There, I describe my introduction to Linguistics as largely a question of fate and terrible Russian textbooks. That is all true, but only tonight have I realized and acknowledged the secondary (and at the same time, primary) reason why I am where I am: I thought the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis was true, and wanted to use it to improve life. Let me explain.

Applied Linguistic Relativity and you

I’ve discussed this idea (also referred to as ‘Linguistic Relativity’) elsewhere on this site before (view them all here), and in the interest of time (and friendliness to people who’ve not read the past posts), I’m just going to quote my past explanation posted here. I encourage you to read that full post to get a better idea of the controversy and guesswork involved in any exploration of Linguistic relativity, but for a quick summary, I’ve quoted the most explanatory parts:

The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is a blanket term for the idea that the grammar and lexicon of a person’s language subtly affects their thoughts and perspectives on the world. It’s a very hotly contested issue in modern Linguistics, and although the most extreme variations (the idea that language determines your thought) have been disproved through some pretty ingenious color studies, the more subtle varieties are still supported in some senses.

If the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is true, a speaker of the Hopi language (which has a very different system of tenses than English) will perceive time in a fundamentally different way than an English speaker. Similarly, a Spanish speaker will have a slightly different view of the world than an English speaker, simply due to the underlying differences between the two languages. If this is, in fact, the case, then there are huge ramifications in Linguistics, Cognitive Science, and the world in general.

Basically, I believed that one’s language can limit one’s thought. If you don’t have a word, you don’t have a concept, and your brain is bound. I believed that language was the fundamental chain that bound us all, so insidiously that we don’t even know it.

So, if language is the fundamental chain that binds our cognition, then what can we do to escape? Well, we have two options.

One would be to raise our children without language. This would certainly remove the binds of language, but cause them to be incapable of most of human interaction. Without language of some sort, there likely wouldn’t be civilization, society, or even basic human cooperation. This would clearly be, as the American idiom goes, throwing the baby out with the bathwater (getting rid of the good parts of something simply because there’s a small imperfection).

The second option, simply put, is to change language as we know it. This was my plan.

Not ambitious at all, why?

My plan was simple: If a person’s language puts limits on their cognition, then really, all you need to do is change the language in such a way that those limits are removed. If language is a dam on the vast cognitive river, then to get more flow, you make a less restrictive dam. Thus, my love of language creation was born.

My hope was to create a language through which anything was expressible. I still have between 30 and 50 pages of hastily scribbled blueprints for my language (‘evlit’ was the working title), ranging from the philosophical needs to the grammatical needs. That little strip of light that shows up on the wall because of the slight imperfection of the fitting of the metal pieces of the fluorescent fixture in my Russian classroom my Freshman year would be just as easy and quick to describe as, say, a gray cat. Regularity would abound, simplicity would be a constant, and ease of learning would be maximized. Ideas from computer science, philosophy, and more all bounced around in my head in an effort to come up with a language that would not just function, but would set our minds free.

Perhaps this all sounds strange to you all, and I’ll admit, it was strange. However, I’d like you to imagine for a second that language was really the invisible chain that binds us all. Imagine being able to do something that not only freed a single person from bondage, not only a single community or even state, but the entire human race. I felt that if I could actually create a language which was truly “better”, more versatile, and allowed true cognitive freedom, I could truly help the entire human race.

The Russian department pushed me away, sure. Languages intrigued me, no doubt. However, that’s not really why I’m here today. When I signed up for my Intro to Linguistics class, I wanted to learn the nature of the chains, so I could cast them off, then help other people do the same.

Realization

I still vividly remember one day, around three years ago, walking back towards the department with my Intro to Linguistics professor and talking to him about language creation. I explained my ideas for creating a new, improved language, as he listened quietly. We arrived back in his office, he sat down behind his desk, and he shared an insight that has affected me to this day. He turned to me and said: “Well, all you’re going to be doing is re-encoding how things work in your mind as an English speaker, just using different sounds and grammar”.

Pop. There went my plan. One offhand comment showed me the folly of my idea. I tried to fight the realization in my own mind for a few weeks, but really, it died right there. If language does fundamentally bind my thought, how the heck could I escape it long enough to loosen the chains. If I’m bound, I won’t be able to free myself, because I literally cannot exist outside of this bondage. By the time we’re old enough to understand and use language, then we’re old enough that we’re trapped. Soon after that, I realized that really, whether or not language affects our thought is irrelevant.

As the Buddhist monk Shantideva once wrote, “If there is a problem and you are able to do something about it, why despair? And if there is a problem and you are not able to do anything about it, why despair?”. If language does, in fact, change how we think, well, we’re already bound and we can’t really escape, so there’s nothing we can do. If language doesn’t change how we think, then there’s no problem at all. Nobody’s bound, and there’s nothing we need to do. Either we’re bound, or we’re not, and we’ll never be able to tell the difference.

Even I were somehow able to create a truly better language, and even if it helped people, it would also likely result in a great linguistic genocide. Many of the remaining languages on Earth would gradually be abandoned in favor of a more useful and more powerful language, and the blood of all those grammars would be on my hands. So, I’ve realized that my goal, my dream, of changing and “improving” language to help the world is not only impossible, but probably not even a good idea. Yet, I’m still a linguist.

Now what?

Language is truly incredible. Next time you see a conversation taking place, sit back and watch. Patterns of air pressure, body language, and facial expressions are being used to express the millions of thoughts flying around inside our heads, and even more amazing, those things can be interpreted and understood by other people. The fact that we have a means of communication at all, let alone one so full of nuance and beauty, is simply miraculous.

I might have come to Linguistics because I wanted to improve language, and because I thought I could use it to help the world. The reason I’m still here is because I’ve realized that human language is not only sufficient for what we need, it’s truly miraculous. This may sound corny, but I am captivated by the complexity, the grace, and the sheer pragmatic beauty of grammar, sound, and the cognition required to get it there.

Nobody knows exactly where language came from, or when it developed. Heck, nobody knows exactly how language works in our minds, how we learn it, and how we understand it. We have described elements of it, have made lots of theories, and we’ve even made some progress on understanding how we go about making language. However, there are still many mysteries out there.

I might not set the world free with a single word, but language is a fundamental aspect of our everyday lives, if not the fundamental aspect. By studying language and the mysteries involved, I’m studying not only grammar, sound, or cognition, but human life itself.

If that’s not important, what is?

Today on the bus there was a radio ad playing for some sort of storage company. This ad was an “interaction” between a female narrator and a male narrator, who, for some reason, was speaking mostly in Pig Latin.

Ackground-bay

For those unfamiliar with it, Pig Latin is an spoken English word game in which one removes the first consonant (or consonant cluster) in a word and places it at the end of the word, followed by the vowel sound /ei/ (as in “hey”, “play” or “may”). So, dog becomes “og-day”, blog becomes “og-blay”, and grammaticalization becomes ‘ammaticalization-gray’.

It’s relatively common, and has entered the popular domain in a number of places. Google (oogle-gay?) is available in pig latin, and the “ixnay on the ______” construction is fairly common (meaning “Don’t talk about/do ______”). Interestingly, there are similar (but not identical) language games played in other languages. Wikipedia has a list of some of these games which has some very interesting examples.

Anks-tay or anks-thay?

So, on this radio ad, at the very end of the ad, the female narrator said “Thanks”, and the male corrected her to “anks-tay”.

This is interesting because generally, the consonant is kept the same in pig latin, just moved to the back of the word. So, I’d expect it to be “anks-thay”, with a θ (the sound in “thistle”). This got me to thinking, why would this happen?

ut-whay oes-day onology-phay ave-hay u-tay u-day ith-way it-ay

Phonology, as I’ve mentioned before, is the study of sound systems in a language. Every language has a system of rules which dictate which clusters of sounds and sounds are valid, and which aren’t. For this reason, “lomin” sounds like it could be an English word, but “ngostla” doesn’t. If you try and pronounce something and have lots of trouble, chances are, it’s violating a phonotactic rule of your language.

So, what’s wrong with “anksthay”? Well, I tried pronouncing it. Even with my training in pronouncing strange things, it’s a bit troublesome to go from a k to an s to a θ without any vowels to rest. Since each sound is made in a different place in the mouth (the velum in the back for the K, the Alveolar ridge for the S, and with the tongue between the teeth for the θ), you have to do a lot of moving without any rest.

Compare this to “ankstay”. We have no problem with this (it’s very similar to “angst” an accepted English word) because the “st” cluster is pretty easy to make. To make an S, you bring your tongue up to the alveolar ridge (the bony ridge of the roof of your mouth, just behind the teeth) so it’s just far enough away to cause friction in the air. To make a T, you put the tongue in the same place, except you make a complete closure. To make an “st” cluster, your tongue stays in the same place, it just moves upwards to change the S to a T.

For English speakers, “kst” is a much easier cluster to handle than “ksth”. There may be a phonological or phonotactic rule to explain it, but I’m not sure what that rule would be offhand. However, if we just look at the clusters that exist in the language, we can figure out what’s allowed and what isn’t, and suddenly, it all becomes clear.

Languages games like Pig Latin may not be serious in use, but studying how people use language when playing them can reveal a great deal about the phonology and phonotactics of the language in question.

See, even the most serious linguist has a place in their life for fun and games.

Cross-Galactic Communication

In the series, the Galaxy is invaded by a very nasty species called the Yuuzhan Vong, who come from outside the galaxy and speak a very different language than “Basic”, the accepted trade language of Star Wars. As you might expect, the Yuuzhan Vong cannot understand Basic, and the rest of the Galaxy cannot understand the Vong. This language barrier, as you can imagine, can play a significant role in any situation.

Both sides have ways of compensating for this, though. The New Republic (those in charge of the Galaxy after the Star Wars movies) uses technology to overcome the barrier, with translator robots (“droids”) doing the talking and translating for them (one book mentions offhand that the Yuuzhan Vong language is remarkably similar to an existing language, thus, permitting translation). The Yuuzhan Vong, on the other hand, bring with them complex biotechnology (living ships, weapons, even living implants), and to solve the language problems, use a small worm embedded in the ear called a “Tizowyrm“.

A Tizowyrm understands what is said in another language, and then translates it for the host creature. This is strikingly similar to the Babel Fish in the “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”, a small fish that lives in the ear and translates similarly.

The Tizowyrm’s magical Phonological powers

So, the Babelfish in Hitchhiker’s guide only allowed one to understand other species. So, I would talk to the alien in English, the Babelfish would translate for them, and they would respond in their language, which would be translated for me. However, if the other party didn’t have a Babelfish, there would be vast confusion. This is, as far as translation fish go, fairly believable. If a creature such as that could exist, that wouldn’t be an unthinkable way of their functioning.The Yuuzhan Vong Tizowyrm, however, is purported to allow one to speak in the other language as well as understand it. This is where I start to grow more wary.

Sure, in theory, the Tizowyrm could read the mind of the Vong, understand what he wants to say, and then say it in Basic into his ear. However, that doesn’t mean he could instantly say it.

Imagine if I were to whisper a Russian phrase into your ear once. Do you think you could repeat it without speaking Russian? How about Chinese or Thai? Languages all have different sound systems, and just because you hear a given sound or tone, that doesn’t mean that you’re going to be able to pronounce (or even hear) it. Hearing something alone doesn’t allow you to say it. You must train your tongue and mouth to make the required motions (and strings of motions) until it becomes second nature to do so. This is one of the more difficult parts of learning a language, and this is also one of the reasons that children have a far easier time of picking up languages. They’re better able to learn the required gestures.

This also relies on the assumption that the Yuuzhan Vong are capable of producing the language at all. The entirety of the Basic-speaking Star Wars universe flows on the idea that there’s a single language which can be spoken by most species. However, this is fairly unlikely. The human vocal tract is incredibly advanced and complex, and a single change (say, in the tissue binding the tongue to the bottom of the mouth) could render entire groups of sounds unpronounceable. So, to imagine that a group of Extragalactic aliens has the required phonetic apparatus to create (or mimic) all the sounds of Basic is a little far fetched.

However, this is even more far-fetched with the Yuuzhan Vong. The vong also have a disturbing tendency towards self-mutilation. One prominent leader, Warmaster Tsavong Lah, is described as having lips that have been cut into small strips and which flail about when he talks. Somehow, though, he seems to have no trouble with bilabial consonants (which involve the use of both lips) such as “b” and “p” when speaking Basic in the book. Similarly, I suspect that Vong with a ritually split tongue would have trouble with laterals (like ‘L’) among other sounds.

The Tizowyrm, then, must be truly magical. Not only does it translate complex, culturally loaded statements with ease, but it allows one to overcome his or her language background and use sounds correctly to speak “the language of the infidels”.

Then again, maybe this is just a fictional Sci-Fi series written for Star Wars fans and not Phonetics nerds. Yeah, that’s probably it after all.

I’ve been slowly making my way through the several-thousand-page series of Star Wars: New Jedi Order books. They’re certainly an entertaining read, and a great way to relax after analyzing language for a decent part of the day. The other day, I was reading Star by Star, one of the books in the New Jedi Order, and had one of those “linguist moments”.

Throughout the Star Wars extended universe, there is frequent mention of the Ysalamiri lizard. This lizard is unique in that, in the Star Wars galaxy, it can completely negate the effects of the Force in a small bubble around it. Its presence is frequently used as a plot device, but they never once show up in the movies.

My problem was that I couldn’t figure out how to pronounce their name, and none of my usual sources had a pronunciation guide. There are two options, based on the spelling and my particular reading of the word:

1) yi-sal-a-mee-ree (IPA below)

2) i-sal-a-mee-ree (IPA below)

Because the letter “Y” can be either a vowel sound (“fishy”) or a consonant/semivowel (“yet”), we can’t be sure just from looking at the word which one we’re talking about.

However, as I was reading through the book, I had a sudden “Aha!” moment and all became clear.

I’ve talked about the alternation between “a” and “an” before, and it’s a very cool phonological quirk of English (a quirk caused by rules governing the sound system). The rule states that “a” becomes “an” before a spoken vowel. So you have “a key”, “an object”, and, because it starts with a glide, not a vowel, “a university“.

I stumbled across this passage in “Star by Star”:

… Jaina glimpsed a lizardlike shape clinging to the back of the tree… “An ysalamiri,” Jaina said loudly.

“An ysalamiri”! Because this rule is pretty consistent throughout the language (and adding an “N” isn’t a typo likely to survive editing), we can now safely assume that “ysalamiri” is pronounced with a vowel at the beginning of the word (option two, i-sal-a-mee-ree). We can’t be sure whether that vowel is the same as in “beat” or in “bit”, but hey, every little bit helps.

So, much like the Force, Linguistics is everywhere, in all endeavors, academic and recreational, big and small. Now, I just need to learn to use Linguistics to lift an X-Wing. Maybe I could turn a lightsaber hilt into a voice recorder…

Right now, in-Game languages are usually rather disappointing to a Linguist.

For instance, in Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, the main character interacts with a variety of different human and alien species on a variety of planets. Although most interaction with humans (and a few specific non-human characters) takes place in English with actors reading lines, when an alien speaks, a soundbite of their “language” is played and a subtitle is shown on the screen. Now, this is cool, and the fact that every species that speaks has a different and recognizable sound and sound system in those soundbite is a really cool thing. However, it’s literally just two or three soundbites. So, every time your garden variety Twi’Lek speaks, one of the two or three twi’lek soundbites is played, no matter what’s being said and who’s saying it. So, although the Twi’Lek language in KOTOR has a sound system, there’s no actual grammar.

In game languages can get more complex, though. In Ambrosia Software’s Escape Velocity: Nova, they have a slightly different philosophy. Although all communication is through text, they’ve managed to work some interesting language use in. There are several species living in the same galaxy, and the naming of both the planets and the ports on them is usually reflective of the language of the species. Looking at a Galactic map, one can pretty easily distinguish the different governmental regions of control just by the planet name. For example, The Polaris (in purple) generally have names with a single syllable, an ” ‘ “, and a cluster of syllables, whereas the Wraith (grey, at the top of the map) name their planets with a syllable, a ” ‘ “, a capitalized orthographic vowel, ” ‘ “, and a syllable cluster.

However, the really interesting stuff happens when you look more closely at the Polaris planets and personal names in EV Nova. In the game, they are explained as having Five Castes. If you learn the different castes and the naming system, then just by looking at the map, you can tell instantly which of the castes controls a given system, which offers a huge gameplay advantage. Say, for instance, you needed to purchase an armor upgrade. Knowing that military hardware is sold by the Warrior caste (the Nil’Kemoria), you could look at the map for the nearest system prefixed with “Nil’” indicating warrior caste control, and go there. Similarly, it’s easy to determine where to go for cheap medical supplies (at the Healer caste planets, with “P’”). So, learning elements of the Polaris language in EV Nova is a boon to the gamer, and I applaud the folks at Ambrosia for taking the time to actually make something (no matter how small) out of the language, rather than just leaving it as creative gibberish.

Some games have interesting language features that aren’t even meant to be interesting. In Star Wars: Jedi Knight, Jedi Academy they have the wonderful option to have all dialogue, interface features, and subtitles in English or Spanish. Being a language nerd, I usually leave it set to Spanish. The translations are very good in general, with only a few comical aspects. Notable among them is the fact that Jedi, pronounced “Jed-eye” in English, is pronounced “Yed-ee” in the Spanish version). It’s also quite funny to see a Rodian speaking Spanish, with the distinctive Rodian pitch and filter.

So, oftentimes, games (especially in Sci-Fi and fantasy) will give a nod to the existence of non-human language, but very seldom will they actually go through the trouble to make that language into more than just background noise. However, those games that do choose to utilize some variety of actual, meaningful created language create a unique experience for the gamer, and deserve commendation.

These are just a few salient examples from the vast world of gaming. If you’ve got another example, leave a comment or send me an email and I’ll give it mention, or, if you’re space-travel enabled, just stop by Ling’angma, home planet to the Linguist caste. You might not want to bring any grammarians, though.

Also: If you look at the sidebar on the main page, you’ll notice I’ve added a new feature, the Link of the Moment. This is just a random language, life, or computing link that I’ve found interesting and bookmarked here. It changes every time you refresh the page, so come back often. :)

This book is a science-fiction work, taking place in the Exapnded Star Wars universe, following the adventures of Wedge Antilles, Corran Horn, and the elite pilots of Rogue Squadron. The squadron itself is composed of many different species, and today’s example comes from Ooryl Qyrgg, a Gand pilot, and is paraphrased below.

Corran nodded in what he hoped was a friendly manner. “Why do you speak of yourself in the third person?”

…

“On Gand it is held that names are important. Any Gand who has acheived nothing is called Gand. Before Ooryl was given Ooryl’s name, Ooryl was known as Gand. Once Ooryl had made a mark in the world, Ooryl was given the Qyrgg surname. Later, by mastering the difficulties of astronavigation and flight, Ooryl earned the right to be called Ooryl.”

“This still does not explain why you do not use pronouns to refer to yourself.”

“Qyrgg apologizes. On Gand only those who have achieved great things are permitted to use pronouns for self-designation. The use of such carries with it the presumption that all who hear the speech will know who the speaker is, and this assumption is only true in the case where the speaker is so great, the speaker’s name is known to all.”

…

“Then why do you sometimes refer to yourself by your family name, and sometimes by your own name?”

The Gand looked down for a moment and his mouth parts closed. “When a Gand has given offense, or is ashamed of actions, this diminishes the gains made in life. Name reduction is an act of contrition, an apology. Ooryl would like to think Ooryl will not often be called Qyrgg, but Qyrgg knows the likelihood of this is slender.”

I’ve discussed the power of names in the past, but this is taking the idea to a whole new level. I’ve never heard of a language, culture, or speech community where a name is not assigned to a person until they “earn” it, and would be fascinated to hear about it if anybody has. However, the idea of name changes with great accomplishments (or great demerits) is not uncommon. In some Native American cultures, a child changes names at the end of adolescence, once he or she has proven his or her worth and become an adult. In addition, a warrior winning a great battle may be given a new name to celebrate the accomplishment. However, to the best of my knowledge, there isn’t a system by which these names can be given and removed as frequently and non-chalantly as in Stackpole’s view of the Gand cutlure.

The idea of first-person pronoun use being presumptuous is also an interesting concept. Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with the first-person pronoun in American English, and using a Third-person form of address would likely be a barrier to communication in everyday life (I suspect that “Excuse me, Will has lost Will’s number, can Will have yours?” just wouldn’t go over as well). It is worth noting, however, that this subsitution does occur in some specialized sorts of writing, namely police incident reports and some journalistic reports.

Now, the question of “being known to all who hear the conversation” is a different matter. In most conversations in social situations where there are unknown people in a conversation, you are either introduced, or it’s perfectly acceptable to add in a casual “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name?” without causing anybody to lose face. So, although using one’s full name instead of a pronoun might be useful every so often (as to reintroduce yourself to any new participants) or in some contexts (with a group of people, on a Walkie-Talkie system), the Gand strategy would likely result in a great deal more redundancy than usefulness in many of our human languages.

Although the Gand system of naming and self-reference is little more than a fascinating idea in our culture, it still serves as a great (albeit artificial) example of the necessary interaction between language and culture and the field of Sociolinguistics. However, if you do happen to stumble across a short, bug-eyed alien with a noticeable exoskeleton and a penchant for ammonia, you’d best remember this post, for the sake of interplanetary relations.

Proponents of E-Prime maintain that the English verb ‘to be’ in all of its forms has no place in discourse. Thus, words like “be, being, been, am, is, isn’t, are, aren’t, was, wasn’t, were, weren’t” are strictly forbidden. However, no ban has been placed on words like “has, become, will, would, do, shall, ought”. Two wonderful poems have been placed on the Wikipedia site, one in E-Prime, and one in Conventional English.

Conventional English
Roses are red;
Violets are blue.
Honey is sweet,
And so are you.

E-Prime
Roses seem red;
Violets seem blue.
Honey pleases me,
And so do you.

E-Prime’s creator felt that these rules “reduce the possibility for misunderstanding and for conflict”. The reasoning for this seems firmly rooted in the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis, as they argue that the use of ‘to be’ can create false security in characteristics (when we say “the coat is red”, we only know that “the coat looks red to me”). They also seem to feel that the elimination of ‘to be’ leads to a language based less on an objective view of reality. Thus, eliminating statements of reality which include no epistemic information (information about how we know what we know) forces us to concentrate on the subjective nature of our interpretations. By adopting this language change, the creators of e-prime seem to feel that our perceptions would gradually shift as well, and eventually, so might our thoughts.

My primary skepticism involves the benefits of adopting such a change. Even if the elimination of ‘to be’ in written and spoken discourse could actually affect our perceptions of the world, I wonder whether the resulting change would really reduce the possibility for conflict and misunderstanding. Sure, false objectivity and lack of epistemic information in language could disappear (at least partially), but I question whether the awkwardness caused by eliminating ‘to be’ might outweigh the benefits and create additional sources of confusion. However, the awkwardness would vary from person to person. I composed this entire post in a basic form of E-Prime (excepting examples), and I did not find it overwhelmingly difficult, but I also cannot imagine it working well in spoken discouse.

E-prime seems quite innovative to me, and although I cannot see it catching on in everyday use, the mere idea provides a great example of thinking outside of the linguistic box in language creation/expansion. It seems like a good step towards precision language, and the idea of eliminating words for higher precision fascinates me. Thus, like many created languages, E-Prime seems destined to a gradual journey down the river to obscurity. However, like all created languages, it offers a new perspective and a new way to view the world.

I’ll end with a great quote from one of the E-Prime sites:

“You don’t need to take drugs to hallucinate; improper language can fill your world with phantoms and spooks of many kinds.”