefore parsimonious, systematic, and rule-based), and accessibility (which is concerned with operational requirements: ease of use, and speed of access.) Skehan makes a distinction between the analyst’s, user’s and learner’s models: an analyst focuses on the power of abstract rules to generate well-formed sentences, the user’s model focuses on how language is represented, accessed and deployed in real time, while learners, who need to develop underlying systems and cope with real-time communication, may experience conflict between the two. While an analyst makes a clear distinction between grammar and lexis, the user does not have to consider the word as the basic unit of organisation; once the formal system is in place, memory can store lexical items in a multiple way in terms of formulaic phrases so as to facilitate a fast retrieval system. The argument is that for the users, accessibility has greater priority, and that they “shift down” to a more rulegoverned mode of processing if and when they hit problems. As to the learners,

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Skehan argues that they learn a mixture of abstract rules and direct exemplars. In first language acquisition, the process is in three stages: lexical – syntacticisation – relexicalisation, the third stage allowing for multiple codings of lexical items to become available. In post-critical period SLA, however, Skehan suggests a different process is at work: there are 3 stages of information processing: auditory processing (phonemic coding), central processing (inductive language learning), and retrieval (memory). Different learners have different strengths and weaknesses in these three areas. In SLA, development will proceed through cognitive mechanisms (since the LAD is defunct) and learners will have learned some things as a rule-governed system, while other things will have been learned directly as lexical items without the preliminary syntacticisation that characterised first language acquisition. The L2 learners’ proneness to fossilisation is thus said by Skehan to be the consequence of the lack of a functioning LAD, coupled with a capacity to learn exemplars directly. Skehan concludes that, from the learner’s perspective, there are demands on attentional resources during communication (cognitive, linguistic, time, pressure, unpredictability), and there are resources a speaker can use (existing competencies, previous experience, time-saving devices, influence on the encounter, planning). If attentional demands are stretched speech will be more pragmatic and lexically organised — accessibility will be the major factor. Thus, in SLA it is misconceived to see competence as underlying performance in any straightforward way: psychological mechanisms are key, formulaic language is not really a competence, and planning helps draw on form. What Skehan is obviously challenging here is the competence/performance dichotomy, and the knowledge/skill dichotomy too. Is strategic competence a component of competence? Awareness of how to cope can be seen as competence, but behaviour during communication is clearly in the realm of performance. The solution, Skehan argues, is to see strategic competence as the operation of processes which constitute “ability for use”. Ability for use, in other words, is what goes beyond Bachman’s (1990) assessment, goal-setting, planning, and execution and is what accounts for the balance between analysability and accessibility as the processing dimension of actual communication. (Skehan, 1995: 106)

This brief summary of Skehan’s 1995 paper is intended to show that there are many in the field of SLA who reject the argument that competence in L2 is best described by the type of “knowledge” Chomsky tries to describe in UG. Constructs such as Skehan’s “ability for use” reflect the growing opinion that Chomskian

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“competence” is not the best bedrock for a framework for examining SLA. A description of what constitutes competence in an L2 is very different to a description of the modular knowledge that Chomsky gives for L1 acquisition. The need to answer the question “What is acquired in SLA?” is not synonymous with the need for a property theory of linguistic competence, unless of course the definition makes it so. Skehan’s “ability for use” construct is one alternative, and connectionist models offer at least the possibility of describing the acquired knowledge very differently. Another option is to address the question of language proficiency as Bialystok (2001) does. What is the norm for language competence? What do we mean by language proficiency? What are its components and what is the range of acceptable variation? Although these questions may seem to be prior to any use of language as a research instrument or conclusion about language ability in individuals, they rarely if ever are explicitly addressed. (Bialystok, 2001: 11)

Bialystok does not underestimate the difficulties of measuring language proficiency, and she does no more than “point to approaches that may eventually provide a fruitful resolution”, but her book demonstrates the feasibility of such an objective, and underlines the need to resolve the arguments among those that adopt formal and functional approaches to linguistic theory. We need to establish fixed criteria that supersede the theoretical squabbles and point to critical landmarks in language mastery. These are lofty goals, but without some framework for evaluating progress it is impossible to produce meaningful descriptions of the acquisition of language. (Bialystok, 2001: 14)

To the extent that we have no clear answer to the question of what L2 competence is, we might be said to be working in the dark. Of course, it would be good to have “more light”, but I do not consider the lack of it to be in any way a fatal weakness in SLA theory construction to date. There are, as I suggested in Chapters 5 and 6, good reasons why SLA should concentrate on Questions 2 and 3: the process of SLA, and the learner’s production of the L2 are the most interesting issues precisely because most people fall short of full competence. We should not ignore Question 1, but we should not be blinded by it, or persuaded that both the methods and the focus of SLA research should faithfully follow the UG approach. In the history of science there are many examples of theories that started off without any adequate description of what is being explained, although sooner or later, this limitation must be addressed. An example that comes to mind is Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection, according to which the young

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born to any species compete for survival, and those young that survive to reproduce tend to embody favourable natural variations which are passed on by heredity. Darwin’s concept of variation lacked any formal description of variations, or any explanation of the origin of variations or how they were passed between generations. While he recognised that his description and explanation of heredity were limited, Darwin insisted that as long as inherited variation does occur, his theory would work. It was not until Mendel’s theories and the birth of modern genetics in the early 20th century that this deficiency started to be dealt with. Bachman’s description of language competence, while designed to measure language use, indicates the kinds of competencies that are involved in developing IL systems, and Bialystok has indicated how the search for proficiency measurements might continue. It should not be beyond the powers of researchers interested in different parts of the system to describe them so as to allow for the principled interpretation of empirical data.

10.3 Theories of SLA A theory of SLA should address these questions: – – –

What is L2 competence? How is L2 competence acquired? How is L2 competence put to use?

From the point of view of the Guidelines, a general theory that attempts to answer all three questions would certainly be the best, if the resulting theory were able to stand up well to all the other criteria demanded by the Guidelines. Such a theory will have to find the middle ground between nativist and empiricist extremes, it will have to overcome the limited perspective of each of them, and claim a domain which is sufficiently broad to allow contributions from both camps. Language is obviously both a formal system and a communicative tool, and thus nativists and empiricists, psycholinguists and sociolinguists, are not necessarily providing competing explanations for the same phenomenon. This is the point eloquently argued by Bialystok (2001), who, discussing the differences between formalist and functionalist approaches to linguistic theory, points out that functionalists limit themselves to the claim that language is in the environment, and cite computer simulations, such as connectionist modelling, as evidence of the sufficiency of their explanation.

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But what is language, why is it structured as it is, and why are all languages so similar? The functionalist approach treats language as though it were like yogurt: once some exists, it is fairly straightforward to reproduce it, but where did the first yogurt come from? And why does yogurt from different places always come out more or less the same? To make yogurt, one must start with yogurt. There is something essential about its nature. So too with language: once it is in the environment, there are a number of ways one can explain how individual children obtain their own copy, but how did languages develop the predictable regularities they did, especially when the same regularities are observed across highly disparate languages? And why does the path to acquisition always look so similar? The functionalist response is to deny they are dealing with yogurt: the idea of linguistic universals is a fiction and each language is as different from all others as is each child who learns it. (Bialystok 2001: 51)

Bialystok not only berates the functionalists for their refusal to accept the idea of linguistic universals; she also admonishes the formalists, whose theories she describes as “equally parochial”. There are various models and theories that can be seen as attempts to overcome the limitations of the nativist — emergentist, formalist — functionalist dichotomy. Apart from Towell and Hawkins’ theory, still at an early stage of its development, (and now without Hawkins to nurture it, since he has altered tack somewhat in order to concentrate on second language syntax (see Hawkins, 2001)), there is the model proposed by Gass (1997) which proposes five stages to account for the conversion of input to output: apperceived input, comprehended input, intake, integration, and output. In her closing remarks Gass says: Having done work in language universals, I am of the fundamental belief that second language acquisition is shaped by the nature of language (although the extent to which innateness plays a role is still in question). Having done work in input and interaction, I am of the fundamental belief that second language acquisition is shaped by the input one receives and by the interactions in which one engages. At first blush these appear to be contradictory, but I have never seen them in that light. (Gass, 1997: 161)

There is also Susanne Carroll’s Autonomous Induction Theory (Carroll, 2001). The theory is a rigorous, powerful, and challenging attempt to bridge the gap between UG-based and processing-based approaches. Carroll has an unusual ability to take apart, analyse, and re-assemble ideas; the work of Chomsky, Jackendoff, and Holland et al. is carefully weighed and re-worked to produce an

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original theory that establishes a wide domain and gives an important role to negative evidence and feedback. Empiricist theories such as the Competition Theory that try to dissolve the distinction between linguistic theory and processing theory should also be encouraged to flourish. Provided that no hard empiricist attitudes freeze development, provided that those working to develop the theory do not content themselves with the results of successful simulations (do not, that is, avoid the task of offering a causal explanation of SLA), much can be expected of developments in connectionist models and learning theories. For the moment, however, it is likely that a lot of the work on developing a theory of SLA will address only one of the three questions listed above. Researchers are likely to limit themselves to a certain well-defined type of competence or area of investigation, and we can only hope that the various theories offered will complement each other more than clash. UG-orientated work in SLA will no doubt continue. Towell and Hawkins argue that a UG approach to SLA has much to recommend it. The great advantage of UG-based research is that it is ‘experimental’ and hypothesis-driven in a more precise way than most other kinds of SLA research. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 262)

My examination of SLA work in Part 2 indicates that this is only partly true. Towell and Hawkins go on to suggest that the UG scholar can test three types of prediction: 1. One form will be learned before another because UG shows that the learning of the second form depends on knowledge of the first. 2. The learning of forms which make up a parameter should be linked. 3. If L1 has set a parameter one way and L2 in another, then we can predict the task of the learner to reset the parameter. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 263)

Such work can inform both the description of IL grammars and the SLA process, and, perhaps more importantly, clarify the boundaries of the influence of UG. What parts of grammar are included in UG-type linguistic analyses? To quote Towell and Hawkins again: Books talk of ‘core’ and ‘periphery’ in grammars, but it is virtually impossible to discover where one ends and the other begins. Quite frequently parts of a language system which might be thought to be ‘odd’ turn out to be significant in understanding how the system works. On the other hand, some of the most frequently used parts of a language system defy description. The analyses

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change too frequently and too fundamentally for secure applications to be developed before the latest theoretical insight has uprooted the system. (Towell and Hawkins, 1994: 266)

The majority of the work examined in Part 2 of this book refers to attempts to answer questions about the process of SLA and the production of L2 learners. Here, as I have argued in Chapter 9, considerable progress has been made by those taking a rationalist approach, towards a better-defined, more coherent, wider explanation. Real improvement in successive accounts of IL development and production, in terms of their ability to satisfy the criteria laid out in Points 7 to 11 of the Guidelines, and also in their growing strength as a theory in terms of Point 4 of the Guidelines, seem to me to justify faith in a critical rationalist approach to theory construction in SLA. As for the questions of individual differences, and of social and environmental factors, I have taken a rather gloomy view. Sociolinguistics seems to attract the kind of work that the Guidelines are designed to outlaw: the type of work typified by Willett (see Chapter 7, Section 7.2) and argued for by Schumann, Lantolf, van Lier and others (see Chapter 5, Section 5.5.1). Whatever need there might be for a descriptive theory of grammar or other underlying competencies in an attempt to answer Question 1, I see very little need for the enormous amount of descriptive work being piled up by sociolinguists. The problem of the proliferation of theories and approaches, and the lack of agreement by the majority of those working in the field about what phenomena are to be explained and what counts as an explanation, will probably continue. My “solution” to this problem is that those taking a critical rationalist approach should attempt to answer the three questions posed in Section 10.2. above, and that the explanation they should offer should be a causal one in the sense explained in Chapter 5, except for Question 1. Contradictions among theories are of course a problem, but the solution is rational discussion in the community about the rivals and the use of criteria for theory evaluation such as those given in the Guidelines to settle the dispute. Whatever the differences between different researchers from different traditions, however difficult they might find it to communicate with each other or to appreciate the significance of the questions being addressed, different theories within the critical rationalist framework I have proposed will not, by definition, be “incommensurable”; all theories can be rationally appraised. Thus, while I sympathise with Beretta’s view (see Chapter 1, Section 1.2.1) that theories dealing with cognitive, affective, or linguistic factors, respectively are “mutually exclusive” I see no reason why they should be.

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I have also argued that Long’s (1993) estimate that there are between 40 and 60 theories of SLA (see Chapter 1, Section 1.2.1) does not in itself present any problem. Those working on different linguistic and cognitive approaches to theory construction need to either strictly define their domain, or better, stop being parochial and widen the domain. If emergentists and nativists clash, so be it; sooner or later a theory will emerge that resolves the contradictions. The problem for sociolinguistic approaches is to define their terms, to make the variables operational, and to make sure their hypotheses are empirically testable. The fact that so far there is no complete theory of SLA, or even any group of theories that between them make up some coherent picture, is in itself neutral. Progress will not, in my opinion, be assured by culling or by the adoption of a paradigm; the history of science has no clear lesson on this, and politically or philosophically, I am on Feyerabend’s side. As so many papers in so many academic journals conclude: “more research and analysis needs to be done”. To pursue the issue of individual differences a little, in order to offer explanations (explanations, what is more, that satisfy the Guidelines), we need to define the terms being used to describe individual differences and social factors in such a way that it becomes possible to make predictions and to do empirically-based studies that will tend to confirm or challenge the explanation. Just as those adopting a cognitive approach struggle to make their constructs clear, and their variables operational, so too must those in sociolinguistics improve their definitions and constructs and their research methodology in order to better pin down the extremely slippery concepts like “motivation” and “attitude” that they work with. There is nothing in the Guidelines that rules out the possibility of rational explanation of these factors. As I remarked in Section 8.5.3, while the work of J. B. Carroll and Gardner does not meet the demands of the Guidelines, more recent work by Gardner (1996), and the on-going work of Dörnyei (2001) into motivation indicate that real progress has been made. Certainly, as already admitted in Section 8.5.2, the work of explaining individual differences is very important, even if, as we saw in the same section, and as Sawyer and Ranta, lament, it lags far behind the work going on in other areas of SLA. Turning now to the problem of defining objectives, this is in part the problem of what counts as an explanation. I have attempted to show what makes a good explanation, but I have also argued that there is no need to get involved in disputes about inductive and deductive approaches, just so long as we avoid positivist and relativist extremes. The problem with the work of Tarone and Ellis, examined in Chapter 8, is not that their objective is to find ways

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of providing an adequate description of what they observe, but rather that their terminology is confused and that they draw unwarranted conclusions from their observations. Ultimately, those who argue that without a causal explanation there is no theory, just (empirical) data and taxonomies have a valid point, but, providing we see them as incomplete, we should not dismiss the early stages of theory development where no such causal explanation is given. The question of whether an SLA theory should aim to inform language teaching practice or to ignore such considerations is a political one; if the history of science is anything to go by, practical considerations often prove to be the spur for progress.

10.4 Conclusion I believe Popper is essentially right. Problems are the stuff of theories; we should articulate what the problems are that our theory is going to address, and then we should fly any kite we like. When we come to evaluate our theory, then we need to use rational criteria that rest on realist epistemological assumptions.

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Name index

A Asimov, I. 22, 37, 93, 94 B Bachman, L. 6–8, 7, 8, 7–9, 256–258, 260 Bacon, F. 19–21, 23, 25, 31, 46, 47 Barnes, B. 52, 67 Bartley, W. W. 49, 82 Bates, E, B. 147–149, 152, 153, 157, 158, 235, 237, 239, 240, 242, 245, 246, 248 Beretta, A. 2, 12, 13, 16, 111, 263 Bialystok, E. 12, 122, 127, 161, 209, 210, 212, 234, 259–261 Bley-Vroman, R. 12, 16, 157, 159, 191 Block, D. 2, 36, 63, 67, 71, 73, 98, 100 Bloomfield, L. 23, 38, 126, 144 Bloor, D. 52, 67 Bogen, J. 90, 91, 103 Botha, R. 129, 140, 155 Braidi, S. M. 122, 208, 224, 242 Brinner, J. 57, 65–67 C Canale, M. 7, 9, 256 Carroll, S. E. 192–194, 255, 256, 261, 264 Casti, J. L. 117, 123, 127, 129 Chalmers, A. F. 72 Chomsky, N. 6, 7, 10, 24, 36, 49, 101, 109, 110, 121, 123–130, 132–134, 136, 137, 138–144, 146–156, 158, 162–165, 167, 172, 178, 180, 183, 185, 187, 191, 203–205, 208, 212,

215, 233, 235, 246, 248, 252, 253, 258, 259, 261 Clahsen, H. 12, 157, 221 Cook, V. J. xiii, 12, 122, 124–126, 128–133, 154–156, 160, 161, 164, 194, 252 Corder, S. P. 178, 204, 205, 214, 216 Couvalis, G. 34, 35, 72, 107 Crookes, G. 2, 13, 16, 253 Culler, J. 57, 58, 77 Cummins, R. 102, 109, 253 D Darden, L. 1991 110 Darwin, C. 22, 182, 259, 260 Davis, K. A. 173 Deacon, T. W. 140 Denzin, N. K. 65 Derrida, J. 1, 53, 57–61, 64, 77, 81 Descartes, R. 19–21, 25, 26, 29, 46, 141 Dornyei, Z. 192, 200, 201, 264 Doughty, C. 217, 221 Dulay, H. 169, 180, 205, 206 E Ellis, R., N 3, 12–15, 103, 121, 122, 159–161, 169, 184–188, 190, 225, 239, 242–244, 247–249, 252, 254, 264 F Feyerabend, P. 17, 19, 35, 38, 40, 41, 43, 44, 49, 51, 70, 72, 75–77, 87, 264 Flynn, S 13, 103, 129, 132, 156, 158, 159

288 Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition

Fodor, J. A. 74, 138, 139, 141, 150, 236, 248 Foucault, M. 1, 58, 61–64, 212 G Gardner, R. C. 12, 192, 197–201, 264 Gass, S. 14, 122, 161, 162, 212, 241, 242, 261 Gregg, K. R. xiii, 2, 3, 13, 15, 17, 51, 97, 101–109, 111, 119, 123, 155–157, 163, 181, 186–188, 204, 207, 248–250, 253, 254, 256 Gross, P. 52, 53, 60, 61, 63 Guba, E. 1, 65, 66, 73, 79 H Hacking, I. 23, 29, 92 Halliday, M. 6, 7, 147, 187 Hawkins, R. 10, 122, 129, 156, 165, 185, 190, 191, 226–231, 230–234, 253, 261, 262, 263 Hempel, C. G. 102, 107, 108 Hume, D. 25–27, 29, 33, 47, 70, 73 Hymes, D. 7, 9, 175, 256 K Koetge, N. 117, 118 Krashen, S. 12, 13, 16, 62, 63, 98, 101, 104, 108, 178–183, 185, 191, 192, 205, 206, 214–216, 218–220, 254 Kuhn, T. 2, 16, 17, 19, 35, 37–41, 43–45, 48, 49, 51, 70, 72–76, 83, 84, 108, 117, 170 L Lakatos, I. 41–44, 46, 48, 49, 51, 69, 73, 75, 76, 83, 84, 87, 116, 170, 227 Lantolf, J. P. 2, 3, 63, 98, 263 Larsen-Freeman, D. 3, 12, 23, 122, 162, 163, 171, 172, 189, 198, 199, 206, 207, 219, 220–222, 225 Latour, B. 53, 64, 79 Laudan, L. 43–46, 48, 51, 71, 76, 83, 84, 95, 96, 110, 111, 113, 116 Levi-Strauss, C. 60

Lincoln, Y. S. 1, 65–67, 73, 79 Lipton, P. 103, 111 Long, M. H. xiii, 2, 3, 10, 12, 13, 15, 16, 23, 27, 33, 39, 44, 49, 64, 72, 82, 94, 95, 97, 99, 110–112, 119, 122, 148, 162, 163, 171, 172, 175, 189, 197–199, 205–207, 211, 216, 219–222, 225, 229, 230, 243, 260, 264 Lyotard, J. 58, 64, 81 M MacWhinney, B. 195, 196, 235–243, 245 Markee, N. 1, 63, 98, 99 McLaughlin, B. 12–14, 97, 98, 101, 111–113, 119, 122, 181, 182, 208–213, 224, 233, 234, 242 Mill, J. S. 25, 55 Mitchell, R. 3, 11, 121, 122, 159, 172, 173, 176, 253 N Nagel, E. 80, 81 Newton-Smith, W. H. 49 Nicola, M. 181, 182 O O’Grady, W. 104, 157, 163, 165, 248 O’Hear, A. 33, 34, 88 P Passmore, J. 28, 56 Pennycook, A. 62, 63 Piaget, J. 64, 140, 141, 152, 157, 158, 245 Pienemann, M. 12, 16, 209, 215, 221, 222, 221, 223–227, 233, 234 Pinker, S. 246 Popper, K. R. 26, 29–33, 35, 37, 39, 41–43, 47–49, 51, 69–73, 76, 78, 82, 83, 86, 87, 92, 93, 115, 117, 145, 146, 265 Q Quine, W. 36, 70, 71, 140

Name index 289

R Redman, D. 82 Riggs, P. J. 52 Ritchie, W. C. 159 Robinson, P. 15, 192 Russell, B. 20, 21, 25, 27, 28, 48, 55, 56, 80 Ryan, A. 28, 119 S Sampson, G. 141–147, 152, 157, 158 Schachter, J. 10, 157, 159, 204, 205 Schmidt, R. 213–219, 221, 234, 249 Schumann, J. 1, 2, 12, 13, 17, 98, 101, 188–191, 197, 205, 207, 263 Seliger, H. 161 Selinker, L. 10, 13, 16, 122, 161, 162, 207, 208, 212, 226, 241, 242 Skehan, P. 14, 192, 193, 196–199, 201, 256–259 Skinner, B. F. 24, 25, 123, 239 Smith, N. 129, 133–138, 153, 156 Sokal, A. 69, 70, 80, 81 Spolsky, B. 12, 110, 112, 197 Swain, M. 7, 9, 217, 226, 256

T Tarone, E. 12–16, 103, 183–188, 254, 264 Towell, R. 10, 122, 129, 156, 165, 185, 190, 191, 226–231, 230–234, 253, 261, 262, 263 V van Lier, L. 14, 67, 263 Vygotsky, L. S. 64 W Watson, J. 24, 25 White, L. 12, 13, 26, 30, 31, 125, 129, 156, 158–160, 213, 214, 216, 226, 247 Widdowson, H. 1, 7, 9, 13, 257 Willett, J. 172–178, 263 Wittgenstein, L. 28, 32, 48, 55, 56, 80 Wolfe-Quintero, K. 12, 164 Woodward, J. 90, 91, 103 Z Ziman, J. 84, 85, 87, 88, 114

Subject index

A Acculturation 104, 105, 190, 196 Accuracy 206, 220, 223 Ad hoc hypotheses 42, 43, 96, 117, 150, 154 Affective factors 17, 104, 105, 181, 183, 263 Aptitude 191–198 Astronomy 31 Attitude 193, 196–198, 200, 201, 264 Automaticity 106, 210 Awareness 12, 128, 198, 213–217, 258 B Behaviourism 24, 28, 115, 125, 127, 151, 152, 167–172, 194, 203, 239 Beliefs 29, 35, 71, 74, 77, 78, 79, 82, 85–89 Biology 22, 23, 28, 46, 47, 114, 145 Boyle’s Law 93, 94 C Causal explanation 14, 25, 28, 33, 46, 56, 72, 89, 103, 109, 112, 171, 180, 201, 204, 239, 240, 250, 255, 264, 265 Causality 52, 103, 140 Cognition 13, 66, 127, 139, 147, 148, 212, 213, 224, 226 Cognitive approach 203, 204, 225, 264 Cognitive science 12, 109, 243 Coherence 66, 67, 83, 96, 113, 180, 234 Communicative competence 5, 105 Competition Model 157, 163, 203, 235–243, 247

Connectionism 104, 171, 203, 235, 243, 249, 250 Consensuality 84, 85 Consistency 48, 83, 96, 111, 113, 147 Constructivism 54, 64–67, 78 Context of discovery 116, 170, 182 Contrastive Analysis 167–170, 205 Core grammar 105, 109, 130, 132, 163, 164 Critical period 193, 258 Critical Rationalism 49, 82, 99, 122, 201, 251 Culling 16, 49, 108, 111, 264 D Deconstruction 58, 60 Deductive argument 1, 21–25, 30, 33, 36, 46, 47, 71, 86, 87, 92–94, 100, 102, 110, 118, 157, 240, 264 Demarcation 27, 31, 54, 70, 82, 86, 116, 156, 251 E E-Language 127, 138, 154, 156 Emergentism 243, 245–250 Empiricism 19–32, 47, 48, 55, 69, 73, 81, 91, 111, 115, 122, 138, 167–172, 239, 240, 246, 247, 250, 251, 260 Epistemology 21, 24, 27, 29, 32, 53, 66, 67, 79, 95, 99, 115, 122, 138, 167, 168, 170–172, 194, 247, 249–251 Error Analysis 204, 205 Ethics 32, 52, 56, 88 Ethnographic research 2, 168, 172–176, 187, 188

292 Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition

Experience 25–27, 34–36, 55, 62–65, 74, 75, 83, 91, 141, 142, 143, 213, 238, 247, 257, 258 Experimental method 23, 24, 27, 30, 33, 34, 36, 39, 40, 44, 47, 72, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 91, 94, 96, 112, 114–116, 158, 161, 182, 201, 209, 217, 218, 226, 239 Explanandum 93, 102, 103 Explanans 93, 103 F Falsifiability 30–37, 42, 43, 47, 48, 69, 70, 72, 78, 82, 85, 86, 96, 113, 161, 162, 172, 225, 226, 238, 242 Frequency 172, 205, 215, 220, 226, 236, 244, 247, 249, 250 Full access hypothesis 157, 158, 159, 165 Functional approach 6, 7, 9, 13, 44, 56, 85, 90, 91, 104, 105, 187, 219, 235, 237–239 Fundamental Difference Hypothesis 157 G Generative Grammar 102, 123, 128, 133 Godel’s Theorem 80 Grammatical competence 8, 9, 15 Grammaticality judgements 159–162 I I-Language 126, 127, 138, 149, 154, 156, 163 Incommensurability 39, 41, 73–75, 188, 240 Incompleteness 10, 53, 190, 191, 208, 232 Individual differences 6, 163, 191, 192, 194, 196, 264 Inductive argument 14, 21–26, 29–31, 33, 36, 37, 46, 47, 69, 71, 72, 82, 93, 110, 157, 214, 216, 240, 255, 258, 261, 264 Inference to the best explanation 92, 103, 108

Information processing 215, 218, 225, 230, 233, 245 Initial state 132, 136 Input Hypothesis 16, 179, 180, 182, 219, 220 Instruction 10, 66, 183, 193–196, 217, 227, 229, 234 Instrumentalist 15, 112 Interaction Hypothesis 219–221 Interlanguage 11, 16, 100, 101, 107, 109, 154, 157, 158, 160, 172, 184, 185, 190, 191, 203, 207–209, 211, 212, 216, 221, 223, 226–230, 233 Internalism 137 L L1–L2 10, 16, 101, 104–109, 112, 124, 151, 153, 156, 157, 160, 163, 164, 169–171, 179, 195, 196, 204, 205, 207, 208, 209, 215, 220, 226–232, 238–239, 252, 254, 256, 259, 262 Language Acquisition Device 124, 132, 149, 205, 254 Laws 12, 22, 25, 26, 93, 102, 108, 110, 112, 181, 253 Learnability 16, 245 Linguistic Competence 5, 6, 15, 104, 107, 109, 127, 132, 137, 144, 149, 156, 158, 163, 164, 183, 185, 229, 233, 253, 254, 257, 259 Logic 20, 22, 28, 33, 44, 47, 56, 58, 81, 85, 155, 218, 245 Logical positivism 29 M Mechanism Criterion 105–107 Memory 90, 126, 140, 147, 183, 211, 213, 215, 218, 229, 230, 233, 234, 236, 257, 258 Mentalist 24, 28, 98, 151, 176, 187, 203, Metaphysics 28, 56 Minimalist Program 133, 134, 136–138, 165, 212 Modularity 140, 150, 154, 155, 236, 239, 248, 255

Subject index 293

Modules 139, 150, 154, 236 Monitor Model 13, 178–181 Morpheme Order Studies 205 Motivation 180, 189, 191, 192, 196–198, 200, 201, 264 Müller-Lyer illusion 35, 74 Multidimensional Model 221, 223–226 N Nativism 240, 246, 248, 249, 254, 255 Natural Order Hypothesis 178, 179 Negative evidence 40, 125, 157, 163, 262 Neurolinguistics 12, 109 Non-modular theories of SLA 104–106 Normal Science 37–39, 41, 98, 170 Noticing 184, 213–221 O Objectives 14, 205, 264 Objectivity 35, 54, 73, 75, 83, 119 Observation 21, 22, 25, 30, 31, 34–37, 40, 46, 47, 52, 64, 66, 73, 83, 85, 91, 111, 115, 142, 151, 181, 192, 240 Occam’s Razor 97, 117, 233, 243 P Paradigm 16, 17, 20, 24, 37–41, 52, 54, 57, 62, 63, 65, 67, 72, 73, 75, 85, 94, 97, 108, 111, 119, 121, 123, 124, 127, 167, 170, 178, 194, 203, 205, 207, 209, 244, 264 Parameter 36, 105, 129, 131, 132, 136, 149, 157, 158, 162, 227, 228, 262 Perception 25–26, 36, 73–75, 83, 115, 136, 139, 147, 148, 213, 217, 219, 226, 256 Performance 6, 9, 15, 90, 126, 127, 143, 152, 156, 158, 183–187, 201, 204, 206, 208, 209, 217, 225, 235, 239, 244, 245, 252, 254, 257, 258 Phenomena versus data 10–12, 88–92, 107–117, 201–207, 232, 233, 251, 253

Philosophy of science 2, 19, 41, 48, 49, 52, 60, 70, 72, 112 Physics 5, 22, 25, 37, 39, 40, 46, 47, 49, 52, 53, 62, 75, 114, 116, 182, 187, 247 Popper 26, 29–33, 35, 37, 39, 41–43, 47–49, 51, 69–73, 76, 78, 82, 83, 86, 87, 92, 93, 115, 117, 145, 146 Positivism 27–29, 32, 41, 47, 56, 69, 73, 81, 90–92, 167, 239, 251 Postmodernism 2, 51, 54, 55, 57–59, 63, 64, 67, 77, 80, 81, 97, 167, 168, 176 Poverty of the stimulus argument 125, 148, 152, 153, 249, 255, 256 Power law 244, 250 Pragmatics 13, 149, 155, 156, 164, 237 Prediction 34, 72, 87, 94, 185, 195, 223, 236, 238, 262 Principles and parameters 110, 125, 128, 129, 137, 154, 156, 208, 233, 235, 236 Probability 29, 31, 33, 107, 186, 236 Processability Theory 221, 223–227 Processing Approaches 209 Proficiency 9, 103, 104, 112, 125, 160, 189, 198, 199, 259, 260 Progress 13, 14, 16, 22, 23, 28, 37, 39, 41–45, 52, 54, 96, 117, 122, 153, 168, 171, 179, 192, 196, 197, 199, 203, 204, 208, 210, 216, 234, 259 Proliferation 12, 13, 108, 263 Property theory 102, 104–107, 109, 204, 248, 253–255, 259 Protective belt 43, 83, 116, 170 Psycholinguistics 25, 99, 168, 216, 226 R Rationalism 1, 2, 3, 17–19, 23, 24, 25, 29, 32, 40, 43–55, 60, 62, 67, 69, 70, 71, 76, 79–85, 95–102, 112, 114, 115, 118–123, 138, 143, 158, 187, 188, 201, 233, 240, 251 Reality 26, 55, 58, 59, 65–67, 69, 70, 97–99, 101, 113, 140, 155, 186

294 Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition

Reason 20, 26, 29, 33, 54, 56, 64, 71, 81, 82, 88, 89, 91, 92, 111, 113, 114, 119, 136, 172, 204, 216, 240, 253, 263 Relativism 2, 3, 19, 26, 32, 33, 34, 37, 39, 41, 44, 51, 53, 55, 60, 61, 65–71, 73, 75, 78–82, 84, 87, 95, 97, 99, 100, 101, 115, 118, 167, 168, 172, 176, 251, 264 Reliable knowledge 3, 20, 26, 27, 75, 81, 111, 192, 199, 249, 256 Research methodology 1, 14, 15, 19, 22, 24, 27, 28, 32, 37, 96, 100, 108, 115, 118, 122, 127, 161, 170, 172, 187, 188, 204, 208, 209, 225, 241, 251, 264 Research programme 2, 3, 13, 15, 40, 42–44, 49, 77, 83, 101, 151, 171 Research traditions 23, 43–46, 83, 95, 96, 171 Restructuring 12, 106, 210, 211, 238, 239

Subjective 2, 36, 53, 67, 74, 83, 101, 121, 201, 217

S Scepticism 20, 26, 32, 47, 57, 64, 69, 70, 74, 114, 118, 119 Scientific Method 2, 21, 25, 28, 31, 40, 43, 47–49, 51, 54, 64, 69, 70, 87, 89, 116, 118, 119 Simplicity 83, 97, 170, 178, 179 Social psychology 12, 87, 273 Sociolinguistic competence 9 Sociolinguistics 8, 9, 12, 15, 16, 25, 99, 121, 153, 168, 172, 183, 186, 188, 191, 256, 257, 260, 263, 264 Sociology of Science 51–53, 72, 84, 267 Solipsism 2, 32, 70, 74, 79 Staged development 10, 185, 190, 206–208, 212, 232 Strong Programme 51, 52, 54, 67, 78 Structural linguistics 127, 168 Structuralism 60, 62, 271, 282 Structure-dependency 130, 159

U Universal Grammar (UG) 5, 6, 10, 11, 13, 15, 16, 49, 104, 105, 109, 121–123, 125–133, 135, 137, 138, 139, 141, 147–152, 154, 156–165, 178, 203, 208, 227–230, 232, 233, 235, 241, 243, 248, 253–256, 258, 259, 261, 262 Underdetermination 36, 70, 71

T Taxonomy 14, 45, 46, 95, 114, 115, 137, 201, 246, 265 Tests 9, 29, 30, 32, 33, 37, 39, 40, 42, 72, 79, 81, 86, 89, 90, 92, 96, 100, 101, 108, 111, 118, 138, 145, 147, 150, 152, 160, 162, 188, 193–195, 197, 225, 241, 242, 251 Theoretical framework 39, 105–107, 127, 250 Theory assessment 2, 3, 42, 44, 45, 46, 76, 77, 83, 84, 87, 90, 95–97, 100, 101, 110, 119, 168, 182, 234, 251 Theory-laden 34, 73, 74, 91, 99 Transfer 10–12, 168–172, 206, 211, 225, 227–229, 232, 238, 239, 241, 242, 256, 274, 275, 280 Transition theory 102, 104, 105, 107, 109, 248, 249, 253

V Variability 10, 11, 15, 60, 163, 184, 185, 190, 232, 254 Variable competence 13, 15, 103, 104, 183–187 Variables 11, 88, 96, 105, 110, 113, 116, 189, 191, 192, 197, 199, 201, 209, 227, 253, 264 Variation 16, 48, 104, 105, 107, 129, 131–133, 135, 180, 184–186, 193, 259, 260

In the series LANGUAGE LEARNING & LANGUAGE TEACHING (LL<) the following titles have been published thus far, or are scheduled for publication: 1. CHUN, Dorothy M.: Discourse Intonation in L2. From theory and research to practice. 2002. 2. ROBINSON, Peter (ed.): Individual Differences and Instructed Language Learning. 2002. 3. PORTE, Graeme Keith: Appraising Research in Second Language Learning. A practical approach to critical analysis of quantitative research. 2002. 4. TRAPPES-LOMAX, Hugh and Gibson FERGUSON: Language in Language Teacher Education. 2002. 5. GASS, Susan, Kathleen BARDOVI-HARLIG, Sally Sieloff MAGNAN and Joel WALZ (eds.): Pedagogical Norms for Second and Foreign Language Learning and Teaching. 2002. 6. GRANGER, Sylviane, Joseph HUNG and Stephanie PETCH-TYSON (eds.): Computer Learner Corpora, Second Language Acquisition and Foreign Language Teaching. 2002. 7. CHAPELLE, Carol A.: English Language Learning and Technology. Lectures on applied linguistics in the age of information and communication technology. 2003. 8. JORDAN, Geoff: Theory Construction in Second Language Acquisition. 2004. 9. SCHMITT, Norbert (ed.): Formulaic Sequences. Acquisition, processing and use. n.y.p.