The imperfection of language
This entry was originally posted on 17 June 2004 at 12:28 p.m.
I've been thinking about language lately. I suppose this has something to do with reading a book that's been translated from Turkish into English where the translator did a fabulous job of maintaining the poetic feel of the original. Or, at least, the poetic feel that i surmise the original must have had, based on the translation.
Language is imperfect. Language creates conventions that refer to reality, then it creates conventions that refer to the conventions, and then you get metalanguage, and this opens the door for us all to question the meaning of words, the meaning of grammar, and the meaning of meaning. It's a wonder that any real communication takes place.
Granted that language is an evolved phenomenon--one that will never reach "completion" unless our species suddenly stops discovering things and creating new things and new ways of thinking about things--it's less surprising that it works. After all, we've had thousands of years to hash out things like nouns, verbs, and adjectives. And yet, despite all this, there's still a massive division between spoken language and written language; practical language and poetic language. It's the kind of division that makes the imperfections of words and grammar and syntax both beautiful and frustrating.
Example: Ever try explaining an abstract notion to someone else? I notice this especially with computer-related issues. We have terminology for the various types of programs and the actions that they perform, but using that terminology leaves most people scratching their heads and wondering whether you were actually speaking the same language. So, to get around this, you try to convert the technical terms into realistic descriptions that should be more accessible, only to be met by a blank stare that indicates that the person you're talking to heard and understood each word individually but still has no idea what you're talking about. Finally, we resort to metaphor, using other systems (both physical and non-physical) as imperfect reflections of what we're trying to explain.
The same situation in literature, however, is almost like a gold mine. An author can write a very simple paragraph explaining an object, only to find that the reader just doesn't see the object as the author described it. Or, better yet, an author can write about the motivations a certain character had to take a certain action--only to have the reader continue to question it, this time from a new perspective. Or, and this one's very important, an author can write a phrase that seems very simple and very clear only to find out that it's still ambiguous enough that most readers don't interpret it the way it was intended.
And this is the crux of the gold mine: for every phrase or sentence or paragraph that we don't understand, numerous interpretations are available. And each of those interpretations sheds a different color of light on the object in question. Because of this, nondimensional characters, who only exist in nonphysical space, suddenly become as real as any one of us.
And for each of these interpretations, a new series of philosophical questions arises. It's like opening one door only to find three more waiting for you on the other side.
In communication, this is frustrating. In literature, this can be wonderful (or frustrating, depending on whether it's complex prose or just unclear writing).
So all this leaves me wondering, when do we get to the meat? When can we walk away from the branching and sub-branching of interpretation and be satisfied that we understand the meaning of any sentence?
I've been thinking about language lately. I suppose this has something to do with reading a book that's been translated from Turkish into English where the translator did a fabulous job of maintaining the poetic feel of the original. Or, at least, the poetic feel that i surmise the original must have had, based on the translation.
Language is imperfect. Language creates conventions that refer to reality, then it creates conventions that refer to the conventions, and then you get metalanguage, and this opens the door for us all to question the meaning of words, the meaning of grammar, and the meaning of meaning. It's a wonder that any real communication takes place.
Granted that language is an evolved phenomenon--one that will never reach "completion" unless our species suddenly stops discovering things and creating new things and new ways of thinking about things--it's less surprising that it works. After all, we've had thousands of years to hash out things like nouns, verbs, and adjectives. And yet, despite all this, there's still a massive division between spoken language and written language; practical language and poetic language. It's the kind of division that makes the imperfections of words and grammar and syntax both beautiful and frustrating.
Example: Ever try explaining an abstract notion to someone else? I notice this especially with computer-related issues. We have terminology for the various types of programs and the actions that they perform, but using that terminology leaves most people scratching their heads and wondering whether you were actually speaking the same language. So, to get around this, you try to convert the technical terms into realistic descriptions that should be more accessible, only to be met by a blank stare that indicates that the person you're talking to heard and understood each word individually but still has no idea what you're talking about. Finally, we resort to metaphor, using other systems (both physical and non-physical) as imperfect reflections of what we're trying to explain.
The same situation in literature, however, is almost like a gold mine. An author can write a very simple paragraph explaining an object, only to find that the reader just doesn't see the object as the author described it. Or, better yet, an author can write about the motivations a certain character had to take a certain action--only to have the reader continue to question it, this time from a new perspective. Or, and this one's very important, an author can write a phrase that seems very simple and very clear only to find out that it's still ambiguous enough that most readers don't interpret it the way it was intended.
And this is the crux of the gold mine: for every phrase or sentence or paragraph that we don't understand, numerous interpretations are available. And each of those interpretations sheds a different color of light on the object in question. Because of this, nondimensional characters, who only exist in nonphysical space, suddenly become as real as any one of us.
And for each of these interpretations, a new series of philosophical questions arises. It's like opening one door only to find three more waiting for you on the other side.
In communication, this is frustrating. In literature, this can be wonderful (or frustrating, depending on whether it's complex prose or just unclear writing).
So all this leaves me wondering, when do we get to the meat? When can we walk away from the branching and sub-branching of interpretation and be satisfied that we understand the meaning of any sentence?
posted by Circus at 2:28 PM
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