Making Books, Making Language

This post is about an asymmetry in the current disciplinary configuration of literary studies: scholars of my generation often possess detailed professional knowledge of how the books of their period of study, as physical objects, were made. Yet very few of them have an account of how the utterances in those books were made, apart from the patently inadequate notion of word choice (“words in their sites,” as Ian Hacking once put it) and, perhaps, familiarity with classical rhetorical tropes and figures. In the 60’s and 70s Linguistics provided the primary technical resource the discipline literary criticism; now that role is filled by descriptive bibliography.

The general asymmetry has a bevy of local expressions. My colleagues are more likely to have studied how the ink and paper of Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies was made than how Shakespeare made the sentences in Hamlet. They are surprisingly likely to have spent time writing about William and Isaac Jaggard’s contributions to the volume relative to Shakespeare’s own. Their working vocabularies are more likely to include bibliographic terms like catchword and signature than the distinction between intensional and extensional meaning that is of great import in the philosophy of language. They are far more likely to read and cite D.F. McKenzie arguing that the material form of texts determines their meaning than the work of Noam Chomsky (or any other linguist, for that matter) arguing that the syntactic form of sentences determines their meaning. They are more likely to have performed a collation than a syntactic parse, though they may well have done some sentence diagramming (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sentence_diagram) in primary school. They think lots about textual instability and little if at all about scope ambiguity, lots about compositors and little if at all about compositionality, lots about the conventionally meaningful elements of a title page and little if it all about the conventionally meaningful elements of a sentence. I’d wager that more of them know how to differentiate stab-stitched bindings from sewed bindings than count nouns from mass nouns (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Count_noun). And of course the attention to books as physical objects is just one element of the larger turn, across the humanities, from the study of language to the study of media – material substrates and technologies through which communication takes place – and perhaps more generally still from “representations” to materiality, objects, and “things.”

A few qualifications are in order. There is evident vagueness built into who is included in “my generation of scholars” and what counts as an “adequate” account of language – vagueness that for the moment I don’t plan to dispel through stipulation. And I’m really speaking here about North American literary academia plus Oxbridge and London Universities. In countries where English is not the first language, as well as in non-Oxbridge UK universities outside of London, students of English literature frequently study linguistics along with the English language. (As a point of reference, here are the institutional affiliations of the editorial team of the journal Language and Literature: University of Huddersfield, UK, The University of Nottingham, UK, Universidad de Granada, Spain, Jean Moulin University, Lyon, France.) Scholars of Old and Middle English Literature are much more likely to have devoted time to the study of the English language and its history than scholars who study Early Modern or Modern English, though I can’t speak to how often this extends beyond establishing fluency and factual knowledge to theoretical matters. It is also plausible, though not clearly the case from where I sit, that comparatists working across multiple languages are more likely to engage with the technical study of language.

More obviously, it is inherently difficult to generalize about what people know: there are a lot of people out there, and they don’t always exhibit their knowledge in person or document it in published scholarship. I am acquainted with many scholars whose wide and voracious reading has led them to corners of linguistics and the philosophy of language that were not otherwise part of their coursework and training. (My own education in linguistics has been entirely extracurricular.)

Finally, I don’t doubt that my sense of this disciplinary asymmetry is perspectival, in part a product of selection bias. I work on the early modern period, the era of what Elizabeth Eisenstein called the “Printing Revolution,” and as a frequent denizen of the Folger Shakespeare Library, I am unusually likely to meet and socialize with a particular subset of early modern literature scholars: those who choose to leave their home institution and travel to a library filled with physical early modern books and those who get funding to do so. I have friends and colleagues who work on marginalia, typography, fonts, punctuation, bookbinding techniques, miscellanies and anthologies, Sammelbände, paper and ink making, printhouses, booksellers, waste paper, secretary hand, commonplacing, title-pages, and more. A surprising number of them have tattooed early modern printer’s marks, punctuation marks, manicules, or other reader’s marks somewhere on their body.* This milieu is not everyone’s milieu.

Yet even taking these qualifications into account, I believe the disciplinary asymmetry remains. We can characterize it more definitely by speaking not about the knowledge of individual scholars but about the institutions that train them. At the University of Virginia’s Rare Books School (rarebookschool.org), founded in 1983, academics across disciplines mix with “antiquarian booksellers, book collectors, bookbinders, conservators, curators, rare book librarians, teachers, and professional and avocational students of the history of books and printing” (https://rarebookschool.org/admissions-awards/faqs/). At this “mainstay of bibliographical education in the United States and the English-speaking world,” (https://rarebookschool.org/about-rbs/a-brief-history-of-rbs/) scholars can take courses in “The Printed Book in the West to 1800,” “The Book in the Manuscript Era,” “Printed Books to 1800: Description & Analysis,” as well as courses in paleography, papermaking, illustrations, photographic printing, typography, and bookbinding (no less than nine courses on bookbinding are listed on the website.)

For each of the past 17 years, the Texas A&M Book History Workshop has offered a 5 day workshop in which “participants to create a complete facsimile of an eighteenth-century pamphlet by setting, correcting, and imposing type on an English common press, then printing the book in three octavo formes.” (https://printinghistory.org/texas-book-history-workshop/). Workshop activities include “casting type in a hand mould, setting type and preparing it for the press, printing on a period-accurate common press, papermaking, creating marbled and paste papers, and experimenting with a number of book illustration techniques.” (https://library.tamu.edu/book-history/about). Participants do not merely study books, they “experience a complement of practices used to create books.” In the words of R. B. McKerrow, that experience includes “all the processes through which the matter of the work before them has passed, from its first being written down by the pen of its author to its appearance in the finished volume.”*

So far as I know, there are no comparable summer programs geared to provide literary scholars specialized training in what happens as a text is “first being written down by the pen of its author.”

This doesn’t mean that students and professors of literature receive absolutely no such training, only that the linguistic paradigm in which they are trained is (looks at watch) more or less a century old. A literary theory course built around the Norton Anthology (https://media.wwnorton.com/cms/contents/NATHEORY3%20TOC.pdf) will include extensive passages from Saussure’s Cours (1916), selections from two essays by Roman Jakobson, and a chunk of J.L. Austin on performative utterances. (The Rivkin and Ryan theory anthology drops the Austin and adds Derrida on semiology.) And of course so much of literary theory, through structuralism and post-structuralism, depends on the foundation of structural linguistics, with more or less explicitness. Even if they haven’t spent time with Saussure, scholars are likely to have encountered in later theorists – Levi-Strauss, Lacan, Barthes, Althusser, Kristeva, Butler, Hall, etc. – the notion that the linguistic sign is an arbitrary pairing of signifier and signified that gains its identity only as part of a larger system of differences. This foundation serves as a support for one of the core activities of current humanistic inquiry across disciplines – antifoundationalist, historicist, lexical semantics – which has persisted largely unchanged through so many claims to methodological novelty over the past several decades.

What about graduate programs and the courses they offer, since this is where the profession reproduces itself? Short of a big data analysis of grad curricula, I am wary of making claims about a domain this big. But a leisurely morning stroll through the current course offerings of a dozen or so top programs reveals a regimen of explicitly labeled book history (and/or bibliography) courses, spread across institutions. Courses with an explicitly linguistic topic or aim are almost entirely absent; a lone exception, of precisely the sort that seems to prove the rule, is the graduate course “Linguistic Theory and Poetic Structure,” offered by a linguist, John Bowers, at Cornell University.

There’s certainly more work that can be done to establish and characterize this asymmetry. But I want to move on to the question that I’ve been pondering for a little while now: how did this come to be? How come current Shakespeareans study in great detail how a leather binding is stitched, embossed, and stamped, without having more than a rudimentary account of how the sentences written by Shakespeare were produced?

I think the most crucial part of the answer has to do with the current disciplinary organization of knowledge. Because there are whole departments of Linguistics devoted to studying language, with a faculty, major requirements, grad programs, and course offerings, and so on, the burden of studying and understanding language has been effectively offloaded. Book history, by contrast, has nowhere else to live, no disciplinary home of its own, outside of departments of Literature, History, and scattered programs in Media Studies, communications, etc. (That it also lives in libraries, archives, and rare book shops is another thing altogether.) Grad students who want to understand recent theories of how language works – how we produce and understand utterances we’ve never witnessed before, how the meaning of those utterances is composed of the meaning their parts, etc. – can take courses in Linguistics… in their spare time, with spare credits, which is to say rarely if at all. What gets offloaded gets forgotten or left out.

This disciplinary division tracked onto one of the biggest intellectual divides of the second half of the 20th century. By the latter 1960s, language took on entirely opposed functions for the opposing camps. For Foucault and the humanities work he inspired, language was the “mankiller,” the premier “positivity external to Man” that constituted human being historically, producing it as a contingent “figure,” and the goal of studying language was to detranscendentalize the claims of the human sciences. Around the same time, by contrast, the study of language in the Chomskyan paradigm became the most prestigious domain for the production of truths about universal human nature.  It purported to establish the biological transcendentals and species-specific endowment of human beings abstracted away from cultural and historical difference. Once it was clear, circa 1980, that literary studies would embrace the detranscendentalizing project, claims about language beyond the cultural specificity and contingency of the lexicon became suspect.

Language itself became a divided terrain: to the linguists went grammar, generality, and universality; to humanists went words, arbitrariness, and cultural specificity. Book history lent itself rather easily to the historicizing project, or at least travelled alongside it without conflict, since the material supports for communication, publication, and distribution vary quite dramatically across periods and cultures; better still, book history compensated for the tendency to idealism of various linguistic, social, and cultural constructivisms precisely because of its hard-nosed and workmanlike empiricism (see “the new boredom”). In this sense, book history didn’t come “after theory” at all but was theory’s easy companion and (depending on what one supposes is the current status of “theory”) survivor.

A further element of an answer has to do, I think, with the strange character of linguistic knowledge, as part of what has sometimes been called the “unrepressed unconscious”: unconscious because readers may to one degree or another share Shakespeare’s linguistic knowledge – know very well how to comprehend his lines – without knowing what they know; unrepressed because that knowledge is gained through experience (a controversial claim in linguistic theory), it never appears explicitly in conscious experience in in a way that could be forgotten or pushed into the unconscious. Scholars sit down to look at the 1623 Folio already possessing most of the linguistic knowledge they need to read and understand it, and they unconsciously learn the rest just by reading Shakespeare and others of his linguistic community.  In short, you don’t need a graduate course for that.

Early modern printers, publishers, compositors, papermakers, and typesetters possessed a rather different kind of knowledge. They learned their craft by consciously watching others operate a hand press and by operating it themselves. Likewise, a scholar sitting down to inspect an early modern book does not already possess the expert knowledge of its production but must reconstruct it, based on artifacts from the period and the evidence of the book itself. When scholars learn how a book was made, they learn it consciously and explicitly, knowing what it is they know.  That’s what classes and summer schools are for.

Still more speculatively, much of the rhetoric around book history has to do with visibility, experience, and tangibility: the object of the book is there to touch, to inspect, and even, potentially, to take apart and put back together again. You can see and handle the tools of the printer’s or binder’s trade, try out for yourself the techniques of production, and hold in your hand the final product: the book itself. McKerrow’s “process” is open to “experience” and direct inspection in a way that the process of making or understanding an utterance is not. (Chomsky observes, somewhere in Rules and Representations, that the primary barrier to such inspection is ethical rather than technological.) In a discipline that otherwise tends to abstraction, scholars have obviously found in the touch of the material book a kind of consolation that attribute value charts or categorical constituency trees or the rules of a context free grammar do not offer.

 

*I’ve heard that linguists sometimes get Wug tattoos, but I’ve yet to see it in person. But linguists also strike me as less likely to get tattoos overall.  I don’t have the confidence to offer an analytic for this difference.

*R. B. McKerrow, “Notes on Bibliographical Evidence for Literary Students and Editors of English Works of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Transactions of the Bibliographical Society12 (1911–13): 220. Quoted from Todd Samuelson and Christopher L. Morrow, “Empirical Bibliography: A Decade of Book History at Texas A&M,” The Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America 109, no. 1 (March 2015): 83-109.

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Other Than Scale: Abstract Signs in the Digital Archive

[Delivered as part of the “Mid-Range Reading: Manifesto Edition” panel, organized by Alison Booth, of the DH2018 Conference in Mexico City]

A great deal of digital humanities work over the past decade or so has employed scale as the concept that distinguishes it from other methods of literary and cultural study. Quantitative scholars in particular have quite naturally chosen scale as the specific difference of their method. They speak of the computer as a “macroscope” that permits “macroanalysis.” Critics counted words and documents before computers, but computers let them count and compute lots of them. Contrasting themselves with close readers, “distant readers” propose, with the help of machines, to step back from the individual pages and books to see more and see bigger. When the popular press sees fit to feature DH, it is scale that gets touted and scale that gets maligned.

Claims of scalar difference are often apparently precise. Instead of offering a reading of a single novel, distant readers study the titles of 7,000 British novels from 1740-1850, or ask how not to read a million books, or search through (as of last count) the 60,237 full texts in EEBO TCP I and II. For nearly all quantitative analyses of texts, the authors tell (or could tell) the reader exactly how many words they are counting in exactly how many documents over how many years, since these numbers are the basis of more sophisticated metrics and models.

The concept of scale is not wrong or misguided in any simple sense, and I plan to issue no prohibitions on its use. Nor do I plan to offer a brief for the micro in opposition to the macro (As Roopika Risam and Susan Edwards did at DH2017). I want instead to argue that we should displace scale from its marquee role in differentiating data and corpus based digital inquiry from other approaches. That displacement has perhaps already begun. Surveying recent work by a range of scholars in an attempt to forestall attacks on the use of data in literary study, Ted Underwood observes that “None of them, as far as I can tell, have stopped doing close reading.”  “We also do close reading” is a totally sensible line of defense, albeit one that fortifies distant reading at the expense of its distinctiveness. This is all to the good.

My argument is twofold. First, I want to suggest that in spite of quantitative precision – so many words, so many documents, so many years – we often don’t have a clear idea of what we talk about when we talk about scale. Even when bag-of-words approaches are forthright about discarding word order and syntax, they rarely operate with even a rudimentary account of the range of phenomenon they are discarding. Individual texts, as competent readers make even basic sense of them, are much bigger and more informative than is usually acknowledged by even the most sophisticated quantitative approaches. What has been characterized as an increase in scale can usually be more accurately described as the sacrifice of one sort of information for another. I happen to think (contra Wai Chee Dimock and all talk of fractals) that this sacrifice is very often worthwhile – and it is in any case inevitable. But we ought to know what has been sacrificed, what hecatombs digital approaches to literary history have placed on the altar of scale. As it turns out, digital methods and tools are increasingly well suited to this task too.

My second argument is that the dominance of scale in accounts of digital methods has occluded other, non-scalar distinctions that may, in the long run, prove no less consequential for digital humanities research, including quantitative research. Those include notions like explicitness, falsifiability, reproducibility (!), modeling, prediction, gradualness, sampling, and more, but I want to focus today on one in particular: abstraction, specifically the abstraction characteristic of the linguistic sign. I turn to the insights of construction grammar and corpus linguistics to suggest possibilities for qualitative and quantitative investigation that have so far been overlooked by digital humanities work operating under the rubric of scale.

Let me illustrate using a relatively simple example, the bigram thought leader. The thought leader has assumed a particular preeminence in the Age of TEDx, but the OED gives its earliest appearance as 1887, when it was used to describe Henry Ward Beecher,[i] and some quick Googling antedates this use by a decade.[ii] If the bigram were part of a corpus modeled as topics or vectors, it would be counted as two words – a token each of the types thought and leader – though it functions as a single semantic and syntactic unit, a compound noun, which is why, for example, we pluralize it as thought leaders, not thoughts leaders. The loss of the compound, however, is only a small part of what gets left out of just about any bag of words approach.

What we actually know, when we understand an English noun compound like thought leader, is a hierarchy of abstract signs, pairings of form and meaning. So in addition to being familiar with the conventional expression thought leader, we also know the partially abstract form NOUN leader, as in group leader, squad leader, ring leader, house leader, student leader, and so on. These partially unspecified compounds have a built in under-determination: leaders can be included in or excluded from the groups they lead. A student leader may or may not be a student herself. The compound thought leader has an additional quirk. Presumably a thought leader is a thinker who leads other thinkers, rather than thoughts per se. But the compound thinker leader is blocked by singer songwriter, hunter gatherer, and other [VERB-er]N [VERB-er]expressions which indicate coordination rather than compounding.[iii]

The partially schematic NOUN leader is itself an instance of the still more schematic construction NOUN [VERB-er]N, which finds ample use in Richard Scarry’s classic children’s book Busy Busy Town.

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What kids learn when reading, if they haven’t learned it before, is that someone who empties the wastebasket is a wastebasket emptier, someone who makes beds is a bed maker, and, by extension, someone (or something) who wugs wigs is a wig wugger.

And NOUN [VERB-er]N is, in turn, an instance of a still more schematic double noun construction, NOUN NOUN, like media lab and nominal compounds in general X NOUN where the X is any part of speech (and perhaps even a fully general compounding schema X Y, about which I won’t say more). Here then is the hierarchy of constructions for thought leader:

 

X X                       > Snow white (adj), freeze-dry (verb), stormcloud (noun)

X NOUN               > digital humanities (adj n), downdraft (adv n), flyboy (verb n)

NOUN NOUN     > railroad, party bus, textbook, fire drill, media lab

NOUN [VERB-er]N  > table setter, cherry picker, cake baker, motherfucker

(wig wugger = someone or something who wugs wigs)

NOUN leader     > majority leader, party leader, squad leader, Senate leader,

team leader, student leader, ringleader

Thought leader

Geert Booij (2010) gives the following formulation of the nominal compound construction, drawing on the notation of Ray Jackendoff (2002):

[[a]Xk [b]Ni]Nj <> [SEMi with relation R to SEMk]j

Don’t get intimidated by the variables and symbols. If you are a fluent English speaker, it’s already part of your linguistic knowledge, something you know even if you don’t know that you know it. Humanists trained in the structuralist tradition that looks back to Saussure think of the linguistic sign as looking like this:

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But the nominal compound construction is also a sign – a conventional pairing of form and meaning – that looks unfamiliar only because of its abstraction.

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Elements of form and meaning are left blank, unspecified, so that they can be filled in with new words to produce an open-ended set of utterances, including ones no one has ever said or written before.

Basically what the notation says is that in a compound noun the rightmost noun (b) is semantically primary, while the word to the left (a) bears a semantic relationship (R) to the noun (b).  The letter X means that the left word can be any part of speech (adj, verb, prep, etc.).  The letters i, j, and k map elements of the signifier to elements of the signified.  It’s because you possess this construction that you know that a gun show is a show and not a gun, an oven mitt is a mitt and not an oven, and a wig wug (whatever that might turn out to be) is a wug and not a wig. It’s because this form is part of your linguistic knowledge that you might have noticed something strange – I mean morphosyntactically strange – about the “Squatty Potty” – namely that its order is wrong, since if it is anything, it is a squatty and not a potty.

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The nominal compound construction is language specific, though many languages have a cognate construction. In Spanish the order is reversed, with the noun head (the semantically determinate noun) occupying the left position as in El abrebotellas (lit. open bottles, bottle opener), or El comeflor, (lit. eate flower, a derogator term for hippy). There’s no explicit morpheme –er to indicate agent or instrument, as in the English, but the compound as a whole contributes that meaning without needing to posit an empty or “deep” morpheme without surface realization.

The most interesting part of the English compound noun schema is the variable R, which stands for the relationship between the two concepts specified by the two nouns. The compositional meaning of noun compounds, at least at this level of abstraction, is significantly underdefined by convention (Downing 1977). If you didn’t already know that a party bus is a bus in which parties occur, rather than a bus that takes you to parties, or a bus that looks like a party (here I have a stage direction to push my glasses up my nose), you would have to infer it using a complicated combination of linguistic convention, situational knowledge, and world knowledge (about parties, about busses, etc.).  If someone referred to the bus taking you to a party as a “party bus,” it would be the most unobtrusive and minimal sort of pun, the sort of pun that we pass over all the time without conscious notice,

Nominal compounds are not only productive – you can make new ones that no one has ever used before – they are also recursive. Because a nominal compound is a noun made of nouns, you can compound compounds, and compound the compounds of compounds. On the corporate side, there’s an entire section of glassdoor.com for “[[[ThoughtN LeaderN]N liaisonN]N JobsN]N,” with, the last time I checked, 491 listings, more than half the number of jobs as last years’s MLA Job List.  One add invites you to ““Join us as the Leader of our [[[ThoughtN LeaderN]N LiaisonN]N TeamN]N.

But compounds aren’t just for corporate speak.  Poets sometimes use recursive compounding to special effect, as in George Herbert’s “Prayer 1”: “Reversed thunder, [[[ChristN-sideN]N-piercingADJ] ADJ spearN]N,” or the first line of Gerald Manly Hopkins’s “The Caged Skylark” “As a [[dareV-galeN]N [skyNlarkN]N]N scanted in a dull cage.”  These examples have different compounding patterns:

The first is left branching, like this:  [[[[  ]  ]  ]  ], while the second is formed through adjunction, pairing like this: [[ ][ ]] [[ ] [ ]].  (If there are more precise technical terms for these kinds of compounding patterns, I’d be glad to learn them.)

So far I’ve been telling you bits of knowledge that, if you are an English speaker, you know implicitly and use virtually every day, when you understand the utterances you hear and read and when you produce new ones. Yet the role that abstract signs like nominal compounds play in culture and history have gone virtually without study by humanists. Alphabetical print tools like dictionaries, indexes, and concordances are great for finding words, but they are nearly useless for finding abstract constructions that have little or no fixed alphabetical content. That’s where digital tools come in, especially those built by corpus and computational linguists. Using corpus search tools like those at CQPweb or corpus.byu.edu, you can retrieve instances of NOUN leader or NOUN NOUN.

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Using the morphological analyzer features that are part of most NLP packages, you can sort the NOUN NOUN results for instances where the second noun is a VERB stem plus the suffix –er, yielding only instances of NOUN [VERB-er]N.  It also wouldn’t take too long to sort through the list of double nouns by hand to exclude false positives like bell pepper, which is a nominal compound but not a NOUN [VERB-er]N compound.

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In diachronic corpora, like the Corpus of Historical American English, or the texts of EEBO TCP, which run from 1473-1700, you can study the way these schematic constructions change and vary over time. You can see how they instantiate in a variety of  distinct expressions. Our ability to study abstract constructions will improve as NLP and corpus query tools do, and this happens to be precisely the sort of semantically important feature of language that computational linguists have recently been hard at work on.

My work on abstract constructions, as in my book, Cyberformalism, has been primarily qualitative – I find all the instances and tell philological stories about them – but with sufficient recall and precision in the right corpora, we could study the quantitative distribution of their instantiations, chart how they change over time, and formulate hypotheses about their role in culture and society based on the trends that are revealed. I’d hypothesize, for example, that the type variety ofNOUN [VERB-er]N tokens correlates with labor and instrumental specialization. In other words, the type to token ratio of the construction would increase dramatically with the division of labor characteristic of a post-Fordist society, and increase still more in a digital economy that has not only computer engineers, computer programmers, and software developers, but information systems security engineers, JAVA database application programmers, and multimedia web application developers, and so on.  If the trendline for the type to token ratio doesn’t rise with the rise of labor and technological specialization, or if it reveals more complex patterns, then there would be more hypothesizing to do.

Obviously finding, counting, and computing nominal compounds is more complicated than finding words. Their abstraction means that they won’t be matched by any fixed string.  Their orthography is unpredictable: one text’s sky lark is another’s skylark.  Their recursive, matryoshka-like potential means that we don’t even know how many words long, how many constituents, they will have.  We’d have to make judgements about how to count recursive compounds: presumably “[[dareV-galeN]N [skyNlarkN]N]N” would count as three instances rather than just one.  But here is the question: do we study only the aspects of language that are easy to find and count, like words, or do we seek also to make our methods adequate to the nature of the language we study?  I ask the question without offering an answer.

Abstract constructions like noun compounds are constitutive of everything that we write, say, read, or hear. They contribute to the meaning of complex utterances and provide a basis for both everyday linguistic creativity and the extraordinary creativity exemplified by poets. Understanding them is essential to understanding form and meaning at the level of the sentence, the utterance, the line of verse. Studying them expands the possibilities of close reading in a way that, so far as I have seen, identifying large-scale lexical trends do not.  I could also imagine it being helpful for a writer or poet: making unconscious knowledge conscious makes new possibilities for use and misuse.  Abstract constructions are constitutive of what we read when we close read, but measuring words at scale – even the small or function words that signify grammatical relationships rather than lexical concepts – flattens out or discards just these abstractions. In topic models or word embedding models, thought leader becomes just two more words – two tokens of two types – conveniently separated by spaces. In the age of print, it made sense that cultural studies didn’t attend to the history or cultural significance of abstract constructions: we didn’t have the tools or the digital texts to study them. Increasingly we do.

Of course, questions of scale won’t go away if we take a fuller account of the information even in the shortest bits of text. We will always have to make decisions about the proper scale of inquiry, to ask what archive, set of texts, or sample subset of texts is the proper evidentiary basis for our claims, and to determine what scale of analysis fits the scale of the phenomenon. But these will be primarily technical questions, taking their place alongside many others. Scale will cease to serve as the banner concept that sets digital inquiry apart or defines its promise for humanistic understanding.

 

[i] OED: 1887   L. Abbott & S. B. Halliday Henry Ward Beecher i. ii. 56   Mr. Beecher retains his position as the most eminent preacher and one of the great thought-leaders in America.

[ii]https://books.google.com/books?id=Oes_AQAAMAAJ&dq=Thought%20Leader&pg=PA134#v=onepage&q=Thought%20Leader&f=false

[iii] Thanks to Amir Zeldes for this point. My interest in noun compounds began with reading Livio Gaeta and Amir Zeldes (2017) “Between VP and NN: On the Constructional Types of German -er Compounds.” Constructions and Frames 9(1).

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A Construction Grammar Syllabus for Humanists

Over the past few years, a number of colleagues have said to me something like this:

 

“Yeah, I know the folk theories we pick up in humanities curricula aren’t plausible accounts of everyday language use and especially language creativity. But linguistics is a big field, and I don’t know what to read or where to start.”

 

This post – somewhere between a syllabus and an annotated bibliography – is here to help. I want to caution, emphatically, that the readings it lists do not provide a full or neutral overview of the whole field of grammatical theory at present, much less a history of the field over the last half-century and more since the Saussure or Jakobson that literary scholars are likely to have encountered in an Intro to Theory Course. It does not include work by Noam Chomsky or those working in successive Chomskyan paradigms (transformational grammar, government and binding, principles and parameters, X-bar theory, minimalism). I’ve invested quite a lot of time and effort in reading and grappling with this work, often with great pleasure, and I regard Syntactic Structures and Aspects of the Theory of Syntax as intellectual monuments of the highest order. But for various reasons (many of them controversial) I hesitate to recommend these works to literary critics, literary or intellectual historians, or cultural theorists who aren’t already independently invested in the questions they address. As I’ve suggested in earlier posts, one reason why most humanists, since about 1980, have worked with either inadequate structuralist accounts of language or even less adequate folk models (often picked up while studying a second language) is that the methods, concepts, claims, and aims of the Chomskyan paradigm are either largely irrelevant or directly inimical to the goals of humanistic inquiry.

 

Luckily, that paradigm is not – is no longer – the only game in town. (There are lots of games now.)  The following bibliography of work in Cognitive and Construction Grammar aims to offer humanists a point of entry to an approach or school of linguistics that is, I think, especially well suited to the kinds of work that scholars do in literary, historical, and interpretive disciplines. Taken together what this approach offers to humanists is a more rigorous, adequate, explicit, and empirically grounded account of how we routinely produce and understand utterances that we’ve never encountered before, how signs are structured, how the meaning of complex utterances are composed of the meaning of their signifying parts, how those elements come to be part of our linguistic knowledge, and how languages vary over time.

 

Because the constructionist approach to grammar is “sign-based” – treating our linguistic competence as a repertoire of variously abstract and complex signs – it is remarkably well suited to the intellectual traditions of structuralism and post-structuralism that are foundational to much literary and cultural theory. (It also forces us to rethink some of the central dicta of those traditions, such as the arbitrariness of the sign, but more on that anon.) Unlike the “autonomous grammar” of the Chomskyan paradigm, it offers a holistic account of grammar that is linked at every point with meaning and discursive function, even while adopting the central, paradigmatic problem of creativity posed especially well by Chomsky: how is it that we make (potentially) infinite use of finite means. Because Construction Grammar is not primarily oriented towards establishing the features of a universal grammar by isolating invariants across the grammars of natural languages, it does not need to cordon off an essential, biolinguistic grammatical “core” from the epiphenomenal cultural “periphery.” Instead it adopts, as Kay and Fillmore put it, “a commitment in principle to account for the entirety of each language,” including aspects usually deemed “peripheral.” a commitment which orients it towards the task of taking full account of cultural, linguistic, and historical specificity.

 

Here’s the Syllabus. I’m posting it now, but it’s far from finished, and I plan to add to and enrich it in stages. Though it bears some resemblance to an annotated bibliography, it isn’t organized alphabetically or chronologically. Its order is instead pedagogical: it aims to lead the inquisitive humanist through a fairly comprehensive theory of language.

1. The best place to start – a worthwhile read even if you read nothing else – is a short, brilliant, informal lecture by the Berkeley linguist Charles Fillmore on idioms and idiomaticity. Idioms (as the term itself suggests) have usually been treated as idiosyncratic, inessential, peripheral, or marginal epiphenomena of language. But Fillmore argues that “idioms are the irreducible units of description for the way a language works,” such that “almost every grammatical model is a theory of idioms, since the job is to isolate those principles which are in themselves irreducible, that is, which are not explained by other principles in the same language.” This is an argument of the “the stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone” sort, in which what have usually been regarded as marginal or inessential (idioms) are shown instead to be the “irreducible unit of description” (constructions of various complexity and abstraction).


2. Fillmore, Kay and O’Connell’s conception of constructions builds on important work on idioms happening at UC Berkeley in the 1980s. Here is the key paper by Nunberg, Sag and Wasow, which shows that idioms aren’t readily assimilable to either a rule based conception of grammar or to a list-based lexicon. Get ready for a good bit of string pulling and bucket kicking!

Even literary scholars who are uninterested in grammar can, I think, profit from some time spent thinking about idioms, which have in the past 40 years probably been the most important driver of changes in the way that linguists and philosophers of language think about the structure of the sign. We are best able to see and study the things that we are able to name.   I think it’s plausible that generic forms are essentially abstract, partially demotivated idioms, with abstract and minimally constraining slots generalized over characters and events rather than lexical items.

3. A more developed version the argument that idioms or idiom-like units are the basis of our grammatical knowledge is Fillmore, Kay, and O’Connell, “Regularity and Idiomaticity in Grammatical Constructions: The Case of Let Alone,”  which is one of the founding documents of Construction Grammar. It uses the analysis of a single construction (X let alone Y) to propose a total rethinking of the edifice of grammar and ends by suggesting that the abstract and semantically autonomous principles characteristic of Chomskyan grammar are “degenerate instance[s]” of phrasal constructions like X let alone Y, that are both combinatorial and paired with a conventional meaning.

4. It’s worth reading one further account of an unusual construction – What’s X doing Y? – by Kay and Fillmore. A payoff of this article is a new understanding of the threadbare joke:

Diner: Waiter, what’s this fly doing in my soup?
Waiter: Madam, I believe that’s the backstroke.

But the larger stakes involve learning A) how to identify individual constructions, instantiations of which have conventional meanings that are “neither given by ordinary compositional processes nor derived from a literal meaning by processes of conversation,”  B) how to determine the various but constrained ways that lexically unfilled variables in a construction like What’s X doing Y? can be filled, C) how to position a construction in a larger “inheritance hierarchy” of constructions that constitutes the grammar and lexicon of a language.


5. With a few key arguments in under your belt, it’s worth stepping back to take a more synoptic view of construction at grammar. Those who would like it in a single book should get their hands on Constructions: A Construction Grammar Approach to Argument Structure (1995) by Adele E. Goldberg. Goldberg is the current standard bearer for and an impressive champion of constructional approaches, and her first book covers issues of form, meaning, compositionality, information structure, synonymy, and more. Where Fillmore, with whom Goldberg studied for her doctorate, worked mostly on purportedly “peripheral,” idiomatic, or culturally specific constructions, Goldberg tends to focus on constructions that it would be implausible to exclude from our core linguistic capacities, like Subj V Obj1 Obj2, as in Pat threw Sam the ball, or Subj-Aux inversions, as in Am I on the hook for this? Her second book Constructions at Work: The Nature of Generalization in Language (2006) provides a similarly synoptic account of Construction Grammar while focusing especially on how children learn constructions through experience. Since the second book, her research has involved more controlled experiments and statistical evidence for mechanisms of language learning. I am eagerly awaiting her third book, Explain Me This: Creativity, Competition and the Partial Productivity of Constructions.

Goldberg’s publications are listed here, and many of them can be downloaded directly. I have yet to read one that does not repay close attention.

6. Those who would like a chapter-length rather than a book length synopsis should look to Chapter 9 of William Croft and Alan Cruise, Cognitive Linguistics (Cambridge 2004), which offers a clear and succinct introduction to the commitments of constructional approaches and how they differ from those of the Chomskyan paradigm.

 

So far this syllabus has included work on the nature of constructions and of their systematization in a repertoire (often called a “constructicon”) that stretches from individual morphemes and words to the most general phrase structures of a language. But while construction linguistics began in grammatical theory, it has had significant influence on other areas of linguistic research that are relevant to understanding literature, culture, and history.

7. Most obvious is historical linguistics, which study the ways that language changes over time. A compelling early essay that used a constructionist framework to understanding language change is Michael Israel’s cleverly titled “The Way-constructions Grow.”

8. More recently, Elizabeth Traugott and Graham Trousdale’s book, Constructionalization and Constructional Changes (2013),  recast the key mechanisms of language change (grammaticalization, lexicalization, etc.) in a constructionist framework. Literary and intellectual historians looking to study signs more abstract than keywords will find exemplary models in this volume.

9. Most constructionist approaches are more or less explicitly committed to the notion that grammar is an emergent phenomenon of language use rather than a pre-existing structure (biological or otherwise) that is merely fixed by experience and implemented in use. The idea of emergence was first proposed by Paul Hopper, who remains its most radical exponent, arguing that much of grammatical structure arises in the course of conversation between speakers.

10. The term “usage-based” expresses a similar idea: that we learn the resources for what can be said through our experience of what has been said. Joan Bybee’s usage-based theory is explicitly quantitative: which constructions we learn, and the character of the learned constructions, depends on frequency of use. Quantitative digital humanists are more likely than  humanists at large to take up the statistical claims of usage-based theories.

But Bybee also advances a distinct claim that is, I think, of great relevance to literary history at large. She argues for conceiving of “grammar as based on constructions and as having an exemplar representation in which specific instances of use affect representation.” The productivity of grammar, in her account, is not fully captured by abstract constructions (with open or unfilled variables that we fill in new ways). These constructions are stored with exemplary instances, which also play a role in the production of new utterances. To give an example that I’ve published on: when someone asks What would Michael Jordan do?, they are not just filling in a partially unfilled construction, What would X do? with a new name, they are also basing their utterance on a prefabricated exemplar, What would Jesus do?

Usage-based grammar, in other words, gives us an explicit model of how existing literary works form a linguistic basis – exemplary as well as abstract – for the production of new works.  Though linguists elaborate the theory at the level of the phrase or sentence, it is clearly applicable to generic form as well.  The cultural competence that allows authors to write new novels includes  exemplars (the actual novels that they have read) as well as the repertoire of forms that they possess by abstracting from and generalizing over their reading.

Galaxy Brain.jpeg

So far I have deliberately focused on construction grammar without saying much about the cognitive side of things. To study constructions is to study the nature of the linguistic sign and of the system of signs as, in Saussure’s terms, a “social product” (13), “a collective phenomenon” (19) that is “social by nature” (16). But even if signs are social and collective, they must also have a psychological existence “in the brain of one individual” (11). And to one extent or another, all of the work I’ve cited makes or at least relies on claims about the nature of human cognition – about what human brains do, how their categories are constituted and organized, how they represent knowledge, and what their capacities and limitations are.  This is true, of course, of Saussure (and structuralism more generally): his concept of langue presupposes a particular theory of mind, even if that theory is minimalist and mostly implicit.  Cognitive linguistics, as one might expect, aims to be explicit about its theory of cognition.

Claims about human cognition make humanists like me a bit uncomfortable. I’ll have to explicate the character of this discomfort another time; suffice it to say that it’s not at all obvious where an account of the sign ends and an account of human cognition begins.

11. Eleanor Rosch is a psychologist whose work on categorization has provided one of the foundations of cognitive theory and construction grammar.  She uses ethnographic study and controlled tests to argue that human categorization across cultures is not the product of historical accident but is the result of psychological principles.  Her account of categories, however, is markedly different from the “classical” accounts of philosophers like Aristotle, for whom a category specifies the necessary and sufficient conditions of its members.  Building on Wittgenstein’s idea of “family resemblance,” she shows that categories are not like empty boxes which clearly delineate what things are included in them or not.  Instead they have an internal structure.  They are organized around a “prototype” or best example (as a chair and table are best examples of the category furniture).  They are “graded,” which means that members participate in them to greater lesser degrees as they resemble the prototype (a penguin is a less good example of the category bird than a sparrow ).  They are radial, meaning that the gradations extend along different attributes (a piano is big relative to the prototype of the category furniture, a car seat is more less domestic and more mobile relative to that same prototype).  Their boundaries are frequently fuzzy (color categories fade into one another), and they frequently overlap with other categories (a piano is a peripheral member of furniture but a prototypical member of instrument).  Rosch also challenges the Aristotelian taxonomy, or system of categories, in which categories stack in a relation of genus to species.  She argues (with Brent Berlin) that in human categorization schemes, there is a “basic level” category that, in most taxonomies, is not the highest level or lowest level category, .  So, for example, children learn the category “dog” before “Mammal” or “Dachshund.”

12. George Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal About the Mind (1987).  Lakoff builds Rosch’s experimentally-based prototype theory of categories along with work of others (like Paul Kay on color) into a full-blown account of cognition that is embodied, imaginative, holistic, and ecological.  This is a big and multifarious book, and I won’t summarize it all here.  (Lakoff himself is quite adept at summarizing his own claims in bullet point form.)  Literary scholars are likely to know Lakoff for his work on how metaphor is basic to thought, but so far as I can tell they have not picked up on his central role in developing construction grammar as an alternative to the Chomskyan paradigm.  Along with  Fillmore, Kay, and O’Connell’s “Let alone” article, with whom Lakoff collaborated,  the book’s third case study, on There-constructions, published at about the same time, is a founding document of construction grammar.  The study shows how grammar might be conceived of as pairings of linguistic forms and cognitive models (meaning in a capacious sense).  But it also rethinks the nature of linguistic structure using the theory of categories developed by Rosch and others.

When Saussure conceived of langue as a system of differences without positive terms, he supposed that the system – the “structure” of structuralism – was built out of two kinds of relations: syntagmatic and associative (which Jakobson later dubbed “paradigmatic“) relations. Differences along these two axes (which can also be considered as the operations combination and substitution) can be treated as binary oppositions or simplified to a set of oppositions.  What’s clear, however, is that the relations acknowledged by Saussure – while not at all spurious or superfluous – are on their own insufficient for accounting for the structure of our linguistic knowledge. Lakoff shows how constructions – partially or fully schematic signs – are arranged into radial categories, with less central members that are based on more central ones.  The open slots in these constructions have radial structures as well.  As parings of form and meaning, the relations between constructions are motivated, not arbitrary, though not always strictly predictive.  Metaphor, metonymy, and analogy are constitutive of the grammar, not supplements to it.  The system of constructions is also hierarchical, with more concrete child constructions inheriting the formal and semantic properties of their more schematic parent constructions.

13. Ronald Langacker, The Foundations of Cognitive Grammar  (1987).

Langacker was developing Cognitive Grammar at the same time as scholars in the Berkeley linguistics department were working on the first case studies of Construction Grammar.  But where Fillmore, Lakoff, and others tended to devote extensive attention to a single, representative idiom or construction (X let alone Y, What’s X doing Y) or family of constructions (There-constructions), and then draw out general consequences for our knowledge of language as a whole, Langacker set out to rebuild the system of grammar from the ground up.  Cognitive and Construction Grammar, while conflicting on occasional theoretical details, are deeply compatible enterprises, and Goldberg and other practitioners tend to draw liberally from both.

 

….

#. And, of course, humanists interested in seeing how studying abstract constructions with the help of digital tools can expand the scope of philology, and with it our understanding of literary and cultural history, should have a look at my book, Cyberformalism: Histories of Linguistic Forms in the Digital Archive.

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What’s “Love” Got to Do with It?

Let me frame a sympathetic objection to an earlier post: “For the sake of argument, let’s suppose I accept your claim that tautaulogies (NP1 Be NP1, as in Love is love) are semantic as well as syntactic, rule-like as well as word-like. It’s plausible enough that they are part of the ideology of language, in the way that that the legacy of structuralism in critical theory taught us to see with words. And maybe humanists, to the extent that they’re invested in meaning and form, could start paying attention to the history, meaning, and ideological function of linguistic forms like it. I understand why, from your perspective, what has been subject to literary and cultural study in the last few decades looks not like the full domain of language, but only a relatively narrow band or stratum of language – only lexically specified sign units.

But even if you are right that there is more to see and explain about language than we find in our current lexicons, it doesn’t follow that humanists ought to train their critical sights on such things. Even if politics is pervasive in our language and does real work beyond our vocabulary, it doesn’t follow that scholars should be compelled to identify, analyze, and contests it workings everywhere, in all the strata of language.

The fault lines, the factional and social differences, that matter to our contemporary politics are – no surprise here – organized around differences of race, gender, class, sexual, identity, ability, and so on.   We might give somewhat different accounts of what categories belong on this list (caste, species, religion, national origin, etc.), or what words best name those categories. But no matter: they will be words. And the same is true if we study law, or desire and affect (“love”), or our political institutions, or poetics, empire, animals, climate change, disability… or discourse on nearly any topic. When we are interested in culture and history, the kinds of categories and concepts we will be interested in will reside in the lexicon, in the words we use to describe people, identities, institutions, and ideas, and not in tautaulogies and other abstract signs that operate like combinatory grammatical rules. In fact, when we talk about studying a “topic” or “subject,” what we mean (on at least on some accounts) is studying what is picked out by a small subset of our lexicon, by some words and not others.

So while cultural studies could, as your book argues and as your earlier posts suggest, re-gear itself with digital tools to study a wider range of signs, and might have a more ‘complete’ account of language as a result, doing so would be to take a step away from precisely those issues that matter or reasonably should matter most to the work of cultural studies.”

 

Ok, I think this is a fair point. (Why thank you, imagined objector!) The relative abstraction of tautaulogies and other lexically unfilled sign units like them – the very property that makes them the basis for linguistic creativity – also makes them less germane to the particular content-oriented questions that scholars, working in the cultural studies mode, set out to ask. To give an example, it is understandable that historians of human rights have not taken an interest in the hierarchy of nominal compounds that the term instantiates. And this will be true on a sliding scale: the more abstract the sign, the less lexical and conceptual specificity it will involve.

My response at this stage is speculative rather than self-assured. But I think there are good reasons why abstract signs like NP1 Be NP1 matter nonetheless, and why leaving them unstudied has left a big gap not just in cultural studies’ account of language but in its analytical and critical toolkit.

The formality of linguistic forms are not a distraction from our current political situation. In fact, the abstraction of a sign like NP1 Be NP1 – the constrained indifference of its variables – gets right to a (the) central feature of liberalism as a doctrine and a political regime.

Under this regime, the law assumes, or wishes to assume, a formal existence, and specifically an indifference (within its particular scope) to particular cases, particular people or classes of people, and their particular substantive moral doctrines and aims. (Here I set aside, for the moment, the rise of illiberalism under Trump, which has called this basic indifference into question.) Judges are supposed – or suppose themselves – to apply law in uncontroversial, and even mechanical ways, constrained only by the law itself and the facts of the case, and setting aside normative issues that would compromise the law’s autonomy. Except for a few narrow cases (the named classes protected from employment discrimination, for example) the law is written without respect to the identities of those who are subject to it. As the arch-classical liberal F.A. Hayek writes, “It is the Rule of Law, in the sense of the rule of formal law, the absence of legal privileges of particular people designated by authority, which safeguards… equality before the law” (117).

As Hayek was willing to acknowledge more directly than most of his successors, “formal equality before the law” in this conception “produces economic inequality” and is “incompatible” with the aim of “material and substantive equality.” What’s more, the legitimacy of liberalism does not actually require “formal equality before the law,” only the appearance of such equality. Hayek argues that what can be claimed for the Rule of Law is just that it is not “designed to affect particular people in a particular way.” But even this is claiming too much. All that law’s legitimacy requires under liberalism is that this design is implicit and plausibly deniable.

Some of the best-documented examples of the disparity between the formal indifference of law and the particularity of its history, design, application, and effect involve the war on drugs. In 2010, four years before Washington D.C. legalized the recreational use of marijuana, black people were 8 times more likely to be arrested than white people, despite using and selling pot at similar rates. Nationwide, black Americans arrested for drug charges were almost 6 times more likely to go to prison. These disparities persist despite the fact that laws regarding drug possession are “color blind,” with no mention of racial identity, and the politicians who made the laws had learned to expunge racial vocabularies from their public statements. But journalists and historians have brought to light compelling evidence that the unequal effects of the war on drugs were hardly incidental to its design. Legal scholars and sociologists have long studied the gap between the formal indifference of the law and the inequitable particularity of its application and effect.

As long as literary and cultural studies in the structuralist tradition works only with words as the sole bearers of meaning, the sole building blocks of utterances, and the sole protagonists of linguistic history, it will be unable to take account of the gap between rule and application, between the relatively abstract and law-like non-specificity of langue (language as a system), and the particularity of parole (what is said).

What I am proposing here is a rough analogy between the formal equality of law and the formal abstraction of forms like NP1 Be NP1. The NP “blanks” or variables in a tautaulogy are lexically unspecified, allowing them to be filled in ways that speakers haven’t encountered before, even as they are constrained to be noun phrases rather than other constituent constructions. But the blanks in tautaulogical constructions are never simply blank, never neutral or empty containers that can be filled equally by any NP. They have an internal structure that is the product of the form’s history. What can be said is built out of and configured by what has been said. This is what linguists mean when they call a theory of grammar “usage based” and what Derrida took account of in Glas when he wrote that langue is constituted by the contamination of parole. It is easier to repeat what has been said before than to invent anew – easier to repeat prefabricated instances such as Boys will be boys or girls will be girls than to produce unwitnessed instances, and easier, until quite recently, to say War is war than Love is love. Repeated use wears grooves into the blanks in our constructions, so that there are more and less obvious, more and less costly, ways to fill them.

(The name we give to those who break from the grooves worn into the blanks of our constructions is “poet.”)

Linguists have developed a range of ways of describing the structure of lexically unfilled blanks that are not simply a matter of frequency. Instead they make full use of our figurative capabilities – our ability to establish likeness and difference. Since George Lakoff adapted the prototype theory of the psychologist Eleanor Rosch to linguistic categorization, linguists have observed that many open blanks exhibit a “radial” structure, which means that they are organized around a central exemplar or exemplars, with less central members derived by metaphorical extension. Without further evidence from a corpus or archive, it’s not plain that the blanks of tautaulogies have a radial structure, but examples that do are not hard to come by. When we read I shop therefore I am or I eat, therefore I am, we know that shop and eat are not simply members of the category “verb” but also analogical replacements for Descartes’ exemplar think.

Understanding tautaulogies and other abstract signs requires resisting two kinds of reduction. On the one hand, they are lawlike elements of (langue) insofar as, in their abstraction, they are different from and irreducible to the totality of what is said (parole). A blank’s internal structure arises from the history of its use, but by virtue of abstraction it is never identical to that history. Conversely, a form never achieves the pure or autonomous formality of the categories Chomskyan rationalists suppose we possess at birth, before linguistic acculturation begins. Its blanks never pull free from the history of saying out of which they emerge.

Let me draw out more explicitly the analogy between linguistic forms and the form of law under liberalism. Both emerge from a concrete history, a history of lives lived and things said. Both necessarily acquire a degree of autonomy or “formal existence” that differentiates them from the concrete history that birthed them. It is this formality that allows a law to determine unforseen cases and allows a form like NP1 Be NP1 to license unwitnessed instances. In their formality, both are to one degree or another removed from the lexical specificity of the identity terms (black, white, male, female, gay, straight, etc.) that have preoccupied recent decades of literary and cultural theory in the Lacanian/Althusserian tradition. But their formality nonetheless arises from and is configured by a history of dramatically unequal treatment. They bear that inequality in the structure of their categories and reproduce it in their subsequent use – “colorblind” laws when they are applied to particular cases, lexically unspecified constructions when they are instantiated in our utterances. (It goes without saying that the formality of linguistic forms and the formality of law, while both matter, have quite different consequences for our collective life.)

A cultural theory unable to look beyond our inherited vocabularies is in the position of a legal studies capable only of critiquing those laws that make explicit mention of particular identities. Without understanding the categories of linguistic forms like NP1 Be NP1, we won’t understand how inequality is built into the structure of our language or the mechanisms by which that inequality reproduces itself.  At the same time, these forms are fundamental to our everyday creativity and our ability to remake that structure. More on that anon.

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“Cultural Marxism” According to Stuart Hall c. 1983

Last post on Stuart Hall – at least for now. In his 1983 lecture series Hall traces what is at once an intellectual history of the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at Birmingham, a (provisional) history of the development of cultural studies as a discipline, and a history of his own intellectual tradition.

 

Hall’s lineage runs like this: F. R. Leavis(!), Richard Hoggart, Raymond Williams (in conversation with E.P. Thompson), Claude Lévi-Strauss (drawing from Ferdinand de Saussure and Émile Durkheim), Louis Althusser (building on Lacan’s account of subject formation), Antonio Gramsci (with a side glance at Nicos Poulantzas), and perhaps (by extension, and certainly for us, now) Hall himself. Marx and Engle provide the ground base over which this tradition develops. There’s a page or so on Foucault in the midst of a longer treatment of Althusser’s account of the subject, and a glancing reference to Walter Benjamin. That’s basically it.

 

 

 

The most obvious thing to notice about this tradition is that it is entirely male. Hall was not, in 1983, unaware of women writers and intellectuals – he had been married to the feminist historian Catherine Hall since 1964 – or of feminist theory.  At one point he suggests, for example, that “the question of reproduction [of the social relations of production] has been assigned to the Marxist (male) pole, and the question of subjectivity has been assigned to the psychoanalytic (feminist) pole” (135). But at this stage of his career he did not regard women or feminist thought as a determining influence on his own intellectual formation.  (For an illuminating account of history of Stuart Hall’s initial resistance and eventual recognition of feminism, and of its place at the Centre, see Escosteguy).

 

Reading Hall and the intellectual tradition he traces got me thinking about “cultural marxism,” a term that has had a somewhat eventful history on the right over the last forty years or so, and that has recently returned to prominence in the conspiracy theories of the alt-Right and the memos of Trump officials.

 

As a term, “cultural marxism” is actually quite apt for Hall and the intellectual tradition he assembles. The culmination of that tradition is an analysis of the full domain of culture in terms of domination, hegemony, and struggle. At various points over the last thirty years, the term has on occasion been used to refer to Hall, Hoggart, and the Birmingham school more generally. Yet when the right warns of cultural marxism today, this is not the tradition or school they are talking about. Why not?
I’m afraid the obvious answer is also the right one: not enough Jews.

 

In its dominant version, the right-wing genealogy locates the origin of cultural marxism at the Institute for Social Research in Frankfurt, Germany. In this genealogy, members of the Frankfurt School – Jewish academics like Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, and Herbert Marcuse – fled to the US with the rise of Hitler, bringing with them their analysis of mass culture and their plot to dethrone white, Christian, capitalist, colonial Western culture.

 

It’s rather surprising to me that “cultural marxism” has come to be so closely associated with these particular thinkers, this specific genealogy. In graduate school, I spent quite a bit of time reading and discussing Adorno, Habermas, and other members of the Frankfurt School, partly because many of my friends and interlocutors were in intellectual history and political theory working on the history of German philosophy, phenomenology, and existentialism.

 

But even as I was studying Frankfurt school thinkers, it was evident that its members were far from the dominant strain in the study and theory of culture. For Adorno, at least, some of this had to do with the arduousness of his prose.

 

But the bigger reason, I think, is that he and other members of the Frankfurt school never had an encounter with structuralist linguistics.  Unlike left theorists in France, they continued to speak in the idiom of German idealism and Hegelian dialectics. They lacked a holistic account of signification, and thus an account of how culture functioned as a system of signs.  Structuralism was inherently well-suited to the study of literary texts and other linguistic artifacts, which made for easy entry into literature departments.  As I examined in a previous post, Hall uses the analytical toolkit of structuralism to reveal the contingencies of our racial vocabularies, and along with many others he worked to adapt it to the full range of popular media (photography, film, TV, clothing, etc.) as well.   It’s this structuralist legacy that is of particular interest to me.  The aim of my new book, Cyberformalism, is to rebuild the structuralist toolkit – and especially its account of the linguistic sign – so that it can account for language’s combinatory capacities as well as its meaningful elements.

 

While members of the Frankfurt school are certainly an important part of the intellectual history of the new left and of the present moment, their lack of the structuralist toolkit as well as their reliance on an earlier philosophical idiom limited their influence – on the study of culture, in college classrooms, and in left political movements.

 

When the right tells a monogenetic story of cultural Marxism that leads back to a cabal of German Jews, they are doing bad intellectual history.  (It’s hard to credit anything said by Jordan Peterson, but at least he diverges from the ersatz story by accusing Derrida of infecting  “humanities types.”)  Much of this can doubtless be chalked up to unabashed anti-Semitism. But I suppose that the need for a simple story matters too – simple in the sense of originating in a single school, in the plot of an ethnically homogeneous people… who just happen to be Jewish.  It’s much easier than acknowledging, as Jeet Heer observes, that “Anti-racism, feminism, and the gay rights movement all have roots that well precede the Frankfurt School and owe far more to the activism of women, people of color, and LGBT individuals than to any German theorist.”  For the alt-right, it has the added feature of denying women, people of color, and LGBT individuals the capacity to pursue their own political interests without serving as the unwitting puppets of a group of Jewish men who have been dead for half a century.

 

Hall’s assembled intellectual history, despite being all-male, lacks the simplicity and homogeneity of the right-wing’s monogenetic tradition.  It includes Oxford professors born into the British working class; a traditionalist literary critic; French linguists, sociologists, and anthropologists; an Algerian-born French Marxist; an imprisoned Italian Marxist journalist; and, in Hall, a Jamaican-born cultural theorist of African, British, Portuguese Jewish, and Indian descent.  It’s not clear that those on the right who blame the current troubles of the US on the influence of cultural marxism are capable of taking account of this sort of heterogeneity.  But it is obvious enough why they don’t have any interest in doing so.

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Stuart Hall and the Anonymity of Syntax

Lately I have been developing an account of how literary and cultural studies, along with intellectual history and related disciplines in the humanities, became lexicalist disciplines. That is, how did they come to study and understand language as what Reinhart Koselleck variously calls a “dictionary” or a “sociopolitical vocabulary”? How did questions about meaning and signification get narrowed to questions about the relationship between word and world?

 

One needs to take only a small step away from the lexicon to see many of the methodological developments of the last few decades – the study of keywords, Begriffsgeschichte, historical semantics, cultural semantics, critical semantics, literary semantics, queer philology, the architecture of concepts, and many of the methods that now fall under the umbrella of digital humanities and distant reading – as variations on a single, coherent project: historicist lexical semantics. Martin Jay has recently offered a useful survey of how this project, flanked by metaphorological and rhetorical counterparts, has changed and evolved in intellectual history over the last century.

 

I always hasten to add: I think the project of historicist lexical semantics is legitimate, productive, illuminating, and worthwhile. As an account of language, meaning, and creativity, however, it is also incomplete, limited, and limiting. My new book, Cyberformalism, tries to suggest how humanists might move past the lexicalism of historicist semantics to study other kinds linguistic sign units. But now I am asking: hud did the humanities acquire its lexicalist limits in the first place.

 

One text to which I’ve turned is Stuart Hall’s history of Cultural Studies, as he related it in a series of lectures delivered in 1983. There he gives an account of the structure of structuralism as, “an elegantly simple model consisting of elements and rules of selection and combination” (63).

 

The elements – words – get further attention, but the rules of selection and combination quickly retreat from view. Here is a passage where we can see that retreat as it happens.

 

In Jamaica, Where I spent my youth and adolescence, I was constantly hailed as “coloured.” The way that term was articulated with other terms in the syntaxes of race and ethnicity was such as to produce the meaning, in effect: “not black.” The “blacks” were the rest – the vast majority of the people, the ordinary folk. To be “coloured” was to belong to the “mixed” ranks of the brown middle class, a cut above the rest – in aspiration if not in reality. My family attached great weight to these finely graded classificatory distinctions and, because of what it signified in terms of distinctions of class, status, race, and colour, insisted on the inscription. Indeed, they clung to it through thick and thin, like the ultimate ideological lifeline it was. You can imagine how mortified they were to discover that when I came to England I was hailed as “coloured” by the natives there precisely because, as far as they could see, I was “black” for all practical purposes! The same term, in short, carried quite different connotations because it operated within different “systems of differences and equivalences.” It is the position within the different signifying chains which “means,” not the literal, fixed correspondence between an isolated term and some denotated position in the colour spectrum. (147)

 

This is a powerful example of how the structuralist account of language became an implement in the arsenal of critique. Tipping his hat to Althusser with the word “hailed,” Hall shows that the same word (signifier) has different meanings, marks out different identities, when located in a different cultural and linguistic systems. Two terms that are essentially synonyms in British English (coloured=black) instead mark an opposition or distinction in Jamaican English (coloured=not black). Hall’s analysis (which follows the trajectory of his autobiography) challenges the necessity of racial regimes by showing their contingency across languages and cultures (in other passages, across historical periods as well). Though this kind of analysis owes much to Hall, it does not belong to him or even to the category of race, but instead has roots and ramifications across all identity categories and all domains of cultural theory and critique.

Notice Hall’s use of the term “syntaxes.” What does it mean to speak here of “syntaxes of race and ethnicity”? One might suppose that the term refers to the “rules of selection and combination” that, along with meaningful elements, he earlier described as twin components of linguistic structure. But Hall’s analysis, however powerful, performs no analysis, and offers no examples, of “combination” – no sentences, syntagms, chains, or sequences of words – at all. There are only individual terms – “coloured” and “black”- and the semantic associations between them. (Perhaps we can suppose that they are members of a common paradigm, from which they can be “selected” and combined into any number of utterances). The upshot, in any event, is that “syntax” refers only to the “systems of differences and equivalences” between meaningful elements, between words. In Hall’s analysis – as in the structuralist tradition of which he is, I think, highly representative – “syntax” is fully absorbed into the lexicon.

 

There is nothing wrong with using the term “syntax” in this way – to indicate the relations between the words in the lexicon. Linguists who, since Chomsky, have focused on the structure of sentences have no monopoly on that term (or, for that matter, on the term “grammar,” which also occasionally gets used in the same way). But using “syntax” in the way that Hall does leaves anonymous and unaddressed the issue of creative combination. Without a name to call its own, at least in the structuralist tradition, the issue of combination – how a finite repertoire of meaningful elements are joined to make an indefinite number of complex utterances, and indeed to invent new elements – steps out of the frame.

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