If you're reading me for the first time, welcome! And if you’ve been here before, thank you for being part of a growing conversation.

A few weeks ago, I published an essay asking whether intelligence can ever fully define itself. The response was amazing and electric. Many of you challenged core assumptions, raised good questions, and pushed the theory further than I imagined.

In this week’s piece, I want to continue the discussion. The questions we’ll explore touch topics like perception, the limits of self-knowledge, and what it means to think at all.

I noticed that many of the questions that I received seemed to have a similar base and/or a similar line of questioning. I agglomerated as many of them as possible into 10 major questions, that I classified into 4 categories, namely, questions pertaining to, ‘the foundations of the argument’, ‘perception’, ‘self-definition’, & ‘implications’.

If you haven’t already read my previous article, I highly recommend that you do. It's short and simple, and an important prerequisite for understanding the discussions that take place in this article.

If you prefer a quick visual explainer instead, you can checkout this video that I generated using Google’s NotebookLM.

I hope that my responses to the questions may better express my own understanding on matters related to coherence, agentic intelligence, and the inherent intelligibility of the universe. I trust that you, as a reader of my works, will not hold back on any genuine critique you may have on this theory, and I welcome any further line of inquiry that you would like to discuss on Mutual Intelligibility & Coherence. Thank you for taking the time to read this article. Let’s get started.

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On the Foundations of the Argument

Question 1: You equate understanding with coherence, and coherence with conceptualisation. Isn’t that a bit circular? You say “to understand is to cohere, and to cohere is to conceptualise,” but doesn’t that just move the definition around instead of breaking it down?

Response: The reason why I define understanding as coherence rooted in conceptualisation is for the very reason of breaking from the circular loop that we have been traversing for decades.

Contemporary definitions of understanding in the philosophy of mind, are purely epistemic, in that they classify understanding by the virtue of the words we use to describe our understanding of a certain concept. Understanding is broadly defined as ‘grasping’ (which is dangerously ambiguous and circular). And this grasping is categorised as Explanatory (i.e., comprehending the why of something), Objectual (i.e., having a holistic grasp on the broader subject), or Propositional (i.e., understanding a specific fact or claim). All categorisations are nice and neat except that they don’t really define understanding in any way. They are more or less, classifying the levels of understanding and using the ‘grasp’ as a sort of scaffolding to hold it all together. This to me, is ambiguous and circular.

Conceptualisation -> Coherence / Understanding, is NOT a circular loop. It is a hierarchical dependency. Conceptualisation does not automatically infer coherence. Take for instance, the study of Quantum physics. We have different standard models for explaining the workings of Quantum mechanics. Each model can be thought of as a form of conceptualisation of Quantum mechanics. But does that mean that any model has actually led to us ‘understanding’ Quantum mechanics? The answer is no, because we do not cohere the inner workings of Quantum mechanics yet. We can conceptualise it to a certain degree, even manipulate it enough to generate computations with it. But our understanding of Quantum mechanics, even if we go by the contemporary definitions, would not qualify as explanatory, objectual or propositional. I stated in my article that “conceptualisation gives rise to coherence”. I never said “conceptualisation is coherence itself”.

Conceptualisation, therefore, can be thought of as step 1, in the process of generating coherence.

Question 2: You claim inherent intelligence within us interacts with inherent intelligibility in the world. Isn’t this smuggling in a metaphysical assumption that the world is inherently intelligible? How do you justify that claim against the possibility that intelligibility is something projected rather than discovered?

Response: This is an excellent question. How do we know that the universe is inherently intelligible? How do we know that this so-called intelligibility is not just a projection of our own intelligence upon a neutral universe?

We know that the universe is inherently intelligible because we as ‘intelligent agents’ operate, not as knowers, but as discoverers of the system. Our intelligence is focussed upon the discovery and synthesis of the workings of the universe. This is the very point of Hegel’s dialectic. The geist moves through us, we are not the geist in its entirety. Thesis gives rise to antithesis, and the friction between the two, creates synthesis and as a result, our understanding of the universe and our place within it makes progress. Simply put, if the universe wasn’t inherently intelligible, and all intelligence resided simply within the agent, then the agent's agency itself would be pointless. There would be nothing to discover nor would there be a need for discovery. The inherent intelligibility of the system, therefore, is not an assumption, it's an understanding. And by understanding I am strictly talking in terms of the functional aspect of coherence itself. I am NOT proposing a Logos or a neoplatonic theory.

On Perception

Question 3: You rightly bring up the Homunculus fallacy, but then you stop at infinite regress. If you dismiss the homunculus, how do you explain qualia without sneaking in a subtler homunculus, like “intelligence itself” acting as the perceiver? Isn’t that just the same regress dressed in different clothes?

Response: In my article, I go as far as to say that qualia is the result of coherence that is established between an intelligent agent and the inherent intelligibility of the system it functions in. As far as I can tell (and please correct me if I am wrong), I did not claim that qualia is “intelligence itself” for that indeed would be just another form of an infinite regress. If anything, my argument completely steps away from the homunculus fallacy’s line of thinking. By defining qualia as an ‘experience’ of coherence, we actually take a step away from a self-referential quagmire. Think of this not as the ultimate explanation to the hard-problem of consciousness but more as a gateway to understanding and approaching the problem better.

Question 4: You use the coffee mug example to illustrate coherence. But if one person sees a mug as an art piece and another as a container, is coherence in the mind, in the world, or in the relation between the two? How do you handle multiple, conflicting coherences for the same object?

Response: This is a brilliant question. The answer is that we would define coherence as a culmination of all three, i.e., in the mind, in the world, and in the relationship between the two.

Say for instance, a child grows completely isolated from coffee. He has never heard, seen or read anything with regards to coffee. And on the day that the child turns 12 (an age at which conceptualisation is a norm for the brain), you bring this child into your lab, and you place a coffee mug in front of him. What will the child see? There is a very good chance that the child may conceptualise the coffee mug in a different manner than the way that we conceptualise it. Perhaps the child might see a ‘container’ for liquids or even a ‘holder’ to keep his pocket change in. The intelligence of the child interacts with the inherent intelligibility of the environment, and the conceptualisation -> coherence that emerges as a result, may take a different shape. But eventually, that conceptualisation will evolve the more exposed the child gets to coffee mugs and how people interact with them. The child’s conceptualisation of the coffee mug will merge or become similar to the world around him. But at no point, will the child and the world merge on defining the coffee mug as a “dinosaur” or a “suspension bridge”. Because coherence is a game of two. It requires intelligence in the agent and intelligibility that is inherent within the system.

So is there divergence in coherence? Absolutely. But this divergence always leads to a synthesis of the overall understanding of the universe.

On Self-Definition

Question 5: You invoke Gödel’s incompleteness to argue that intelligence cannot define itself. But Gödel applies to formal mathematical systems. Why should we assume intelligence, which is a biological, emergent, and possibly non‑formal system, is constrained by the same logic? Isn’t that analogy a stretch?

Response: Perhaps what I tried to convey by quoting Gödel could possibly be conveyed better with more explicitly informalised examples. But I do believe that our limit in defining intelligence is constrained by the same logic as that of Gödel’s incompleteness theorems in defining the inherent ‘truth’ of a sufficiently complex arithmetic system. I made a claim in my article that intelligence (of the agent specifically), is a closed and internally consistent system. I understand why this is controversial. Because agentic intelligence, in the biological sense, is a complex adaptive system.

But when I speak of intelligence in the context of coherence, specifically the sort of coherence needed to understand the inherent truth of a system without being able to formally prove it, the only conclusion that I am able to reach is that intelligence has to be an internally consistent system, at least at the level of coherence, even if it is not a formally deterministic system. Otherwise, it cannot be capable of understanding truth without proof. When Gödel mentioned that a sufficiently complex arithmetic system is incomplete, the incompleteness of it comes from the very fact that we understand its truth but are unable to use mathematical deduction to prove it.

How then, is a biologically complex agent able to understand the truth in a system while being limited in his ability to prove it? Such a scenario is only possible when the intelligence that is being deployed by the agent is, on some level, closed and internally consistent. I will however emphasise that this is a hypothesis. It is very much possible that I am misguided in my representation of intelligence as a closed and internally consistent system, even if it is at the level of coherence. It is important to note that just because I claim intelligence as such, does NOT mean that I am putting intelligence in the same bucket as that of formal logically consistent and deterministic systems.

Question 6: You say intelligence is a “closed and internally consistent system.” But human intelligence seems messy and inconsistent. Isn’t your premise of closure and internal consistency already questionable.

Response: It is a very good idea to question this claim and it definitely requires a thorough study. As I stated in my earlier answer, this is a hypothesis. However, it is important to clarify that calling intelligence as closed and internally consistent, does NOT imply that intelligence is a formal system that works algorithmically all the way down, producing deterministic outcomes.

On the Implications

Question 7: You say coherence requires two: an intelligent agent and an inherently intelligible system. But what about phenomena like hallucinations, dreams, or illusions, where coherence is felt but there’s no real “inherent intelligibility” backing it? Doesn’t that undermine your two‑part requirement?

Response: I will answer that with a question. How do we know that hallucinations, dreams and illusions do not have the backing of the inherent intelligibility of the environment?

It takes a desert to see a mirage of an oasis. Dreams are never absolutely novel and require at least some form of representation of the world. And to hallucinate is to experience something that does not exist in the real world, however, those sensory experiences are still sensorially tethered, i.e., hearing a voice, seeing a light, or an entity.

While dreams, hallucinations and illusions may be conceptually novel, they are still rooted in sensory experiences that the brain has adopted from the environment on some level. We are able to imagine a dragon, because we are able to conceptualise a reptile, an aerial animal, and fire together. But reptiles, aerial animals, and fire, are all sensory concepts that are already adopted and established in our minds from the environment that we live in.

We cannot imagine a dragon or a pokemon without the inherent intelligibility of the environment backing it in some form. Therefore, phenomena like dreams, hallucinations, illusions, or even creativity and imagination do not contradict or undermine the two-part requirement for coherence.

Question 8: You position your view against Idealism by saying reality isn’t entirely created in the mind. But isn’t your “inherent intelligibility” perilously close to re‑introducing a metaphysical substrate or some kind of Logos in the world? How do you avoid sliding into theological or Platonic commitments?

Response: I am not afraid of the conversation sliding into a theological or metaphysical substrate as long as it maintains the dignity of what I am building upon. I am not trying to define the rules that govern intelligence. In fact, I am doing the opposite of that. My theory is not theological nor metaphysical at its core. I approach it more from the standpoint of phenomenology with a mix of epistemology. But can my theory be justified from a theological perspective? I am sure that a case can be made as such. However, I do not see such an interpretation of it, as a net-negative for the theory itself.

I will however, explicitly state that platonism completely diverges from the core principles of this theory, and so does the idea of an unchanging Logos maintaining a flux. I find such ideas completely alien to what I am working on. My theory of Mutual Intelligibility & Coherence can be interpreted from many different lenses, including but not limited to epistemology, phenomenology, theology or even metaphysics. I welcome all perspectives as long as they don’t misrepresent the fundamental and salient features of this theory.

Question 9: You conclude qualia result from coherence between agent and system. But coherence is a structural property, not a phenomenological one. How does a structure give rise to the subjective feel of drinking coffee? Aren’t you still leaving the “hard problem” untouched?

Response: I never claimed my theory on coherence to be an absolute answer to the hard-problem as the hard-problem itself can be framed from many different perspectives. However, I am not averse to the notion that structure may give rise to subjectivity. You can say that the human brain is NOT algorithmic all the way down. Sure. But does that imply that the human brain is absolutely unstructured? No.

Qualia, therefore, can be a phenomenological experience rooted in coherence. The question then becomes, not if coherence is a structural property, but what form of structural property? As I said in my previous answers, just because intelligence is internally consistent, does not imply that intelligence is absolutely algorithmic or deterministic all the way down. I know that this may come off as a bit ambiguous and it is. But we have to see intelligence in a different light, beyond our binary understanding of formal vs informal systems.

Question 10: You say intelligence cannot define itself in its completeness. Then how are you able to make the claim at all? Isn’t the very act of asserting this thesis a contradiction, using intelligence to define the limits of intelligence?

Response: No, absolutely not. There is NO contradiction. In fact, the very claim that I make, i.e., intelligence cannot be defined in its completeness, is by the virtue of me being an agent within the system and not an observer outside of it. If I had the ability to observe the system in its entirety, then I would be able to define the system in its entirety.

To say instead, that ‘reality is completely created in our minds’ as the idealists do, is to me, a contradiction of the system. Using my agentic intelligence, I can go only as far as to say that my definition of intelligence has limits which is exactly what my theory states and nothing more. It is only by having agentic intelligence, can the limitations of defining the contours of intelligence itself, become self-evident to us.

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It's been a while! Five months to be exact. After completing an intense period of travel, work and some unanticipated interruptions, I am happy to be back to writing again.

While life did manage to get in the way of writing, it didn’t prevent me from continuing to think. And I have been thinking about a lot of different things. Primary of those, was the concept of coherence. To be precise, the way that coherence is defined, the role of intelligence, and the process of conceptualisation.

While I wasn’t writing all these months, I was silently working on problems related to coherence and intelligence. I feel now, I may finally have a thing or two to share on this subject.

The goal with my writings on coherence and intelligence is to not only articulate the existing problems, but to also shine light on their roots. I realise now, that in the course of my research on coherence, I have diverged significantly from the existing ideas and concepts defined in the field.

I hope, in all humility, that this article, and the articles that I publish in the following weeks, bring forth a fresh perspective, clarity and insights that prove useful, not just in consciousness studies, but across the fields of neuroscience, ontology, epistemology, and of course, AI. I would like to start with intelligence. Specifically, the problem that arises, when we try to define intelligence. It requires intelligence to define intelligence. Ergo, can intelligence define itself in its entirety? Let’s discuss.

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What is Understanding?

Have a look at this picture. What do you see?

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What you see is a coffee mug—I hope. Why do you see a coffee mug and not, say, a couch or a lantern? Because you understand the concept of a coffee mug. What does it mean to understand a concept, or for that matter, what does it mean to conceptualise? It’s a peculiar word- understanding. We use it constantly, almost casually, yet rarely pause to examine what it actually implies.

Try asking someone what it means to understand, and you might get a circular reply such as, “To understand is… to understand.” It goes to show how deeply embedded and self-referential the act of understanding is. So what then, is understanding really?

To understand is to cohere. And to cohere is to conceptualise. When you say you understand a coffee mug, you’re really saying that the concept of a coffee mug fits together in your mind. But for that coherence to emerge, it must rest on other coherent ideas. For instance, you understand a coffee mug because you also understand the concepts of coffee, and mug. These micro-coherences assemble into the concept. And when they do, the result is that you see what coheres, i.e., a coffee mug.

From this perspective on understanding and coherence, three important points emerge.

1. Inherent intelligence within us interacts with inherent intelligibility in the world. The result is conceptualisation.

2. Conceptualisation gives rise to coherence, which we often name as “understanding.”

3. Coherence, especially of abstract concepts, is self-referential. We understand, but our understanding cannot fully explain itself from within. In other words, intelligence cannot fully define itself.

You may have some thoughts on the first two points. I have plenty of thoughts on them myself. But let’s keep that for later. In this article, let us focus on the claim made in the third point, i.e., intelligence cannot fully define itself. We shall discuss the other points in successive articles.

The Problem with Perception

The self-referentialism of coherence is deeply tied with the problem of perception itself. Something that we refer to in the field of consciousness studies as qualia. Simply put, we are able to perceive a coffee mug, because we are able to conceptualise it as such. But in order to conceptualise a coffee mug, one has to, first, conceptualise coffee, mug, and the implications of the presence of coffee within a mug. How do we combine different sensory data to conceptualise? That right there, is the very essence of consciousness.

One way to understand qualia in rudimentary terms is to consider consciousness as a smaller version of ourselves, sitting inside our brain, and creating the concepts from all the sensory data that it receives.

However, a logical question arises as to how this little version of ourself was able to conceptualise from the sensory data it received?

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The only possible way to answer that would be to say that the little versions of ourselves have little versions of themselves inside their brains running the racket. And so begins an infinite regression, as shown in the illustration above.

This informal fallacy is more popularly known as the ‘Homunculus Argument’, wherein a homunculus (perfectly formed miniature version) of yourself is present in your brain doing the work of conceptualisation. In turn, that homunculus has a homunculus of their own inside their brain doing the work of conceptualising for them, going into an infinite regressive loop, i.e., Original Perceiver -> Homunculus 1 -> Homunculus 2 -> … -> Homunculus n.

The result, then, is that no matter how many iterations you use to explain the qualia, the very definition of the qualia itself remains incomplete.

The Limits of Self Definition

In 1931, Kurt Gödel, a Czech logician and mathematician, shook the very foundations of mathematics with what came to be known as the ‘incompleteness theorems’. In the simplest of terms possible, Gödel managed to bring forth a self-evident albeit shocking discovery that any sufficiently powerful formal system cannot fully capture its own structure or truth.

I will try to demonstrate the basic idea behind these theorems with a non-mathematical example, letting your intuition do the work for you.

Consider the following statement: “This statement cannot be proven”.

Now, tell me if this statement is true or false. There are two possibilities here:

1. If the statement is provable, then the statement is false.

2. If the statement is not provable, then the statement is true.

Now, if we assume that the statement is true, then that would imply that the statement is true but also cannot be proven using the statement itself. This is a big deal, because it represents a closed loop system that yields a result, and yet, cannot prove its own validity from within the system.

Gödel’s first incompleteness theorem states that any rich enough formal system (for instance arithmetics), will contain true statements that cannot be proven from within the system. Building on this, Gödel’s second incompleteness theorem states that any internally consistent system cannot demonstrate its own consistency from inside itself.

Notes

We have discussed intelligence, as far as this article is concerned, as an essential tool for achieving coherence. We’ve described coherence as the result of conceptualisation. But coherence, by its very nature, is self-referential—because the intelligence required to achieve it is a closed and internally consistent system. Ergo, intelligence cannot define itself in its completeness.

So what does that imply? A few things.

1. Intelligence cannot define itself completely because it is an internally consistent closed loop system, contained within a larger system that possesses its own inherent intelligibility.

2. Coherence is a game of two. You need an intelligent agent within a system that has inherent intelligibility of its own. You need intelligence to achieve coherence. But intelligence, in and of itself, is not enough to conceptualise or ‘create reality’. To say otherwise would collapse into an infinite regress, i.e., intelligence trying endlessly to validate itself.

3. The second half that is required for coherence, is the inherent intelligibility of the environment in which a certain intelligence functions. In essence, this can be understood as follows: we understand a coffee mug as a coffee mug because of the intelligence we possess as well as the inherent intelligibility of the system in which the coffee mug exists.

4. This understanding of intelligence, conceptualisation, and coherence, takes a significant step away from Idealism which suggests that reality is entirely created in the mind.

5. The experience of reality or qualia is a result of coherence that exists between an intelligent agent, functioning within a system that possesses inherent intelligence of its own.

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It's been a while! I hope you are doing well. I started this year slow, taking a bit of a brain-health break. Sadly, it didn’t pan out the way I hoped it would. Taking a break only gave me more time to catastrophise and get stressed about whatever was stressing me in the first place. So back to work I am!

Phenomenology is where we can all find some respite. Or at the very least, enough complexity to escape into our own thoughts. Although this discourse is going to be heavily epistemological, I can’t help but feel that at the heart of the argument, is a phenomenological basis.

So, the other morning, for no particular reason, I woke up thinking about a Jay bird. Not in any profound, symbolic sense, just … Jay bird. It wasn’t perched outside my window. It wasn’t calling in the distance. It was simply there, in my head for really no apparent reason.

Out of curiosity, I asked an AI to generate an image of a Jay bird using nothing but abstract triangles. The output was impressive. Sharp, geometric fragments arranged in a way that was unmistakably bird-like, yet entirely removed from the organic reality of an actual Jay bird. I set it as my Mac background. But then, as often happens, a simple thought spiraled into something less trivial. What is a Jay bird, anyway?

Not in the ornithological sense, I know what a bird is. But conceptually, what is it? Is a Jay bird simply a bird I can point to in the world? Or is it something constructed in my mind, mediated through language and shared understanding? In other words, is a Jay bird a concept?

So, in order to understand this question, I had to first start with, what is a concept in the first place? Well, turns out, there is really not a single acclaimed philosopher, who doesn’t have their own take on this. Pretty much everyone, from Aristotle to Hobbes to Hegel, have taken their shots at defining what a concept is, each with varying degrees of success (or confusion, depending on how charitable you’re feeling).

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So what is this article really about? Don’t worry, I am not going to bore you by describing birds and sell ‘bird watching’ as a hobby. This isn’t just about birds. It’s about language, cognition, and the sort of loose definitions we use to navigate the world. It’s about why Pluto was a planet, until it wasn’t. It’s about why the Sun orbited the Earth, until it didn’t. And yes, it’s about whether the Jay bird sitting outside your window is just a bird or something far more complicated.

Although focussed around a central question (i.e., Is a Jay bird a concept?), I am afraid this article is less about answers as much as it is about the mess of this question itself. Let’s get started.

Concepts and Universals

So let’s start with Plato, a typical philosophical starter. Plato’s theory of Forms posits that everything we encounter in the material world is merely an imperfect reflection of a perfect, immutable idea existing in a non-physical realm.

For Plato, there exists an ideal Form of a bird, i.e., a perfect, abstract birdness that all physical birds participate in, but none can fully embody. So you can think of the Jay bird outside your window as a sort of imperfect instantiation of this ideal Form of birdness. In other words, for Plato, the concept of the Jay bird exists independently of whether or not I, or anyone else, recognises it.

Aristotle, as he often did, took a contrarian position to his mentor. He rejected the idea that Forms exist in some separate, metaphysical realm. Instead, he argued that universals, i.e., the shared properties or qualities that define categories, exist within the objects themselves. For Aristotle, the universal of birdness is embedded in the feathers, beaks, and wings of every individual bird you encounter.

There is more than what meets the eye in this disagreement. This is basically a fundamental difference in how we think about concepts. While Aristotle’s theory of universals helps explain how we categorise objects based on shared properties, it doesn’t fully account for the role of language and social agreement in shaping our understanding of concepts. Universals is just a fancy term used for describing the commonalities between things, it doesn't address how we name, define, and negotiate these categories within human communities.

The Jay bird outside your window possesses certain universal traits that make it a bird, and more specifically, a Jay. But the fact that we call it a Jay bird, that we distinguish it from other birds with a specific name, is not just about recognising its properties. Something else is going on here. We are essentially participating in a shared linguistic and cultural framework. This is where the notion of concepts as linguistic constructs begins to emerge.

Concepts as Social Linguistic Contracts

So this is where I would like to introduce Thomas Hobbes, the medieval English philosopher, into the discourse. Hobbes is famous for his work on social contract theories, which he introduced in his magnum opus, the Leviathan. For Hobbes, concepts are not embedded in the world but constructed through language. In his view, a concept is essentially a linguistic entity, i.e., a product of words and definitions that allow us to categorise and make sense of the world. Without language, according to Hobbes, there would be no concepts, only raw sensory experiences. This felt very much in line with my own understanding on the matter, my obvious bias for the philosophy of language aside.

So let’s apply this to our friend, the Jay bird. The bird perched outside your window exists independently of your thoughts or language. It flies, it feeds, it continues its avian life regardless of whether you recognise it or not. But the concept of a Jay bird? That only comes into being when you apply a name, a label, to what you see. You call it a Jay bird because that’s the term agreed upon within the linguistic community you belong to. Your parents called it a Jay bird, your teachers reinforced it, and now you continue to perpetuate that definition.

Now, with this in mind, the Jay bird is not just an animal, it is a concept precisely because it has been named and categorised within a shared linguistic system.

Hobbes’ perspective pushes the idea that concepts are fundamentally tied to social contracts. A concept isn’t just a private mental representation, it’s something that gains meaning through collective agreement. That is to say that, if, tomorrow, everyone suddenly decided that the bird we’ve been calling a Jay was misclassified, and ornithologists announced that it belonged to an entirely different genus, the concept of the Jay bird would shift accordingly. The bird itself wouldn’t change, but our conceptual framework for understanding it definitively would.

One thing to keep in mind before we move forward, is that Hobbes’ insistence on the linguistic nature of concepts emphasises a crucial point, i.e., concepts are NOT static or immutable. They are fluid, evolving as language and collective understanding evolve. What we call a Jay bird today could be something entirely different tomorrow if the linguistic and scientific communities decide so. This is going to be an important point to keep in mind for the following sections.

Is Conceptualisation the Same as Recognition?

If we accept Hobbes’ assertion that concepts are fundamentally linguistic, constructed through definitions and social agreement, then it would seem that animals, lacking complex language, don’t possess concepts in any meaningful sense. This notion seems to make many philosophers and scientists uncomfortable, especially when we consider the sophisticated ways animals interact with their environments. I believe this is a result of misunderstanding recognition for conceptualisation.

Take monkeys, for instance. Vervet monkeys are known to produce distinct alarm calls for different predators, one for snakes, another for leopards, and a third for eagles. These calls correspond to specific threats and elicit distinct reactions from other monkeys in the group. When a vervet hears the snake alarm, it looks down and steps carefully. When it hears the eagle call, it looks up and seeks cover. So clearly there is a categorisation happening here. The monkeys differentiate between types of threats and respond accordingly.

But does this differentiation constitute a concept in the Hobbesian sense? No, it doesn't. While the monkeys clearly recognise different predators and adjust their behavior, there’s no evidence to suggest they engage in the kind of abstract, linguistic processing that Hobbes ties to conceptual thought. The symbols, the alarm calls, are consistent and unchanging over generations. A snake has always been a snake, a leopard a leopard. There’s no room for redefinition, no renegotiation of meaning within the monkey community. Their responses are functional, tied to survival, but they lack the fluidity and mutability that characterise human concepts.

Dogs form strong emotional bonds with their owners. They recognise faces, respond to names, and exhibit behaviors that suggest attachment, grief, even what we might interpret as love. When a dog’s owner dies, the dog may refuse to eat, search the house for them, or display signs of distress. One might look at this behaviour and argue that this goes beyond simple recognition as it suggests a deeper, more complex mental representation of the individual.

But does that mean dogs have concepts? Dogs don’t have the linguistic tools to define or negotiate the nature of their relationships. Their recognition is based on sensory cues, i.e., scent, voice, routine, not abstract categorisation. The dog knows who you are, but it doesn’t have a concept of you in the linguistic, negotiable sense. It can’t redefine its understanding of you based on new information, nor can it communicate that understanding to others in a way that allows for collective agreement or disagreement.

This distinction becomes clearer when we consider how human concepts evolve over time. The Jay bird is a concept that exists within a linguistic and cultural framework that’s subject to change. If scientists were to discover that what we’ve been calling a Jay bird is genetically distinct enough to warrant a new classification, we’d adapt our language and understanding accordingly.

Animals, on the other hand, don’t engage in this kind of conceptual renegotiation. Their recognition of objects, individuals, and threats is stable, tied to immediate functional needs rather than abstract, linguistic frameworks. Monkeys will continue to recognise snakes as threats, but they won’t reconsider whether this particular snake might be an exception. Dogs will recognise their owners based on sensory familiarity, but they won’t redefine their understanding of owners based on new social norms or philosophical insights.

So, recognition is about identifying patterns and responding to stimuli, while conceptualisation, at least in the human sense, is about creating, negotiating, and redefining categories through language. Recognition is stable, reactive, and functional. Concepts are fluid, abstract, and inherently social.

Some scientists and philosophers float the idea of animals possessing proto-conceptual abilities, i.e., rudimentary forms of categorisation and emotional attachment. I am afraid I have to disagree with such a form of cognitive ability as well. Because, again, if this were to be true, animals would portray a more fluid and abstract form of interaction with the environment. That does not seem to be the case. So far, outside of humans, every species on the planet exhibits a stable, reactive and functional form of interaction.

The Role of Concepts in Understanding Observer Independent Dialectic

So this is a good point to bring Hegel into the conversation. For Hegel, concepts or Begriffe as he referred to them, are dynamic, evolving processes. A concept is a living, developing structure that unfolds through history, culture, and consciousness.

Let’s start with the basics. Hegel’s dialectic operates on the principle of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. You begin with an initial idea or state of being, i.e., the thesis. That thesis encounters its opposite or contradiction, i.e., the antithesis. The tension between the two is resolved in a higher-order understanding, i.e., the synthesis, which doesn’t just settle the conflict but transcends it, integrating elements of both the thesis and antithesis into something new. And this process does NOT stop but instead remains in a constant state of flux. Each synthesis becomes a new thesis, leading to further contradictions and resolutions. In Hegel’s view, this dialectical movement is not just how thought progresses, it’s how reality itself unfolds.

So, where does the Jay bird fit into all of this? Well, the Jay bird isn’t just a bird we recognise and name. It’s a concept that exists within this broader dialectical process. Initially, we might think of the Jay bird as simply a biological category, i.e., a species defined by certain traits, i.e., thesis. But then, new information emerges, perhaps genetic research reveals that what we’ve been calling Jay birds are actually multiple distinct species, or cultural shifts lead to new symbolic meanings attached to the bird, i.e., antithesis. This tension forces a reevaluation, leading to a new, more complex understanding of what the Jay bird is, i.e., synthesis.

Hegel doesn’t stop here. He pushes this idea further by integrating it into higher order metaphysics. He posits that concepts are real in the sense that they’re embedded in the unfolding of Geist, or Spirit. Geist is Hegel’s term for the collective, self-developing consciousness of humanity. As we engage with the world, we observe as well as participate in its development. Our concepts evolve because reality itself is evolving, and our understanding of it is part of that evolution.

Consider the example of ex-planet Pluto again. Under Hegel’s framework, Pluto’s reclassification from planet to dwarf planet isn’t just a linguistic shift but a part of the dialectical unfolding of human understanding. The concept of a planet wasn’t fixed. It evolved as our astronomical knowledge deepened. Our thesis on what a planet is, led to its antithesis, which led to the synthesis that our current understanding of planetary classification isn’t final. It’s just the latest stage in an ongoing dialectical process.

Now let’s roundabout back to the Jay bird. Our understanding of the bird isn’t static. It changes as we learn more about its behavior, genetics, and ecological role. But it also changes culturally. The Jay bird might be a simple bird in one context, a symbol of mischief or intelligence in another, or even a marker of environmental health in yet another. These shifts, though seemingly random, are, in Hegel’s understanding, a part of the dialectical process by which human consciousness and reality itself evolves.

So why did I add the Hegelian dimension to this article? Because it's crucial to know that, for Hegel, concepts are about the movement of reality towards greater complexity and self-awareness. Concepts become over time, shaped by the tensions and contradictions they encounter. I have written quite a few articles on the concepts of being, becoming, and happening over the years. There is also a really interesting article that I had written on why I hate tomatoes. May sound like a random mention but it actually illustrates ‘what is a concept’ super elaborately.

Is Dialectic Purely a Linguistic Process?

By now, we’ve established that concepts, in the Hobbesian sense, are deeply tied to language, i.e., they exist because we name, define, and agree upon them. Hegel presents concepts as dynamic, living processes, embedded in the unfolding of reality itself. So both these rivers of thought are essentially flowing in the same direction, but do they merge?

Is the dialectic itself dependent on language? Or, to put it another way, can concepts evolve without the linguistic tools we use to articulate them? As someone deeply invested in the study of language, I feel compelled to consider this.

So, clearly, language plays a central role in the dialectic. After all, how do we engage in thesis, antithesis, and synthesis without the ability to frame these stages in words? Language allows us to externalise our thoughts, share them with others, and collectively refine our understanding. Without language, how could we negotiate the meaning of something like a Jay bird, or reclassify Pluto from planet to dwarf planet?

But concepts evolve not just because we talk about them, but because reality itself is in a constant state of becoming. Language doesn’t create this process. It reflects and mediates it.

Long before there were humans, the world was already engaged in a kind of dialectical movement. Species evolved through a process of constant adaptation, contradiction, and synthesis. Environmental pressures, i.e., thesis challenged the survival of certain traits, i.e., antithesis, leading to the emergence of new, more adaptable forms, i.e., synthesis. This is dialectic, even though it operates without conscious thought or language. The Jay bird, as a species, didn’t emerge because we named it but rather through a dialectical process embedded in the fabric of life itself.

So what does language do? It allows us to become conscious of the dialectical process. It gives us the tools to not only recognise contradictions but to articulate and resolve them in increasingly sophisticated ways. Language integrates us, the human species, with the Geist, in the most intimate manner possible. We not only get to witness, but also actively contribute to the dialectic, using linguistic tools.

So, is the dialectic inherently linguistic? No. Is our awareness of the dialectic possible without language? Maybe. Without language, can we conceptualise, structure and articulate our existence within, and active contribution to the dialectic? Absolutely NOT.

So…What Did We Find?

So, to wrap things up in this discourse, the following are my takeaways from this contemplation.

1. Concepts are social contracts we form through language. The Jay bird exists as a biological entity, but the concept of the Jay bird exists because we, as a linguistic community, have decided to call it that. Without this shared agreement, there’s no concept, just a creature we haven’t named.

2. What makes a concept distinct from mere recognition is its permeability to change. The Jay bird is a Jay bird until new information or collective redefinition shifts our understanding of it.

3. Monkeys can differentiate between snakes and leopards, and dogs can recognise their owners. But this is recognition, not conceptualisation. Animals don’t renegotiate or redefine their categories. A snake has always been a threat, and it always will be. Humans, on the other hand, can reframe a Jay bird as a symbol, a species, or even a misclassification.

4. Hobbes argued that concepts are linguistic constructs, and he wasn’t wrong. But his view doesn’t account for the fluidity of concepts in the way Hegel’s dialectic does. Concepts are not just defined by language but through the constant tension, contradiction, and synthesis. Language is the tool, but the process is much larger.

5. The dialectic, as Hegel saw it, is embedded in the structure of reality itself. Species evolve, stars collapse, and ecosystems adapt, all through dialectical movement. But humans, through language, become conscious of this process. Language doesn’t create the dialectic, but it makes us active participants in it.

6. In the end, the Jay bird is both less and more than we think. It’s less, because outside our linguistic framework, it’s just an organism following its evolutionary path. But it’s also more, because as a concept, it represents the interaction between language, thought, and reality.

A Jay bird will always be whatever it is. But as long as we keep thinking, naming, and redefining, it will also be something more, i.e., a concept in motion, just like us.

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This month, I have had the rare opportunity to enjoy the luxury of putting my feet up and just reading books. I have done a lot of reading. And while that has come at the expense of a mountain of overdue work awaiting my desk, I have been more than eager to put it away for another day. Most of my reading has been philosophical. And it brought certain issues and discomforts that I have had with the field for years into the foray. 

What is Philosophy? At its best, philosophy aspires to peel back the veil and show us not just what is but what must be. At its worst however, it descends into a linguistic ouroboros, eating its own tail and going in circles to express the same essential insight. How many isms do you think it takes to articulate the rather simple notion that we construct reality?

Consider the likes of Radical Constructivism, Metaphysical Anti-Realism, and Skeptical Epistemologies. Each term comes with its own intellectual grandeur, promising the herald of a new philosophical epoch. Yet, when the smoke clears, what do we find? Just another rephrasing of the idea that our minds shape the world. A truth that, depending on one’s mood, is either elegantly self-evident or tediously belabored.

Now, as a philosopher myself, I am most definitely complicit in the machinery of conceptual reinvention. I understand the allure of the ism. Each new term promises to encapsulate a nuance overlooked by its predecessors. And sometimes, indeed, it delivers. But more often, it feels like a performance. It's like the Olympic games. The venue changes with every iteration, and yet, the games remain the same.

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I am not trying to dismiss the value of nuance. I am questioning its tenuous  proliferation. Are we truly refining our grasp of reality, or just playing an elaborate game of terminological one-upmanship? Is our pursuit of intellectual precision reaching a point where it obscures rather than illuminates? 

This month, I waded into the swamp of isms with equal parts curiosity and irreverence. I feel that philosophy, today, seems incapable of letting a single idea rest without dressing it up in ever more elaborate theoretical garb. After all, what could be more philosophical than taking a good idea and beating it to death with style?

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Our Obsession with Jargon

The isms in philosophy multiply like hydra heads. Spend a decent amount of time researching any philosophical concept and you will find that to be the case. 

Take the constructivist jargon for instance. Each term claims to be indispensable, carving out its niche in the pantheon of thought. And what are they all trying to say? The same thing. Reality, as we know it, is not discovered but constructed. 

Radical Constructivism boldly declares that reality is unknowable in itself, i.e., what we perceive is merely a mental construct. Basically, that’s just some good old repackaged Kant. 

Metaphysical Anti-Realism denies the existence of any objective reality independent of human minds. You can think of it as a rebellious cousin of Constructivism, it prefers to challenge the notion of reality itself, dismantling the idea of an external “out there.”

And then there’s Idealism, which insists that reality is fundamentally mental. In other words, “Everything’s in your head,” but with Hegelian grandeur. 

Skeptical Epistemologies take a more cautious route, interrogating not just what we know, but the very process of knowing. Basically second guessing your own shadow.

Ontological Constructivism argues that the categories of being themselves are human-made. It’s an audacious claim, suggesting that even existence is an artifact of our conceptual schemes. In other words, reality is IKEA furniture, assembled piece by piece with your conceptual schemes.

And, of course, there is Subjectivism, unapologetically asserting that reality is whatever the individual perceives it to be. Reality, in this view, is less a shared experience and more a highly personalised playlist.

Now, each of these terms has its merits. They illuminate facets of the constructivist worldview, emphasising different dimensions, i.e., ontology, epistemology, metaphysics. But does this endless proliferation of terms enhance our understanding? 

Philosophy is a discipline that thrives on distinctions. To name is to carve reality at its joints. But at what point does it turn into an arms race of terminological invention?

Philosophy, like science, is obsessed with precision. When a term like "constructivism" becomes too broad, philosophers refine it, splitting hairs until "Radical Constructivism" emerges, followed by "Ontological Constructivism," each claiming to correct or deepen the original insight. In some cases, this refinement serves its purpose, highlighting distinctions that genuinely advance our understanding. 

To secure a foothold in the philosophical canon, a thinker must do more than repeat old ideas. They have to brand their thoughts as fundamentally new. A new ism, no matter how minor the distinction, becomes a philosopher’s signature. Their ticket to intellectual immortality. This relentless push for novelty and distinction takes precedence over the pursuit of true understanding.

And also, let us not underestimate the role of ego. A new term is a monument to its creator. To name an ism is to stake a claim, to say, “I was here.” This results in a philosophical Tower of Babel, where each thinker insists on speaking their own language, while adding nothing distinctive or new.

Illumination or Obfuscation?

I always considered the refinement of terminology to be an act of illumination with each ism reflecting a deliberate attempt to grapple with a specific facet of a philosophical view, teasing apart layers of meaning that might otherwise collapse into vagueness. But there is a fine line between refinement and redundancy. There is no doubt in my mind that philosophy, today, has turned into something akin to marvel movies. They will keep making a few every year, same concept, same jokes, same multiverse nonsense, just repackaged with a new title or a distinct superpower. 

New terms are no longer adding clarity, they are adding clutter. When every thinker feels compelled to coin their own ism, the result is less a coherent dialogue and more a cacophony of voices, each insisting on its own terminology, each pulling the discourse in subtly different directions.

Take, for example, Metaphysical Anti-Realism and Ontological Constructivism. At their core, both reject the idea of an independent, objective reality. Yet, rather than building on each other’s insights, they often operate as competing frameworks, each vying for intellectual dominance. The result is a fragmentation of the philosophy, where the shared insight is buried beneath competing terminologies.

This comes at a cost. It makes philosophy less accessible, not only to outsiders but even to practitioners. It risks alienating philosophy from its original purpose, i.e., to help us understand the world and our place within it.

The greatest crime of all, is how this mindless proliferation of isms often obscures the shared truth they all orbit. By focusing so intensely on distinctions, we risk losing sight of the broader picture.

So, am I saying we should abandon nuance? Is this some neo-marxist take on how philosophical investigations should be conducted? No. This is not a call to abandon nuance. Philosophy thrives on precision, on the careful articulation of ideas. But precision without purpose is an empty exercise. If our terminological refinements do not bring us closer to understanding, if they do not help us see the world with greater clarity, then what are they for?

Perhaps, then, the task before us is not to multiply isms but to unify them. To find common ground among these fragmented frameworks and, in doing so, to reclaim philosophy’s original promise, i.e., not just to name things, but to illuminate the world.

Notes on Unification and Simplification

Finally, I would like to leave you with some notes on the merits of unification and simplification of philosophical queries and frameworks. The solution is not to reject distinctions but to wield them with purpose, to balance the precision of refinement with the clarity of synthesis.

Since constructivism is where the conversation began, let us use it as our testcase. What might such a unified philosophy of constructivism look like? For one, it would resist the temptation to name every conceptual wrinkle as though it were a revolutionary breakthrough. Instead, it would focus on integration, bringing together the insights of Radical Constructivism, Idealism, and their ilk into a coherent framework that highlights their common ground while respecting their differences.

We might begin by recognising that all constructivist philosophies share a foundational premise, that reality, as we know it, is shaped by human perception, thought, and culture. This shared insight can serve as the bedrock upon which more nuanced distinctions, i.e., epistemological, ontological, metaphysical, etc., are built. But these distinctions must be framed as complementary rather than competitive, as variations on a theme rather than rival claims to the truth.

This approach would also demand a more critical engagement with the language of philosophy itself. Philosophical terms, for all their precision, are tools, not ends in themselves. Their value lies in their ability to clarify, to reveal, to illuminate. When they cease to serve this purpose, when they become barriers to understanding rather than bridges, they must be set aside, no matter how elegantly constructed they may be.

Lastly, such a philosophical framework should  whole-heartedly embrace humility. The temptation to invent new isms often stems from a desire for intellectual legacy, for a lasting imprint on the philosophical canon. If you are a philosopher, please understand that the true legacy of your philosophy lies not in the number of terms you coined, but in the depth of understanding you brought to the world. Remember that the ultimate goal of philosophy is not to multiply distinctions, but to deepen insight.

Perhaps it is time to descend from the tower of our personal ego and return to the ground, where philosophy began, not with isms, but with questions. After all, it is not the naming of reality that makes philosophy worthwhile. It is the pursuit of truth, no matter how elusive, that gives it meaning.

I am reminded of a sentiment often attributed to Pascal, “One cannot truly be a philosopher without first learning to laugh at philosophy.” There is wisdom in this. Your isms are not sacred truths but imperfect tools of a deeply human endeavour.

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Winter is finally upon us! As the nights grow longer and the world outside slows down (hopefully), it's the perfect time for us to lean into introspection and learning. I am excited to share my winter reading list for 2024. Its an interesting albeit ambitious collection of 28 books that promise to stretch the mind.

Winter Reading List (2024)

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This season, I've curated a lineup that spans through complexity theory, consciousness studies, the philosophy of language, and even climate science. My reasons for selecting these topics are rather obvious given my recent ventures into designing CEMLA, and solution driven articles for climate action like the Azolla article I published on Arkinfo Notes. For those who, like me, are drawn to the paradox of reading to the point of exhaustion only to find the remedy in more books, this list is your invitation to join me.

Will I make it through all 28 books by January 1st? Maybe, maybe not. But as any dedicated reader knows, it's less about finishing and more about the insights gained along the way.

So here it is, a winter challenge, a literary mountain to climb. If you’re willing, pick a few (or all, if you're bold) and read along with me.

Happy winter, and may your season be filled with wonder and the rustle of turning pages.

Winter Reading List (2024)

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I am happy to share with a new essay that I have written, dealing with a very complex yet intriguing idea. How does Emergence manifest in Complex Systems that have underlying noncommutative rule sets and properties?

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This investigation was inspired by my recent work with CEMLA (Complex Emergent Model of Language Acquisition), where I examined how language develops as a dynamic, adaptive system driven by complex interactions. This examination led me to question whether our understanding of emergence could extend to domains governed by noncommutative interactions.

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In language, the rules of acquisition and adaptation are not always straightforward. They often exhibit context sensitivity and sequence dependence. This made me wonder, can emergence still occur when the underlying rules do not commute, and does this complicate our notion of complexity?

This essay, that I published on PhilPapers, is my attempt to explore that question rigorously. I investigate whether emergent behaviour can genuinely arise from noncommutative structures, using quantum mechanics as my base for the argument.

We discuss the properties of emergent systems, the implications of path dependence and sequence sensitivity, and how noncommutative interactions could trigger a richer, more nuanced form of emergence.

If, like me, you are intrigued by complexity science and how it applies to fields ranging from quantum mechanics to cognition and langauge, I invite you to read the full essay.

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As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. Feel free to share your ideas, critiques, or reflections in the comments.

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I am happy to report that the Complex Emergent Model of Language Acquisition (CEMLA) has garnered significant interest since its launch last week. It is a new lens through which to understand how humans acquire language. 

Traditional models approach language learning as a series of linear stages with static rules. But CEMLA views it as a complex adaptive system, where linguistic elements interact dynamically, self-organise, and give rise to the emergent properties of language. Using principles of complexity theory, CEMLA captures the non-linear, fluid nature of language acquisition, where understanding emerges through interaction with diverse linguistic input.

Since introducing CEMLA, the response has been overwhelmingly positive. It’s clear that this model fills a critical gap in how we understand the dynamism of language learning. It has also sparked a number of important questions. So before going further into my research and building upon this framework, I felt it pertinent to tackle some of the most pressing inquiries related to how CEMLA interacts with existing linguistic theories. 

Specifically, I’ve chosen five key questions that not only reflect external concerns but also challenge my own thinking and research over the past year. These questions cover CEMLA’s relationship with Universal Grammar, input variability, and how it aligns with biolinguistics and other cognitive theories, such as Jerry Fodor’s Language of Thought Hypothesis. 

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By answering these questions, my goal is to further refine and clarify CEMLA. If, at the end of this article, you find that there are some more pressing questions that need to be addressed, feel free to shoot them to me. I will certainly make sure to cover them in future articles. Rest assured, there is much more to discuss in the coming weeks.

Is CEMLA a Reductionist Framework?

This one’s easy - No. In fact, it is the opposite. In my paper, I propose that CEMLA is deeply rooted in complexity theory, which directly contrasts with reductionism.

Reductionism breaks down phenomena into simpler components, often viewing language acquisition as a series of linear steps or isolated processes, such as learning sounds first, then words, followed by grammar rules, etc. CEMLA explicitly rejects these static, linear models.

CEMLA conceptualises language acquisition as a complex system, where linguistic elements interact in ways that create emergent properties. For instance, learning a single word like "dog" does not just add one isolated piece of information but triggers connections across sensory experiences, emotions, and related words. These interactions form a web of understanding that constantly evolves, demonstrating self-organisation, feedback loops, and phase transitions in language learning.

Does CEMLA Align with Chomsky’s Universal Grammar?

I found many people confused about this in their reviews, and I get why. Many people see UG and reductionism going hand in hand and so assume that since CEMLA is based on Complexity theory, it has to be inherently unaligned with UG. This is a misunderstanding. So let me clarify this in (hopefully) no unclear terms. Also, if you’d like a primer on what UG is, I recommend reading this article that I had written earlier. While I have discussed Chomsky and UG plenty of times across many different articles, this primer that I shared is the best, most concise explanation of UG that I have.

CEMLA aligns with Chomsky’s UG, or at the very least, doesn’t contradict it. I don’t see CEMLA in conflict with Universal Grammar (UG). In fact, I see it as a natural extension to it. UG serves as the starting point, the inherent structure or blueprint that allows humans to develop language in the first place. CEMLA builds on that foundation by explaining how language acquisition actually plays out in the brain.

Without an inherent capacity for language, like the one outlined in UG, it wouldn’t be possible for a complex adaptive system for language to emerge. But having the capacity with minimalistic rules and algorithms doesn’t mean the system is reductionist in nature. So while I completely reject reductionism in the context of language, I do believe that a structured base is essential. Having a base doesn’t translate to reductionism and UG itself, in my opinion, cannot be classified as reductionist. 

How can we have a complex system that processes multimodal sensory input and produces language if there isn't some underlying set of rules or predispositions guiding it? Whether we’re talking about modern Large Language Models (LLMs) or the human brain, the principle is the same. Emergence happens when there’s a structured foundation. 

Even in its nascent stages, you can already see emergent properties in LLMs. Even so, classifying them as purely reductionist is incredibly uncomfortable. So how then can we expect to reduce human language, which is infinitely more complex, into neat little parts? UG might say that recursive syntax is a universal feature of human languages, but CEMLA shows how and why that recursion emerges, how it strengthens through exposure, and how it fits into the larger network of linguistic connections. CEMLA is about understanding how we get from a set of rules to a fully functional, fluent system through adaptive learning and interaction.

How Does CEMLA Reconcile Input Variability Factor with ‘Poverty of Stimulus’?

So this is the next obvious question and a good one at that. If CEMLA doesn’t contradict UG, how can we interpret it in terms of Poverty of Stimulus? By the way, if you’d like more clarity on The Poverty of Stimulus, suggested by Chomsky, I highly recommend reading this article that I had published on Arkinfo Notes. At the risk of self-publicity, I have to say it is, by far, the most intuitive explanation on the Poverty of Stimulus.

Arkinfo Notes

How Accidentally Learning Farsi Taught Me About The Limitations of AI

Most of you know me as an Engineer and Writer. But I think a lesser known aspect of my life is my love of learning languages. Over the years, I have ventured into learning many different language, including but not limited to Spanish, French, Russian, Farsi, Arabic, and Norwegian. These are in addition to Urdu (my native tongue), Hindi (also my native t…

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2 years ago · 5 likes · 3 comments · Mir H. S. Quadri

Now coming back to the question, first, let’s define these terms in the context of language acquisition. The poverty of stimulus argument claims that the linguistic input we receive, especially in early childhood, is too limited and imperfect to account for the full richness of our linguistic knowledge. Therefore, proponents of Universal Grammar argue that there must be some innate structure guiding language acquisition. 

On the other hand, CEMLA’s input variability emphasises the rich, diverse, and unpredictable nature of the language we’re exposed to, which pushes our adaptive systems to develop robust linguistic abilities.

In my view, there is nothing to reconcile as I don’t see any inherent contradictions here. But if we were to ‘reconcile the two’ in a manner of speaking, then CEMLA starts with the premise that some inherent linguistic structure exists, as we discussed earlier, with Universal Grammar. This inherent capacity forms the base upon which language can emerge. However, CEMLA also emphasises that this base structure isn’t enough by itself. It only sets the stage for the adaptive, emergent process of language learning.

The role of input variability becomes crucial here. While the initial input might be sparse (as per the poverty of stimulus argument), the brain’s inherent capacity is designed to handle this scarcity by leveraging feedback loops, self-organisation, and phase transitions. The brain actively reorganises and strengthens its internal networks as it encounters linguistic input, allowing even minimal input to result in substantial linguistic growth over time.

The key to how CEMLA reconciles these concepts is the brain’s ability to make the most of the input it receives, regardless of how limited or variable it might be. CEMLA posits that even sparse input provides enough variability for the brain’s adaptive mechanisms to generate rich linguistic understanding. For instance, a child might only hear a few examples of a grammatical structure, but through the adaptive process of CEMLA’s feedback loops, these sparse examples can trigger a cascade of interactions within the brain’s linguistic network, leading to a more comprehensive understanding of the structure.

As CEMLA suggests, language learning thrives at the edge of chaos. The richness and variability in the input we encounter, even if it seems impoverished at first glance, forces the system to adapt, reorganise, and strengthen its connections. This doesn’t require perfect, exhaustive input. The brain’s adaptive capacities are capable of filling in the gaps and generating a broader understanding from seemingly limited input.

So, while the input might be sparse, the emergent properties of language learning can still arise. CEMLA proposes that linguistic structures, like grammar and syntax, emerge from the interactions between linguistic elements rather than being explicitly provided in the input. This emergence allows the system to overcome the limitations of the poverty of stimulus. 

A child might only hear fragmented sentences or imperfect grammar, but because the brain’s network is adaptive, it can generate the necessary connections between linguistic elements over time. This leads to the gradual emergence of grammatical understanding, even from limited input.

So think of it this way - in terms of variability of input in language acquisition, more is better, but less is not bad. Our brain's ability to self-organise, and emergent properties take care of a lot of these issues for us. It is an evolutionary system, which means it's built to withstand the poverty of stimulus. It thrives on input variability but it survives just as well in poverty of stimulus. 

Does CEMLA Align with Traditional Biolinguistics?

Yes, CEMLA aligns well with the core principles of biolinguistics, especially the foundational ideas proposed by Eric Lenneberg, but it does something even better, it actually extends those ideas by integrating a complexity theory perspective. If you are unaware of Lenneberg’s works, reading this article that I had written earlier this year might serve as a good starting point. I have discussed his works and ideas in detail in it. 

Lenneberg’s work established the biological foundation of language acquisition, proposing that humans have an innate biological capacity for language, which emerges as a natural outcome of human maturation. CEMLA builds on this biological foundation but offers a deeper explanation of how this capacity interacts with external input to give rise to complex linguistic systems.

Lenneberg believed that language acquisition is tied to brain development, maturing along a predetermined path during critical periods of growth. This fits well with the foundational ideas we discussed in CEMLA, where I acknowledge that there’s a necessary inherent structure, the base, upon which language acquisition builds. Again, there is no problem in having a UG as long as we acknowledge and view human language as a complex emergent system.

The Critical Period Hypothesis (CPH), suggested by Lenneberg, argues that there’s a specific window during which language acquisition must occur. During the critical period, the brain is most malleable and adaptive. The brain’s capacity for self-organisation and feedback-driven adaptation is heightened during this period, allowing it to rapidly reorganise and strengthen linguistic connections in response to input. As I mentioned in my previous answer, it is important to keep in mind that language is a complex emergent system, but it is also an evolutionary system. Therefore, evolutionary systems do tend to have critical periods of acquisition as it is a matter of survival of the species. As exposure increases, phase transitions occur, leading to sudden leaps in understanding.

After the critical period, the brain becomes more rigid. Using CEMLA’s model we can understand this as the learning rate (η). Evolution has essentially played its role at this point and given you a language that is functional for the environment you are in. Therefore, priority for its acquisition is naturally lowered and the learning rate goes down.

Lenneberg also argued that language is species-specific, a unique trait of human biology that distinguishes us from other animals. CEMLA is fully in line with this idea. The capacity for language, as seen through both biolinguistics and CEMLA, is unique to humans due to the specific cognitive and neural architectures we possess. So we have no conflict there either.

Is there room for ‘Language of Thought Hypothesis’ in the CEMLA Framework?

This is a sticky wicket. Fodor’s LOTH posited that thinking occurs in a mental language. This is a system of symbols and syntax that represent propositions in the mind. I had written a detailed article on Jerry Fodor’s theory earlier this year. If you are unaware of LOTH, this might be a good primer, especially the last section of the article, where I shared some of my own thoughts on LOTH and Fodor’s approach to language.

According to Fodor, this internal language, or "Mentalese," functions much like any other formal language, with structured rules that govern how thoughts are represented and manipulated.

This is problematic, because LOTH suggests that thinking is fundamentally symbolic and modular. Fodor’s theory depends on structured mental representations that follow logical, formal rules, similar to how language has grammar. 

CEMLA is opposed to this line, because it views language not as a pre-structured, modular system but as an emergent property of dynamic networks in the brain. In CEMLA, linguistic understanding arises from the interaction of multiple inputs and adaptive processes rather than from a fixed, symbolic system. CEMLA is more focused on non-linear emergence and feedback loops, where language structure is not predetermined but evolves through exposure and adaptation.

CEMLA rejects the idea that language (or thought) can be fully explained through formal symbols and rules. Fodor’s hypothesis suggests that there is a mental grammar that allows for the manipulation of symbols in structured ways. This aligns more closely with computational models of cognition, where language and thought are viewed as rule-governed, formal systems.

Fodor suggests that modular cognitive systems are responsible for different aspects of thought, where each module processes specific types of information (such as syntax, semantics, or logical reasoning). This modularity suggests that thought and language are segregated into specialised cognitive domains, which work independently.

CEMLA is fundamentally opposed to such rigid modularity. It views language acquisition as a networked, holistic process, where different elements, i.e., grammar, semantics, phonetics, are all interconnected and emerge through interaction. Fodor is a formalist in his approach. CEMLA places heavy emphasis on emergence. The brain adapts to linguistic input through self-organisation and feedback loops, which is the opposite to the formal, symbol-manipulating system proposed by Fodor. 

Where LOTH and CEMLA may find some alignment is in their shared belief in cognitive universality. Fodor suggested that all humans think in Mentalese. CEMLA suggests that there are underlying universal principles that guide how language emerges, especially given that CEMLA builds upon the base structure provided by Universal Grammar. But the key difference lies in how this universality is understood. In LOTH, universality is about the formal properties of the mind and how it processes information. In CEMLA, universality is more about the adaptive capabilities of the brain to handle linguistic input. 

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Its been a while since you’ve heard from me here. The reason for that, almost always, is that I am working on something BIG which requires more time and headspace to see to completion. Back in early September, shortly after publishing my previous research essay on the topic of silence, I was struck by an idea. Can we use complexity theory to understand language acquisition better?

I first came across complexity theory back in 2018 when I was in the freshmen year of pursuing my master’s degree in AI. I was (and still am) a subscriber of The Great Courses Plus, and had followed a course called “Understanding Complexity” by Professor Scott E. Page. It was a great introduction to this fascinating field and I was instantly pulled into it. Ever since, I have spent a lot of time exploring complexity theory more formally. My latest work in understanding language acquisition is where all this study finally came to good use.

Language is one of the most complex and fascinating systems. But traditional models of language acquisition often fail to capture its true depth. I asked myself, “What if there’s a way to map out the dynamic, adaptive nature of language learning?” Something that truly reflects the chaotic, ever-evolving process our brains undergo?

So, after putting a month’s work into it, I am happy to share with you today, my latest research into language acquisition. I introduce the Complex Emergent Model of Language Acquisition (CEMLA).

Grounded in principles from complexity theory, CEMLA provides a comprehensive framework for understanding how we acquire language, embracing the non-linear, adaptive, and emergent properties that traditional models overlook.

In this paper, I explore how language acquisition operates at the edge of chaos, driven by feedback loops, phase transitions, and environmental variability. Using complexity theory, I represent how meaning and fluency emerge through the interactions of our neural networks.

Whether you’re a linguistics enthusiast, a cognitive scientist, or just curious about the mysteries of human communication, this paper offers a fresh perspective that could change the way you think about language learning. Also, its OPEN ACCESS. So you get to read and review it for free.

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Why This Matters

CEMLA is a way to rethink language acquisition, moving beyond static rules and linear stages, seeing it as a living, breathing system. If you’ve ever struggled to understand why language learning feels chaotic but also deeply intuitive, this framework will resonate with you.

The Key Concepts to watch out for, are,

• Emergence: How linguistic patterns arise through self-organisation.

• Feedback Loops: The role of positive and negative reinforcement in shaping language learning.

• Phase Transitions: Those sudden leaps in understanding we all experience as learners.

• The Edge of Chaos: The delicate balance that makes language learning adaptive yet stable.

I’d Love to Hear From You

I’m excited to share CEMLA with you, and I’d love to hear your thoughts! Check out the paper, explore the concepts, and let me know what you think. I am open to all feedback as long as it is constructive. Cheers!

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I recently had the pleasure of coming across some interesting material that discussed the perspective of the famous French philosopher Jacques Derrida on the concept of silence. Being a silence enthusiast myself, needless to say I was driven to reading it and I found an aspect within the discourse that I felt I may have missed, or at the very least, hadn’t properly covered, in the research article that I had published back in April of this year, titled, “The Paradox of Being Silent”. By the way, if you haven’t read it yet, I highly recommend you do. At the risk of self-publicity, I have to say, it is quite a unique take on silence. If you are interested in the philosophical and linguistic dimensions of silence, then you are the right audience for it.

But coming back to the topic at hand today, can a sentence truly convey its meaning without the presence of silence? This might seem like a peculiar question, but it's crucial to how we understand language. We often think of meaning as something born from words. But what if the true essence of meaning isn't just in the words themselves, but in the silence that surrounds them?

Without silence, our sentences would collapse into a formless rush of noise, devoid of the clarity and nuance that allow us to express complex ideas and emotions.

In my research on silence, I covered various facets of silence, i.e., its role as a form of listening, an act of kenosis, and even a way of life. However, I only briefly touched on one of silence’s most important aspects, i.e., its intrinsic role in the construction of meaning within language. So, in this essay, we will talk about that dimension.

As mentioned earlier, Derrida’s works are the primary source of inspiration for me in exploring this dimension, so we will be covering some of his insights in this matter. Particularly his concept of différance. 

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The Role of Silence in the Structure of Language

You don’t have to be a linguist to decipher this one. Just think about it. Without silence, the structure of communication would dissolve into a relentless stream of sound, leaving us unable to discern where one thought ends and another begins. The punctuation we use in writing i.e., commas, periods, ellipses, are not just decorative but functional representations of silence. These marks are the visual manifestation of the pauses we naturally incorporate into speech, each one introducing a moment of quiet that is essential for organising our thoughts.

Without punctuation, a sentence is just a breathless sequence of words that demands continuous attention without offering any respite. Such a sentence would be nearly incomprehensible, its meaning obscured by the lack of necessary pauses. 

It's also worth mentioning that silence also operates on a more subtle level, shaping the rhythm and cadence of language. In spoken language, the way we modulate our voice, i.e., the rises and falls, the stresses and pauses, is crucial to how our message is received. Silence is what gives speech its musicality, its ability to convey not just information but emotion, intention, and nuance. It is the difference between a statement and a question, between irony and sincerity.

We can go a bit deeper here. The role of silence touches on something more fundamental than just the tone and comprehensibility of the language. It is the very possibility of differentiation within language itself. Silence is what allows words to stand apart, to be distinct from one another. Without silence, language would be a continuous blur, a single undifferentiated sound. One might go as far as to ask, could language itself exist without silence? A topic for another essay I suppose.

Derrida’s Différance and the Necessity of Silence

Now, let’s talk about Derrida’s concept of différance. And yes, Derrida has deliberately used the French variation for the word ‘difference’ here. He uses the French word différance to define his own concept that meaning is not a fixed entity, rather it is something that is continually deferred and differentiated within the play of language. This ongoing process, where words gain significance through their differences from other words, relies fundamentally on the presence of silence.

“La différance n'est pas un mot, et ne se laisse pas comprendre d'emblée comme un concept, c'est ce qui rend possible, en général, l'activité, le jeu, les différenciations d'oppositions, le jeu des différances conceptuelles ou non-conceptuelles." - Derrida, La différance (Essay). 

Translation: “Différance is not a word, and it is not immediately comprehensible as a concept; it is that which makes possible the activity, the play, the differences of oppositions, the play of conceptual or non-conceptual differences.”

Différance is the idea that meaning is never fully present. It is always in motion, always shifting, as it depends on the relationship between words rather than on the words themselves. Silence plays a crucial role in this dynamic, functioning as the space within which these differences emerge. It is the silent interval that allows us to perceive the distinctions between words, phrases, and ideas, giving rise to meaning as a relational rather than an absolute phenomenon.

The idea that meaning is always deferred, never fully arrived at, because it is contingent on a chain of differences that are constantly in flux makes silence integral to this deferral. It marks the places where meaning is suspended, where the listener or reader must pause to consider, interpret, and eventually derive significance. These silences are the spaces where meaning is not yet determined, where it hovers in a state of potentiality, waiting to be realised through interpretation.

So, in a sense, silence is what makes différance possible. It allows for the play of differences that Derrida describes, creating the conditions under which language can signify. Without silence, this play would collapse, language would lose its dynamism, becoming a static and inert system (and a potentially impossible entity). 

Silence is the Absence That Defines

If you’ve read my research article on silence, you’d know that I have contended quite a lot with the concept of ‘absence of silence’. Absence is just as significant as presence. Silence, in particular, operates as a defining absence, a space where meaning is both constrained and enriched by what is left unsaid. This absence is not a void but a potent force that shapes the contours of meaning by highlighting what is present and allowing it to resonate more deeply.

Silence within a sentence or conversation often carries as much weight as the words themselves. It is in the unsaid, the implied, that much of the richness of communication resides. For example, consider a conversation where someone pauses before answering a question. That pause, that moment of silence, is filled with potential meaning, it might indicate hesitation, contemplation, discomfort, or even a subtle form of resistance. The silence speaks, often more eloquently than words could.

This idea can be seen in various linguistic phenomena. Think of ellipses in writing, a deliberate omission of words that make the reader fill in the gaps. The ellipsis is a form of textual silence, a space where the reader’s imagination must engage with the text to complete the thought. This interaction between what is said and what is left unsaid is the space where meaning is co-constructed by the author and the reader.

In speech, silence functions similarly. It creates emphasis, draws attention, and suggests layers of meaning beyond the literal. A pause before a statement can heighten its impact, allowing the listener to anticipate, reflect, or prepare for what is to come. Derrida's critique of logocentrism, i.e., the privileging of speech over writing, inadvertently speaks to the function of silence in speech. 

In logocentric thinking, speech is seen as the direct expression of thought, supposedly more immediate and authentic than writing. Yet, Derrida argues that even in speech, meaning is not fully present. It is mediated by the same structures of absence and deferral that characterise writing. Silence disrupts the illusion of immediacy in speech, which goes to say that meaning is always, to some extent, constructed and deferred.

Silence serves as a boundary, a necessary absence that frames and defines the presence of language. It is within these boundaries that language finds its depth, its capacity to suggest, imply, and resonate beyond the surface of words. 

Silence is a Temporal Cognitive Process

Silence is not only spatial but also temporal, i.e., it unfolds in time, shaping the way we process and understand language. In the flow of conversation or the rhythm of reading, silence functions as a crucial interval that allows for reflection, interpretation, and comprehension. 

The act of reading, writing, speaking, and listening, are inherently sequential, and the mind requires brief moments of silence to digest and integrate the information being presented, thus pointing towards an aspect of silence that plays directly into something resonating with a cognitive requirement for humans.

The Ethics of Silence

This section might seem a bit off topic, and in all honesty, it probably is. We have been approaching silence from a very technical perspective in this essay, so there is no cause for us to venture into the ethics of silence. However, given how passionately (dare say ‘obsessively’)Derrida explored ethics towards the end of his life, I feel compelled, out of respect for him, to explore silence in an ethical framework. I promise to keep it brief, but feel free to skip this section all the same, if it doesn’t interest you. 

The ethical implications of silence arise in the spaces between speech, those moments where we choose to pause, to listen, or to withhold our words. Silence, in this sense, becomes an act of respect, of recognising the presence and voice of the other, and of creating a space where genuine dialogue can occur.

To remain silent when another speaks is to acknowledge their right to express themselves, to offer them the floor without interruption. This silence is not empty. It is filled with the intention to listen, to understand, and to respond thoughtfully. Derrida’s notion of hospitality, the idea of welcoming the other,  can be applied here. Silence is a gesture of openness, a way of making room for the other’s voice, and thus, it is an ethical framework for communication.

Silence is also a brilliant aesthetic force. Consider the use of silence in poetry or music, where the absence of sound or words can evoke emotions that are otherwise inexpressible. A poem, for instance, might use line breaks, caesuras, or the space around the text to create a sense of pause, inviting the reader to dwell on the unsaid, to feel the weight of what lingers in the silence. I highly recommend reading Emily Dickinson to get a hands on demonstration of this. 

The rests between notes, the pauses in a melody, are what give music its rhythm, its dynamic tension, and its emotional depth. The silence after a powerful chord, the pause before a crescendo, these moments of quiet are charged with anticipation, with emotion, with meaning.

In visual art, the use of negative space i.e., the silence of the canvas, can be as impactful as the elements that are present. This silence allows for contrast, focus, and a sense of balance within the composition. It invites the viewer to engage with what is absent as much as with what is present. In the artwork that I used for this article, “fuzai ni okeru sonzai (不在における存在)”, I have effectively used negative space to convey the message of silence using an abstract illustration of the vast emptiness of nature. It is not just the trees, the rivers, and the mountains that give nature its beauty, but also the vast emptiness (read silence), that accompanies it. 

That’s all I have to say about the ethics/aesthetics of silence for now. Let’s return back to the essay. 

Presence in Absence

To wrap up this discourse, I will attempt to link this aspect of silence with the broader topic of my previous research, The Paradox of Being Silent. In my previous exploration of silence, I delved into its multifaceted nature, how it serves as a form of listening, an act of kenosis, and even a way of life. In this essay, I covered silence as a presence in absence in further detail. This paradox is a fundamental truth that permeates our understanding of language and meaning. A truth that has surfaced repeatedly in my research and finds resonance in Derrida’s concept of différance.

Différance, I feel, is a good framework for understanding why silence plays such an essential role in the construction of meaning. In my research, I argued that silence is more than just the absence of sound, it is a presence that carries significant ontological weight, shaping the way language functions and meaning emerges. Derrida’s différance provides the philosophical backbone for this argument, suggesting that meaning is never fully present but always in the process of becoming, mediated by differences that silence makes possible.

My exploration of silence across languages revealed that while every culture recognises silence, its interpretation varies widely. However, the common thread remains, i.e., silence is a presence that transcends the spoken word, an absence that defines meaning. This universality of silence, as both presence and absence, resonates with Derrida’s critique of logocentrism, i.e., the idea that speech is somehow more immediate or authentic than writing. My research suggests that whether in speech or writing, silence plays a crucial role in the deferral and differentiation of meaning, challenging the notion that language can ever be fully present or complete.

By integrating Derrida’s concept of différance into this exploration, the role of silence in language is not only confirmed but also philosophically grounded. Différance provides the conceptual framework that explains why silence is indispensable to the process of meaning-making. It connects my empirical observations with a broader theoretical discourse.

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We have spoken a great deal on this substack about the underlying structures of language, discussing the works of Chomsky, Fodor, Lenneberg, Searle, and Jackendoff. Building upon this conversation, today I bring to you another article in which we will discuss at length and in technical detail, the works of Richard Montague, a logician and philosopher, who revolutionised the field of formal semantics with his approach to natural language, arguing that the principles governing logical languages could be applied to our everyday speech.

I will cover the formal systems he developed, such as typed lambda calculus and intensional logic, and see how they provide a framework for analysing the semantics of natural language. 

Of course, any discussion of linguistic theory would be incomplete without considering what Noam Chomsky had to say about it. While Montague and Chomsky operated in the same era, their approaches offer distinct yet complementary insights into the nature of language. I will discuss the points where their theories intersect and diverge. 

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Richard Montague

Richard Montague was born in Stockton, California, in 1930. His formal education began at the University of California, Berkeley, where he completed both his undergraduate and graduate studies. It was here that he came under the tutelage of Alfred Tarski, a prominent logician at the time.

Tarski's approach to formal logic and model theory provided Montague with a robust foundation in the rigorous methods that he would later apply to natural language. Montague earned his PhD in 1957, and his dissertation, "Contributions to the Axiomatic Foundations of Set Theory," already hinted at the formal precision that would characterise his later work in linguistics.

After completing his doctorate, Montague joined the faculty at UCLA, where he spent the entirety of his academic career. During his time at UCLA, Montague published a series of influential papers that laid the groundwork for what would come to be known as Montague grammar. His work sought to bridge the gap between formal logic and natural language.

Montague's notable publications include "English as a Formal Language" (1970) and "Universal Grammar" (1970), where he articulated his vision of a formal system that could capture the complexities of natural language semantics. These works set the stage for his most comprehensive treatment of the subject, "The Proper Treatment of Quantification in Ordinary English" (1973).

Montague's approach was grounded in the belief that there is no essential distinction between the formal languages used in logic and mathematics and the natural languages spoken by humans. He argued that the tools and methods developed for formal logic could be applied to natural languages with equal rigour and precision. This perspective was revolutionary at a time when many linguists and philosophers considered natural language to be too irregular and context-dependent to be captured by formal systems.

Fundamentals of Montague Grammar

Montague's philosophical stance on language was both bold and transformative. He challenged the prevailing notion that natural languages are fundamentally different from formal languages in logic and mathematics. Montague believed that the irregularities and complexities of natural language could be rigorously analysed using the same formal tools that logicians apply to mathematical systems. This perspective allowed him to build a formal framework for natural language semantics that was as precise and systematic as those used in formal logic.

Basic Components of Montague Grammar

Syntax

Montague grammar adopts a formal approach to syntax using context-free grammars. A context-free grammar consists of a set of production rules that specify how symbols can be combined to form valid sentences. This is clever because it allows for the systematic generation of syntactic structures, which can then be paired with their corresponding semantic interpretations.

For example, consider the simple sentence "The cat sleeps." In a context-free grammar, this sentence might be generated by the following rules.

1. S → NP VP

A sentence (S) consists of a noun phrase (NP) followed by a verb phrase (VP).

2. NP → Det N

A noun phrase consists of a determiner (Det) followed by a noun (N).

3. VP → V

A verb phrase consists of a verb (V).

4. Det → "The"

The determiner can be "The".

5. N → "cat"

   - The noun can be "cat".

6. V → "sleeps"

The verb can be "sleeps".

These rules generate the syntactic structure of the sentence, which can be represented as a tree diagram.

         S

        / \

      NP   VP

     / \    |

   Det  N   V

   |    |   |

 The   cat sleeps

Semantics

Montague deploys what is known as model theory for deriving the semantics of a sentence. Model theory deals with the relationships between formal languages and their interpretations, or models. Montague applied these principles to natural language, allowing for a precise representation of meaning.

In Montague's system, each syntactic category is associated with a corresponding semantic type. For example, nouns can be associated with individuals, verbs with functions from individuals to truth values, and sentences with truth values.

The Principle of Compositionality

According to this principle, the meaning of a complex expression is determined by the meanings of its parts and the rules used to combine them. This ensures that the semantics of natural language expressions can be systematically derived from their syntactic structure.

Consider our previous example, "The cat sleeps." To derive its meaning, we need to determine the meanings of its parts and how they combine.

1. "The cat": This noun phrase refers to a specific individual, the cat.

2. "sleeps": This verb phrase denotes a function that maps individuals to truth values, indicating whether they are sleeping.

The sentence "The cat sleeps" can be interpreted as applying the function denoted by "sleeps" to the individual denoted by "the cat," yielding a truth value. If the cat is indeed sleeping, the sentence is true; otherwise, it is false.

Typed Lambda Calculus

This is a formal system for representing the meanings of expressions. Typed lambda calculus extends the traditional lambda calculus by associating each expression with a type, ensuring that only meaningful combinations of expressions are allowed.

For example, the verb "sleeps" can be represented as a lambda expression that takes an individual and returns a truth value.

This expression denotes a function that maps an individual to the truth value of the proposition "x sleeps."

Intensional Logic

Montague also used intensional logic to handle modality and reference in natural language. Intensional logic allows for the representation of statements about possibilities, necessities, and other modal concepts, which are crucial for capturing the nuances of natural language meaning.

Consider the sentence "The cat might sleep." This sentence expresses a possibility rather than a certainty. In intensional logic, we can represent this modality by introducing possible worlds and stating that there is at least one possible world in which the cat sleeps.

Translation between Natural and Formal Languages

This translation process involves mapping syntactic structures to their corresponding semantic representations in a formal language. For instance, the sentence "The cat sleeps" can be translated into a logical formula that represents its meaning in the typed lambda calculus.

Here, denotes the individual referred to by "the cat," and denotes the truth value of the proposition that this individual is sleeping.

Montague Grammar in Action

Okay, now let us put these concepts to use with some more practical examples in order to understand Montague grammar in-depth. 

Simple Declarative Sentence

Consider the sentence "Every dog barks." Using Montague grammar, we can break this sentence down into its syntactic components and translate it into a logical formula.

Syntactic Breakdown

•    S → NP VP

•    NP → Det N

•    VP → V

•    Det → "Every"

•    N → "dog"

•    V → "barks"

Translation to Logical Formula

• Every dog:

• Barks:

• Every dog barks:

This formula states that for every individual , if is a dog, then barks. The translation captures the meaning of the sentence within the formal framework of Montague grammar.

Complex Sentence with Quantifiers

Now, let's consider a more complex sentence, "Some cat chases every mouse."

Syntactic Breakdown

•    S → NP VP

•    NP → Det N

•    VP → V NP

•    Det → "Some" | "Every"

•    N → "cat" | "mouse"

•    V → "chases"

Translation to Logical Formula

• Some cat:

• Every mouse:

• Chases:

• Some cat chases every mouse:

This formula states that there exists an individual such that is a cat and for every individual , if is a mouse, then chases . The translation handles the interaction between the quantifiers "some" and "every," preserving the meaning of the original sentence.

Ambiguous Sentence

Consider the sentence, "Every student read a book." This sentence is ambiguous because it can be interpreted in two ways.

Reading 1

• Every student read the same book.

• Logical Formula:

Reading 2

• Each student read a different book.

• Logical Formula:

Montague grammar allows us to formally represent both interpretations, providing clarity and precision in the analysis of ambiguous sentences.

Modal Sentence

Consider the sentence "The cat might sleep."

Syntactic Breakdown

• S → NP VP

• NP → Det N

• VP → V

• Det → "The"

• N → "cat"

• V → "might sleep"

Translation to Logical Formula Using Intensional Logic

• The cat:

• Might sleep:

• The cat might sleep:

This formula uses the modal operator to represent possibility, indicating that there is a possible world in which the cat sleeps.

Montague’s Divergence from the Chomskyan Approach

Montague's integrated approach to syntax and semantics contrasts with the modular view of language proposed by Noam Chomsky. I have written at length about Chomsky’s Universal Grammar (UG). If you are not familiar with it, click the link above to read. Chomsky's theories emphasise the cognitive and biological underpinnings of linguistic competence, which Montague's formalism does not directly address.

Modularity

Chomsky posits that language consists of modular components, such as phonology, syntax, and semantics, each governed by its principles and constraints. Montague's approach, which integrates syntax and semantics within a single formal system, does not align with this modular perspective.

Cognitive Realism

Chomsky emphasises that linguistic theories should aim to reflect the cognitive realities of how humans process and produce language. Montague's work, while formally rigorous, is often viewed as abstract and disconnected from these cognitive processes. This disconnect raises questions about the psychological plausibility of Montague's theories.

Notes

Finally, I’d like to share a few thoughts on where I see the theories of Chomsky and Montague intersect. By integrating the formal rigour of Montague's grammar with the cognitive realism of Chomsky's generative grammar, we can develop a more comprehensive framework for linguistic analysis.

Formal Precision and Cognitive Realism

Montague's formal semantics provides a precise and systematic method for representing meaning, which can be particularly useful for detailed linguistic analysis and computational applications. Chomsky's emphasis on cognitive realism ensures that linguistic theories are grounded in the psychological and biological mechanisms underlying language acquisition and use.

Syntax-Semantics Interface

Montague's work on the syntax-semantics interface can be integrated with Chomsky's syntactic theory to develop a more robust understanding of how syntactic structures map to semantic interpretations. This integration can help resolve ambiguities and capture the nuances of meaning in complex sentences.

Compositional Semantics in Generative Grammar

Researchers are developing frameworks that incorporate Montague's compositional semantics into Chomskyan generative grammar. This allows for the systematic construction of meaning from syntactic structures while maintaining cognitive plausibility.

Computational Models

In natural language processing (NLP), integrating Montague's formal methods with Chomsky's syntactic theories can enhance the development of algorithms for parsing, interpreting, and generating natural language.

Cross-Linguistic Studies

Integrating Montague's and Chomsky's theories facilitates cross-linguistic studies that aim to uncover universal principles of language structure and meaning. By applying formal methods to diverse languages, researchers can test the universality of linguistic principles proposed by UG.

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I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Having struggled with a severe form of tonsillitis these past two weeks, I remained mostly resigned to my bed, healing, but slowly, and reminiscing on the weight that a simple word can carry. 

To ‘look’ is to engage with the world in a way that transcends visual perception. It is an act of intent, curiosity, and meaning. 

Consider the words of Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who posited that perception is an active, interpretative process. "We see the things themselves, the world is what we see: formulae of this kind express a faith common to the natural man and the philosopher," he wrote. Looking is not a passive reception of visual stimuli but an active engagement with the environment, a process that involves our entire being and consciousness.

From a linguistic standpoint, the verbs we use to describe the act of looking—such as "see," "watch," and "observe", carry nuanced meanings that reflect different modes of engagement. Ferdinand de Saussure's principle of the arbitrariness of the sign shows how these terms are not inherently tied to the acts they describe but are shaped by contextual usage. The choice of words can reveal subtle distinctions in how we interact with the world around us.

So in this contemplation, I aim to get into the philosophical and linguistic dimensions of looking. Primarily, we shall focus on the Spanish verb ‘mirar’ as I found it the most comfortable for venturing into this contemplation. Latin offshoots tend to have a more detailed recorded history hence making the task or marking the evolutions of their words much easier.

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The Philosophical Dimensions of Looking

To fully grasp the significance of looking, we must first appreciate its philosophical underpinnings. Looking is not just a physical act. It is but a deep interaction with the world. I don’t want to get too philosophical here, so I would instead refer you to read Merleau-Ponty's phenomenology of perception. It provides a foundational understanding of this concept. He argued that perception is the primary mode through which we engage with the world, suggesting that our experiences are not just received by the senses but actively constructed by our consciousness. When we look at something, we do not merely see it. We interpret, understand, and relate to it.

Consider the difference between "seeing" and "watching." To see something is to have it enter our visual field, often without a conscious effort. It is a passive experience, much like the automatic process of breathing. In contrast, watching implies a deliberate focus, an intention to observe and comprehend. This distinction is subtle yet significant.

Philosopher Martin Heidegger expanded on this by differentiating between mere seeing (Sehen) and gazing (Blicken). For Heidegger, to gaze is to engage with an entity in a way that reveals its being. This act of gazing brings forth a deeper understanding and connection, transforming the object into something meaningful within our lifeworld.

The act of looking is deeply intertwined with our sense of self and our place in the world. French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre explored this in his concept of "the look" (le regard). Sartre posited that when we look at another person, we not only see them but also recognise their subjectivity. This mutual recognition establishes a complex relationship of seeing and being seen, where our perception of others shapes and is shaped by our own identity.

Linguistic Nuances of Looking

Different languages carve up the perceptual world in unique ways, reflecting diverse cultural attitudes and cognitive frameworks. In English, we differentiate between "seeing," "looking," and "watching," each term conveying distinct aspects of visual perception. "Seeing" is the most general term, implying the ability to perceive visually. "Looking" suggests directionality and intention, a conscious effort to direct one's gaze. "Watching" involves sustained attention, often implying a degree of interest or surveillance.

In Japanese, the verb "miru" (見る) can mean to see, look, or watch, depending on context. This fluidity contrasts with the more rigid distinctions in English, reflecting different cultural attitudes towards perception. Similarly, in Spanish, the verb "mirar", which is the subject of our article,  encompasses both looking and watching, hinting at a broader, more integrated view of visual engagement.

The Etymology and Evolution of ‘Mirar’

The Spanish verb "mirar" brings a fascinating case study in the evolution of language and meaning. To fully appreciate its depth, we must trace its origins back through Latin to the roots of human linguistic development.

"Mirar" originates from the Latin verb "mirari," which means "to wonder at" or "to admire." This Latin term itself is derived from "mirus," meaning "wonderful" or "astonishing." 

Going further back, "mirus" has its roots in the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root smei-/mei-, which means "to smile" or "to be astonished." This root reflects a fundamental human reaction to something that evokes wonder or surprise. The connection between smiling, astonishment, and looking suggests that the act of looking is not just a passive reception of visual information but an emotional and cognitive engagement with the world.

In its journey from "mirus" to "mirari" to "mirar," the word has accumulated layers of meaning. It now encompasses not only the act of looking but also the experiences of wonder, admiration, and even joy. 

The Contemporary Usage of ‘Mirar’

In contemporary Spanish, the verb "mirar" serves as a versatile tool, encompassing a range of visual and emotional experiences. Unlike the English equivalents of "to see," "to look," and "to watch," "mirar" seamlessly integrates these nuances, taking a holistic approach to perception.

To "mirar" something is to engage with it actively, bringing an intention that transforms observation into a meaningful interaction. When we say "mirar" in Spanish, we are actively engaging with the world, directing our attention and interpreting what we see. 

Consider the phrase "mirar al cielo" (to look at the sky). This act goes beyond the mere visual experience of seeing the sky. It can evoke a sense of wonder, contemplation, or even a spiritual connection. The choice of "mirar" over other possible verbs shows the active, interpretative nature of this engagement.

Similarly, "mirar" can convey different degrees of attention and emotional involvement. "Mirar de reojo" means to glance sideways or to look out of the corner of one's eye, suggesting a fleeting or cautious engagement. On the other hand, "mirar fijamente" means to stare or to gaze intently, indicating a focused and sustained attention. "Mirar" can capture the spectrum of visual engagement, from the subtle and fleeting to the intense and prolonged.

The emotional depth of "mirar" can be seen in expressions like "mirar con admiración" (to look with admiration) or "mirar con asombro" (to look with astonishment). 

This multifaceted nature of "mirar" reminds me of Julia Kristeva's concept of intertextuality, where meanings are not isolated but interconnected within a broader cultural and linguistic context. The way "mirar" is used in different expressions and contexts reveals the richness of meanings that this single word can convey. When we "mirar" someone, we acknowledge their presence and engage with them on a deeper level. This act of looking involves recognition, empathy, and connection. 

This richness allows speakers of Spanish to express a wide range of perceptions and feelings with a single term, illustrating the connection between language, thought, and perception.

A Synthesis of ‘Mirar’ as a Reflection of Perception and Language

Through "mirar," we can see how a single word can encapsulate a spectrum of visual and emotional engagements, reflecting the complexity of human cognition and culture.

"Mirar" embodies Merleau-Ponty's idea that perception is not a passive reception but an active, interpretative process. When we engage with the world through "mirar," we do so with intent and emotion, transforming observation into a rich, meaningful experience. This aligns with Heidegger's distinction between mere seeing and the deeper act of gazing, where looking becomes a way of revealing the essence of what we observe.

Linguistically, "mirar" demonstrates the flexibility and depth of language in capturing human experiences. The evolution of "mirar" from its Proto-Indo-European roots to contemporary Spanish shows how linguistic forms adapt to encapsulate a wide range of perceptual and emotional states. The various expressions and contexts in which "mirar" is used reveal a network of meanings that reflect the complexity of seeing, looking, watching, and experiencing.

The multifaceted nature of "mirar" is a microcosm of the broader linguistic and philosophical messaging. It shows how language can capture the richness of human perception, integrating visual, emotional, and cognitive layers into a single term. 

“Mirar” connects us to looking, seeing, watching, wonder, astonishment, and joy. These elements are not isolated but deeply interconnected. Its an engagement with reality, where perception is both shaped by and shapes our linguistic and cultural contexts.

“Mirar” is just a word. It's also so much more than that. It is a reflection of the complexity and richness of our perceptual and emotional lives. It goes beyond the surface, to see with wonder and astonishment, and to engage with the world in a way that is deeply meaningful and profoundly human.

Emily Dickinson on ‘Looking’

Finally, who better to showcase the power of looking, seeing, watching, than Emily Dickinson. I can’t help but quote her poems time and again. Here’s one of my favourites. In the following few lines, she has said more about “mirar” than I could with an entire article.

Notes

Emily begins with a striking declaration, "Before I got my eye put out— / I liked as well to see." Here, she immediately sets up a contrast between her past and present states of vision. This opening made me ponder how often we take our ability to see for granted, assuming it to be a simple, straightforward act. But Emily quickly dispels this notion, hinting at a deeper, more layered understanding of vision.

She goes on to express a hypothetical scenario, "But were it told to me—Today— / That I might have the sky / For mine—I tell you that my Heart / Would split, for size of me." In these lines, she imagines the overwhelming possibility of possessing the sky, capturing the sheer immensity of such a vision. It’s not just about what we physically see, but about the emotional and cognitive responses that accompany our perception.

As Emily’s meditation on vision unfolds, she touches on the delicate balance between the tangible and the intangible. These lines evoke the beauty and transient nature of visual experiences. They made me think about how looking and seeing are not just about capturing images but about connecting with the essence of what we observe.

The concluding lines of the poem, "So safer—guess—with just my soul / Upon the Window pane— / Where other Creatures put their eyes— / Incautious—of the Sun—," have a powerful metaphor. Dickinson suggests that perhaps it is safer to engage with the world through the soul, rather than the eyes, which can be dazzled or harmed by the sun’s brilliance. This idea resonates with the philosophical notion that true vision involves more than just the physical act of seeing, it requires a deeper, spiritual engagement.

Emily beautifully illustrates the multifaceted nature of vision. Her words remind us that seeing is not a passive act but an active, interpretative engagement with the world. Her exploration of vision extends beyond the physical realm, encompassing emotional, cognitive, and spiritual dimensions. This deeper understanding of vision or “mirar” shows the richness of meanings it embodies. To look beyond the surface and appreciate the profound connections between perception, emotion, and understanding.

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June should be spent (ideally) on the beach with a good book. Failing that, it should be spent (ideally) with at least a book if not the beach. While I did not get too much ‘beach’ time this month, I have managed to spend time recharging with family. Whatever time I had for myself in the midst, I spent on reading and writing. I am happy to report that I have some excellent content lined up for our substack in the coming weeks.

Today I wanted to speak with you with regards to an article that I had published on 4th of January this year, titled “Nothing is Happening”. This article was an instant hit resonating deeply with my audience at the time. I had written this article in the early hours of a cold December morning, deriving thoughts purely from my own mind without indulging in too much research online.

At the time of writing that article, I did not expect it to drive too much interest or discussions from my readers so I was pleasantly surprised to see it being received so well. A friend and colleague of mine who is also a computer scientist, read this article recently, digging it up from her “summer to-read” and found it very insightful. A philosophy enthusiast herself, she posed five follow up questions to this article. This made me re-read my own work from a fresh perspective and learn about Parmenides, Heraclitus, and their theories on ‘being’ and ‘becoming’. 

As a matter of full disclosure, it is necessary to mention that at the time of me writing my article on the concept of “Happening”, I had no prior knowledge of Heraclitus, Parmenides or their theories. So this week, I decided to study their notions on change in the universe deeply and juxtapose it to my own notions on the subject. 

In this article, I will be sharing with you, firstly, brief summaries on the notions of Heraclitus and Parmenides. I will follow that up with a brief summary of my own work in this regard. Finally, I will be answering the five questions that my friend posed with regards to my theory - “Nothing is Happening”. Let’s get started.

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Heraclitus and his Notion of Becoming 

Heraclitus was an ancient Greek philosopher known for his  theory of change and flux. The following is a saying famously attributed to Heraclitus, "You cannot step into the same river twice," encapsulating his belief that everything in the universe is in a state of constant transformation. This idea of perpetual change is central to his philosophy.

Heraclitus proposed that reality is a continuous process of becoming, where opposites coexist and drive the dynamic nature of existence. He saw the world as a harmonious blend of conflicting forces, where change is the only constant. Our selective perception, shaped by cognitive and linguistic constructs, filters this continuous stream of happenings, organising it into discrete, manageable units.

Parmenides and his Notion of Being

Parmenides was an ancient Greek thinker whose theory starkly contrasted to Heraclitus's view of constant change. Parmenides argued that change is an illusion and that true reality is unchanging and indivisible. His philosophy centres on the idea that what we perceive through our senses is deceptive, and only through rational thought can we grasp the eternal, unchanging nature of being.

Parmenides posited that reality is a single, continuous entity, unaltered by the flux of appearances. According to him, the multiplicity and change we observe in the world are mere illusions; true being is constant and immutable. 

A Brief Summary of “Nothing is Happening”

In this article, I addressed the relationship between perception, language, and the concept of 'happening.' The piece begins with a contemplation of the seemingly mundane dawn and the realisation that, despite the tranquillity, a vast array of activities perpetually unfolds around us, often eluding direct perception. 

I deconstruct the notion of 'happening,' questioning whether it genuinely encapsulates an objective reality or merely serves as a cognitive framework. Our selective perception, shaped by attentional focus and linguistic constructs, filters the continuous flux of events, highlighting some while ignoring others. This selective awareness mirrors the modality through which our minds categorise and decode reality, influenced by cultural, historical, and personal contexts.

I also talk about the ambiguity of terms like 'moment,' which in everyday usage, signifies fleeting instances yet can also encompass significant epochs. This ambiguity reflects the subjective nature of human temporal perception, where the demarcation of moments is a cognitive tool to impose order upon the chaos of time. I quoted Sartre and Heidegger, to emphasise how our perception of time and events is tied with our consciousness.

Language, I argue, is more than a vehicle for communication, proving useful as an architect of our perceived reality. The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis suggests that the structure of language shapes our thought processes and perception, segmenting the continuous flow of existence into discrete, manageable units. This segmentation, while practical, distances us from the true nature of the continuous and unbounded 'happening.'

By integrating perspectives from existentialism, phenomenology, cognitive science, and even physics, I propose that 'happening' is, in many ways, an illusion constructed by human cognition and language. 

This synthesis revealed to me that our experience of reality is a narrative we create, a construct to bring coherence to the chaos of existence. Ultimately, embracing the idea that nothing is truly 'happening' in an objective sense requires a shift in perspective, liberating us from conventional temporal constraints and opening new avenues for understanding our place in the cosmos.

With these introductory bits out of the way, let’s get to the questions. I have paraphrased and polished the language a bit in the questions while making sure not to alter the nature of their inquiry. 

1. On Selective Perception and Reality

How do you explain the phenomenon where some events, like a significant historical epoch, capture our attention, while others, like molecular flux, remain unnoticed? Do you think this selective perception undermines the concept of 'happening' as understood by Heraclitus?

Answer

Selective perception is a fundamental aspect of human cognition. We are wired to notice changes and events that have immediate relevance to our survival, social structure, and personal significance.

In my view, this selective perception showcases the complexity and layered nature of reality. Heraclitus's idea of constant flux remains valid because, on a fundamental level, everything is indeed in a state of change. However, the human mind, limited by its cognitive and sensory capacities, cannot grasp the totality of this continuous flux. We perceive reality through a filter of relevance, which is constructed by linguistic context.

The selective nature of our perception can be seen as a practical adaptation to an overwhelmingly complex world. While Heraclitus emphasised the perpetual change and becoming of everything, our cognitive faculties focus on what we deem significant, often influenced by linguistic constructs that categorise and prioritise experiences.

Therefore, selective perception does not negate Heraclitus's concept of constant flux but rather demonstrates the limitations of human cognition in apprehending the full spectrum of 'happening.' It shows the complexities involved in being and becoming, where our understanding of reality is continually shaped and reshaped by our cognitive and linguistic frameworks. 

2. On The Illusion of 'Happening'

In your article, you suggest that 'happening' is, in many ways, an illusion. How does this idea align or conflict with Parmenides' assertion that change is an illusion? Are you suggesting that all perceived events are inherently subjective constructs?

Answer

I don’t find too much misalignment between my notion of happening and Parmenides’ understanding of being in the mechanical sense of it. Happening is, in many ways, an illusion crafted by human cognition and language. This perspective aligns with Parmenides' assertion that change is an illusion. However, I diverge with Parmenides’ position that true reality is unchanging and that our sensory experiences of change are deceptive. My view emphasises that our perception of happening is deeply rooted in our cognitive frameworks and linguistic constructs, which filter and shape our understanding of reality.

By suggesting that all perceived events are inherently subjective constructs, I am not entirely dismissing the existence of change or becoming. Instead, I am highlighting the nature of our internal cognitive processes and the external world. Our brains selectively focus on certain events, categorising and interpreting them through the lens of language. This selective perception creates a narrative of happening.

Heraclitus's view of constant flux resonates with my perspective in that it acknowledges the ever-changing nature of reality. However, while Heraclitus promotes this perpetual change, I explore how our cognitive limitations and linguistic tools shape what we perceive as happening. Having a background in linguistics, I can’t help but take a cognitive and linguistic angle in this. In this sense, happening becomes a subjective experience, a construct that helps us make sense of the world but does not necessarily reflect an objective reality. Thus, my theory finds a middle ground between Heraclitus and Parmenides.

3. On Temporal Constructs

You mention that terms like seconds, minutes, and hours are human constructs to segment time. How do you think these constructs affect our perception of being and becoming? Do you believe that removing these constructs would lead us closer to Parmenides' idea of an unchanging reality?

Answer

By imposing a structured framework on the continuous flow of time, we create discrete units that help us make sense of our lives and make sense of the world around us.

These temporal constructs, and let's be clear, they are ‘constructs’,  serve as cognitive tools that allow us to categorise and interpret events, giving a sense of order to existence. 

Heraclitus believed in the constant flux and the ever-changing nature of reality, where everything is in a state of becoming. Our structured perception of time can obscure this dynamic nature, making it seem as though we are moving through a series of fixed moments rather than a continuous flow.

If we were to remove these constructs and experience time without segmentation, it might bring us closer to Parmenides' idea of an unchanging reality. Parmenides posited that change is an illusion and that true reality is a singular, unchanging entity. Without the artificial divisions of time, we might perceive reality as a more unified, constant presence, aligning with Parmenides' perspective.

However, this can be a slippery slope and it's essential to recognise that these constructs are deeply embedded in our cognitive and cultural frameworks. Removing them entirely is neither practical nor necessarily desirable, as they provide us with a functional way to organise our experiences and interactions. Instead, understanding the influence of these constructs can help us appreciate the balance between the fluidity of becoming and the stability of being.

4. On Linguistic Influence on Reality

How does the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which you reference, impact our understanding of 'happening'? Do you believe our language limits our ability to fully grasp the constant flux described by Heraclitus?

Answer

Sure it does. Think of it this way, our linguistic abilities limit us to perceive change in just a single dimension, i.e., relative to time. So the limitation is inherently obvious. The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis suggests that the structure of our language shapes our perception and categorisation of the world. It implies that our linguistic constructs do more than just describe reality in that they actively construct it.

Now, applying this to the concept of happening, language influences how we perceive and interpret the constant flux that Heraclitus described. Heraclitus emphasised the ever-changing nature of reality, a perpetual state of becoming. Our language, with its inherent structure and constraints, can sometimes obscure this dynamic nature. By naming and defining, we create fixed points in what is essentially a fluid and ongoing process. This can make it challenging to fully grasp the seamless, continuous change that Heraclitus spoke of.

So, while language is a powerful tool that helps us understand and communicate about the world, it also introduces a degree of rigidity. It shapes our perception, potentially limiting our ability to fully experience the constant flux. 

5. On Existential and Phenomenological Perspectives

You discuss the role of human consciousness in defining moments and happenings. How do existential and phenomenological views help bridge the philosophical gap between the unchanging reality of Parmenides and the dynamic reality of Heraclitus in your theory?

Answer

I think the notion that Parmenides and Heraclitus stand in opposition and that there is a need to bridge the gap between the two is a bit flawed. I think Parmenides and Heraclitus, in fact, reached the same conclusion, but from differing perspectives. You see, Heraclitus focussed on using cognition and language as tools, albeit not explicitly, to objectively determine change in the cosmos. Parmenides on the other hand, focussed on deconstructing the tools altogether to peek behind the curtain so to speak. And if you look at the works of existentialism and phenomenology, you are going to find traces of both approaches. 

The ideas of Sartre and Heidegger, emphasises individual experience and the inherent meaning we assign to our existence. Sartre's notion of existence preceding essence highlights how we continuously create ourselves through our actions and choices. This aligns with Heraclitus' idea of becoming, where we are always in a state of flux.

Heidegger's concept of 'being-in-the-world' suggests that our existence is fundamentally mingled with our perception of time and events. He argues that time is not an external measure but an integral aspect of our being. This perspective allows us to see how the fluid, dynamic nature of reality (as Heraclitus describes) is experienced subjectively and shaped by our consciousness.

Phenomenology, particularly through Husserl's ideas, focusses on the structures of experience and consciousness. Husserl's concept of the 'lifeworld' (Lebenswelt) implies that our perception of moments and happenings is deeply rooted in our personal and cultural contexts. This subjective lens resonates with Parmenides' view that what we perceive might not be the ultimate reality. By focusing on the structures of our experiences, phenomenology reveals how our understanding of happening is constructed through our consciousness.

So when you put the works of Sarte, Heidegger and Husserl together, and yes you CAN actually do that, you realise that there is nothing to bridge. While reality may have an underlying unchanging nature (Parmenides), our lived experience of it is inherently dynamic and ever-changing (Heraclitus). Our consciousness and the meanings we assign to our experiences bring a fluidity to our perception of reality, integrating both the stable and the transformative aspects.

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I hope this letter finds you well. The past week, I was deeply immersed in charting a self-study course for Computational Pragmatics. I am happy to say that I have released the 25 page primer on Arkinfo Notes. It's available to download free of cost. As fellow linguistics enthusiasts, I am sure you are going to find it deeply interesting.

Today, I have a special article for you. It is a step by step guide for creating your own language. I am sure you must have heard of languages such as Dothraki from A Song of Ice & Fire by George R. R. Martin, or Elvish from the works of J. R. R. Tolkien. These are what are popularly called conlangs (Constructed Languages). 

Creating your own Conlang is an excellent way to understand the key concepts of linguistics. By constructing a language of your own, you start to clearly notice the intricacies within a language, its key elements and structures. So today, I will be giving you a live demo on how to create a conlang. My hope is that at the end of this exercise, I shall successfully entice you into the magical world of language construction and get you motivated to study linguistics and philology. Let’s get started. 

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Purpose and Influence

The first thing that you need for designing a conlang is a specific purpose. A lot goes into developing a fully fledged language. It is quite difficult to do so without first having a strong enough purpose for attempting such an ambitious project. Determine why you want to create the language. Is it for a fictional world, personal use, artistic expression, or an academic project? My purpose for designing the conlang for this article is simply to demonstrate how to create a language. Ergo I shall design a very simple language. 

The next thing that you need is the ‘influence’. Every language is, to some level, influenced by other languages. There is no such thing as a unique language. As the American linguist Edward Sapir said,

Language is a cultural product. The borrowing of words, sounds, and grammatical constructions from one language to another is a constant process. No language is a pure, isolated entity; every language reflects the influences of contact with other languages, making them all inherently interconnected and unoriginal in their own unique way.

So you need to choose what language(s), whether real or conlang(s), shall influence your conlang. Look into existing natural and constructed languages for inspiration. Languages like Esperanto, Klingon, and Dothraki offer diverse design principles. Alternatively, going for well established real languages such as English, French, Arabic, Chinese, or Japanese might give you a stronger foundation to build upon. 

For the purpose of this exercise, my conlang is going to be heavily influenced by Japanese and is spoken by fantasy creatures who live in the uninhabited lands of Japan. 

Culture and Context

The next thing that you need is to define the culture and context of the people/creatures that speak it. After all, what is language, if not the lifeblood of the people that speak it. Elves speak Elvish, Klingons speak Klingon and the Dothraki speak Dothraki. What does that mean? It means that language is primarily a descriptor of a culture. Ergo, before we define the language itself, we shall have to define the creatures that shall speak it. 

The Kamejin

Say hello, to the Kamejin. The Kamejin are the fantasy creatures that I have designed for the purpose of this exercise. You can think of the Kamejin as an evolutionarily advanced breed of turtles that have developed near to human level of intelligence. They are secretive, shy and have lived in the uninhabited lands of Japan for hundreds of years. 

Origins and Early History

The Kamejin, an intelligent species of turtle-like creatures, have lived in harmony with the natural beauty of the uninhabited Japanese islands for centuries. Their evolutionary journey began in the lush forests and serene beaches, where their innate curiosity and ingenuity led them to develop simple tools and methods to interact with their environment.

Early Society

Initially, Kamejin society was built around small, tightly-knit clans, each settled in different parts of the islands. Their language, Kamejingo, evolved naturally out of the need to communicate for survival, coordination, and cooperation. The simplicity of their language reflects their straightforward and communal lifestyle.

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Development of Agriculture and Craftsmanship

As the Kamejin began to cultivate the land, they developed an extensive knowledge of the local flora and fauna. They used their language to categorise plants and animals, creating specific terms for different species and their uses. This knowledge was passed down through generations, primarily through oral tradition and simple illustrated texts on stone and wood, making language a crucial tool for survival and prosperity.

The Age of Exploration

With their skills in crafting small boats and their natural affinity for the water, the Kamejin began to explore the surrounding seas and islands. This period of exploration brought different clans into contact with one another more frequently, leading to the development of trade and shared cultural practices. The Kamejin's language expanded to include new terms related to navigation, trade, and diplomacy.

Cultural Flourishing

Trade and interaction between clans led to a golden age of Kamejin culture. They built small, picturesque villages, each with its own unique artistic styles and customs, but all sharing the common thread of their language. The Kamejin are particularly fond of gardening, which is evident in their meticulously maintained flower gardens and the numerous words in Kamejingo related to different types of flowers and gardening techniques.

Communication and Education

To ensure the preservation and dissemination of their culture, the Kamejin established communal learning centres where young Kamejin are taught the essentials of their language, history, and environmental stewardship. These centres are also places where elders share stories and knowledge, further enriching the community's collective wisdom. The simplicity of Kamejingo makes it accessible to all, ensuring that knowledge is easily shared and retained.

Modern Society

In modern times, the Kamejin continue to thrive in their secluded islands, maintaining a balance between tradition and innovation. They have developed simple yet effective methods to harness natural energy sources, allowing them to lead sustainable lives while preserving their environment. Their language continues to evolve, incorporating new concepts as needed but always retaining its fundamental simplicity and charm.

A Philological Overview of Kamejingo 

We have established the creatures, their culture, history, and lore. Now let us get to the fun part, which is designing a conlang for the Kamejin. 

Kamejingo, the language of the Kamejin, draws heavily from the phonetic and structural principles of Japanese but simplifies them to suit the needs of its speakers. The language retains the SOV (subject-object-verb) word order and employs a minimal set of particles to denote grammatical relationships, much like Japanese. However, Kamejingo is distinguished by its drastically reduced phonetic inventory, featuring only eight consonants and five vowels, leading to a highly streamlined and accessible syllabary. This reduction in phonemes ensures that the language is easy to learn and use, reflecting the straightforward and communal lifestyle of the Kamejin.

While Kamejingo mirrors Japanese in its use of simple, unambiguous sentence structures and a focus on context-driven meaning, it diverges significantly in its morphological simplicity. Unlike Japanese, which has complex verb conjugations and a variety of politeness levels, Kamejingo employs a basic tense system and eschews honorifics altogether, emphasising clarity and brevity. The language's lexicon is heavily influenced by the natural environment of the Kamejin, with numerous terms for flora, fauna, and ecological phenomena. This linguistic simplicity and environmental focus underscore the Kamejin's deep connection to their surroundings and each other, making Kamejingo a unique and functional tool for communication within their society.

Phonology

Phonology is where a language begins. Phonology deals with phonemes, which are the smallest units of sound that can distinguish meaning between words, and explores how these phonemes are arranged and interact with each other. It also investigates features such as stress, intonation, and rhythm, which contribute to the overall sound structure of a language. Phonologists analyse how sounds change in different contexts and how these changes affect meaning and communication. By understanding the principles of phonology, linguists can gain insights into the cognitive processes underlying speech and the evolution and variation of languages over time.

Phonology of Kamejingo

For Kamejingo, we are going to keep the phonetics pretty simple and basic. 

Consonants: /k/, /s/, /t/, /n/, /m/, /r/, /h/, /p/

Vowels: /a/, /i/, /u/, /e/, /o/

Phonotactics

The next thing to define are the phonotactics of the language. Phonotactics focuses on the patterns and structures of sound sequences, determining which phonemes can appear together and in what order. For instance, phonotactic rules define acceptable syllable structures, clusters of consonants, and the positioning of vowels and consonants within words. These rules vary significantly across languages; for example, while the combination "str" is allowed at the beginning of English words (as in "street"), it is not permissible in some other languages. Understanding phonotactics helps linguists and language learners grasp the specific sound patterns that are considered natural or unnatural within a language, aiding in the development of accurate pronunciation and the identification of potential areas of difficulty for non-native speakers.

Phonotactics of Kamejingo

For Kamejingo, we will define a very simplified phonotactic structure with just one rule, i.e., a consonant followed by a vowel.

Syllable structure: (C)V

Examples: ka, su, to, mi, re, ho, pa, nu

Writing System

Languages don’t inherently require a writing system in order to be functional. Even today, there are plenty of languages in the world that are unlettered and only used as a means of verbal communication. But in the case of conlangs, we have to create a writing system. Conlangs are basically languages created by our imagination coupled with real-life influences, ergo, we will have to write its rules and create its vocabulary. Unless you can remember the entire conlang in your mind, which is virtually impossible, you are going to need a script. 

Kamejingo Script

For the sake of brevity we shall borrow the Hiragana (classical Japanese alphabet) for scripting Kamejingo. 

Grammar

Now we get into the more technical aspects of the language, which is to define a comprehensive set of structural rules that governs the composition of clauses, phrases, and words in any given language. It encompasses syntax (the arrangement of words and phrases to create well-formed sentences), morphology (the study of the structure of words and the ways in which words are formed), semantics (the meaning of words and sentences), and phonology (the sound system of a language, though sometimes considered separately). Grammar provides a framework for understanding how to construct sentences that are both meaningful and syntactically correct, ensuring effective communication. It includes guidelines for word order, tense, agreement, case, and other aspects of language that allow speakers to convey precise and complex messages. 

Kamejingo Grammar

Let us now define some basic minimum required grammar rules to make our conlang functional.

Word Order

SVO (Subject-Verb-Object).

Example: "Kame pa hana po miru." (The turtle sees the flower.)

Particles

1. pa (topic marker)

2. po (object marker)

3. ni (direction marker)

4. no (possession marker)

5. ka (question marker)

Verbs

Basic verb conjugation for present and past tense.

Present: verb root + -ru

Past: verb root + -ta

Example

• Verb: Miru (to see).

• Present: miru (みる).

• Sentence: かめ は はな を みる。|| Kame pa hana po miru. || The turtle sees the flower.

• Past: mita (みた)

• Sentence: かめ は はな を みた。|| Kame pa hana po mita. || The turtle saw the flower.

Vocabulary

At this point, our conlang is pretty much good to go. We have completed laying out its structure. All that is left now is to flesh it out with some vocabulary. 

We cannot have a language without vocabulary. It is fundamental to communication, as it allows individuals to express thoughts, ideas, emotions, and information effectively. It is acquired through both direct learning (such as studying word lists) and indirect exposure (such as reading and conversation). A rich vocabulary enables more precise and varied expression, enhancing both comprehension and articulation in spoken and written forms. The scope of a language’s vocabulary can significantly influence its ability to understand and engage with complex notions, participate in diverse conversations, and convey nuanced ideas.

Basic Vocabulary of Kamejingo

The Kamejin have existed for thousands of years, ergo their vocabulary is nuanced enough to fit all their needs. For the purpose of this article however, I will share only a few words which shall suffice for us to write a short story in our conlang.

Nouns

• kame (かめ) - turtle

• hana (はな) - flower

• mori (もり) - forest

• misu (みす) - water

• ame (あめ) - rain

• umi (うみ) - sea

• hi (ひ) - day

• hihi (ひひ) - day (as in mainihi - every day)

Particles

• pa (ぱ) - topic marker

• po (ぽ) - object marker

• ni (に) - direction marker

• no (の) - possession marker

• ka (か) - question marker

Verbs

• miru (みる) - to see

• nomu (のむ) - to drink

• suki ni natta (すき に なった) - grew fond of

• mamoru (まもる) - to protect

• itte (いって) - to go (te form)

• motte kita (もって きた) - brought (to bring)

• hatta (はった) - gave (to give)

Adjectives and Adverbs

• totemo (とても) - very

• kirei (きれい) - beautiful

• sara ni (さらに) - even more

• itsumo (いつも) - always

Others

• aru (ある) - one (as in "one day")

• pesu / tasu (ぺす / たす)- is/are (equivalent of "desu")

• tat (たつ) - was/were (equivalent of "datta")

• na (な) - marker used in place of 'ん' in original Japanese (e.g., sunateiru for sundeiru)

• hi (ひ) - used in place of 'ち' in original Japanese (e.g., mainihi for mainichi)

• ka (か) - used in place of 'が' in original Japanese (e.g., ame ka futta for ame ga futta)

• ha (は) - used in place of 'や' in original Japanese (e.g., hana po hatta for hana po yatta)

In addition to this, the Kamejin use a very miniscule amount of Kanji (Chinese characters) in their script for novel self-descriptive words such as Kamenji or Kamenjigo.

Terms for the Kamejin and Their Culture

• Kamejin (亀人) - The turtle-like intelligent species.

• Kamejingo (亀人語) - The language of the Kamejin.

• Kame no Hana (亀の花) - The Turtle's Flower (a cultural symbol or story).

Festivals and Cultural Practices

• Hana Matsuri (花祭り) - Flower Festival

• Monogatari Kai (物語会) - Storytelling Circle

• Tanken no Tabi (探検の旅) - Exploration

A Short Story in Kamenjigo

Finally, our conlang is ready to use! I will now write a short story in our newly designed conlang to commemorate this achievement. The name of the story is かめ の はな (Kame no Hana) which means ‘The Turtle’s Flower’.

かめ の はな (The Turtle’s Flower)

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Writing Prompts

And there it is! We have successfully designed a conlang! Now it’s your turn. You can either design your own conlang influenced by a language you are comfortable with, or you can simply use my conlang, Kamejingo, to make creative stories. Feel free to expand the vocabulary and grammar rules as you see fit. You can also take the help of tools such as Google Translate or Jsho to find the Japanese equivalent of a word and then convert it into a Kamejingo appropriate term.

To get you started, I will leave you with a few writing prompts that could help you formulate some interesting stories about the Kamejin. 

Hana Matsuri (花祭り) - The Kamejin Flower Festival

The Kamejin hold annual festivals celebrating their love for flowers and gardening. These events are filled with activities where Kamejin share gardening techniques and showcase their most beautiful floral arrangements.

Monogatari Kai (物語会) - The Kamejin Storytelling Tradition

Elders gather with younger Kamejin to share stories of their ancestors and the natural world. These gatherings are a vital part of cultural education and community bonding.

Tanken no Tabi (探検の旅) - The Kamejin Tradition of Maritime Exploration

Young Kamejin are encouraged to embark on small exploratory journeys to nearby islands. These voyages are both a rite of passage and a way to strengthen their navigational skills and knowledge of their environment.

Tolkien on Storytelling and Language

To end this article, I would like to share the thoughts of J.R.R. Tolkien on the art of writing stories and its intrinsic connection to language. The words are a paraphrasing of Tolkien’s thoughts on language and storytelling taken from a letter he had written to W.H. Auden dated June 7, 1955.

“To me, a name comes first and the story follows. That is, I have often used an existing name and attached a tale to it, or if I made up a name, it has in turn suggested a story. I find it impossible to contemplate any kind of story without some sort of linguistic invention.”

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Happy Summer! As the season approaches for most of you in the western hemisphere, for us here in India, it's drawing to a conclusion with the monsoon on the horizon. It's been an eventful and busy summer for me with many unexpected (and expected) projects falling on my lap all at once. But amidst the chaos, I am happy to say that I have still managed to take out some time every day to continue my journey of exploring the philosophy of language. 

As you may have noticed, the philosophy of language has played a key role in almost all of the articles on this substack thus far. That’s partly due to my overwhelming interest in the field, but also because you cannot really talk much about philosophy without exploring the philosophy of language. No matter which way you have it, every line of philosophy ultimately connects to language and the intriguing ways in which we deploy it. 

When I first started to ‘formally’ explore the field back in October of 2023, I had no clue where to begin. Unlike many other similar fields, such as natural language processing in computer science, the philosophy of mind, and neuroscience, I found that the philosophy of language, much like language itself, is quite unstructured and obtuse, especially for beginners. It's difficult to decide where to begin. It's difficult still to decide the direction that you take once you enter the field. That’s partly because of the wide net the field casts everywhere from AI and Neuroscience to Epistemology and Sociology. 

So given the obstacles that I faced, I found it only pertinent to design an approach for self-studying this field as a beginner no matter what field you are coming from. Whether you are a software engineer, a philosophy major or even a neuroscientist, the courses, texts and books that I listed here can prove to be of high utility to you. 

Also, it gives you an excellent base to build your expertise upon. No matter what direction you take in this field, these resources will prove vital. I have tried to keep it extremely essentialist and minimalist, so as not to bog you down with stuff that may not be immediately relevant to you as a beginner. Also, I have made a conscious effort to not add AI or NLP related resources in this approach. I think philosophy of language is complicated enough as is without adding an AI angle to it from the get go. Once you’ve mastered this coursework, you can then choose to deploy the new skills in any field of your choosing. Let’s get started.

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Free Courses on YouTube

There are a precious few comprehensive courses available on YouTube for the Philosophy of Language. I highly recommend starting with video courses because they are generally more engaging due to the visual element. Of course being on YouTube, all the courses are available for free. 

Crash Course Linguistics by Crash Course (YouTube Channel)

I highly recommend starting with linguistics before getting into the philosophy part. A lot of the terminology, etymology, and phenomenology covered in the field is highly predicated on the understanding of linguistics. There can be no better resource than crash course youtube channel for this. The series is structured around short, dynamic videos that introduce linguistic concepts in a manner that’s both easy to understand and engaging. The course begins with the fundamentals such as phonetics and syntax, then progresses to explore language acquisition and sociolinguistics. Each video is packed with animated graphics and real-world examples, making the abstract and complex elements of linguistics more tangible. It’s an ideal starter for anyone new to the field, setting a solid linguistic groundwork that is essential for diving into more philosophical discussions about language.

Crash Course Philosophy by Crash Course (YouTube Channel)

A lot of the terminology, frameworks and personalities that are quoted in the philosophy of language have a strong grounding in the spectrum of philosophy. Ergo, it might be a good idea to have a basic overview  of the field and again, Crash Course could be a great resource for that. Crash Course Philosophy covers a broad spectrum of philosophical topics, with specific videos dedicated to language-related issues such as "Language & Meaning" and "Linguistics & Language Games." These videos are key for understanding how language influences philosophical thought. The course breaks down difficult concepts like Wittgenstein's language games or Derrida's deconstruction, using relatable examples and clear explanations. This series encourages critical thinking about how language shapes our reality, making it a perfect segue into deeper philosophical language studies.

Introduction to the Philosophy of Language by Wireless Philosophy (YouTube Channel)

Now, getting into the philosophy of language itself, The Wireless Philosophy series can be a great place to start. It dives directly into core topics such as semantics, pragmatics, and the philosophy of linguistics. Each video is structured to build upon the last, creating a comprehensive narrative that guides the viewer through complex theories. For instance, the course explains theories of meaning, reference (like Frege’s sense and reference), and context-dependence in language, using philosophical arguments and thought experiments. 

Philosophy of Language Conditionals by Wireless Philosophy (YouTube Channel)

This focused series examines one of the most important aspects of language - conditionals. Also from Wireless Philosophy, this course covers the different types of conditional statements (indicative vs. counterfactual) and their implications in philosophical reasoning and everyday communication. The explanations are enriched with logical diagrams and real-life scenarios that help illustrate the nuances of conditional logic. This course is crucial for anyone looking to enhance their understanding of how conditional statements shape arguments and beliefs in philosophical discourse.

Philosophy of Language Lecture Series by John Searle (YouTube)

This is by far the best investment in time and effort that I have made in studying the philosophy of language. John Searle’s lectures are brilliant, engaging and extremely comprehensive. The only drawback is that they are made available only as audio on YouTube. Even then, this course is very valuable. Searle discusses foundational concepts such as the rules of language, the role of intentionality in communication, and the construction of social reality through speech acts. Each lecture is a deep dive into the philosophical mechanics of language use, backed by Searle’s own research and theories. If you have covered all the aforementioned courses, then you should have no difficulty following along with this one, and trust me, it's going to be worth it. 

Academic Textbooks

Now moving onto academic textbooks. Why read textbooks when you already completed the lecture series by Searle? You may have understood the concepts that are discussed in the lectures, but lectures can only take you so far. To understand each topic in-depth, you have to dip your feet a bit in academically structured texts. You may think them evil, but even so, they are necessary. I highly recommend following a supplementary approach with these textbooks. You could listen to one of Searle’s lectures, and then read the concepts discussed in one of these textbooks as a way to supplement your learning.

Philosophy of Language: A Contemporary Introduction by William G. Lycan

First up is one of my favourite texts in the field. William G. Lycan’s textbook is an essential resource for anyone beginning their journey into the philosophy of language. The book provides a comprehensive overview of the main topics in the field, including theories of meaning, reference, and truth conditions, as well as more contemporary discussions around pragmatics and speech acts. Lycan's clear, accessible writing makes complex concepts understandable for newcomers, while still being thorough enough to serve as a solid reference for more advanced scholars. 

Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language by John Searle

John Searle’s groundbreaking work, "Speech Acts," is fundamental for understanding how language functions beyond mere words to perform actions. Searle introduces the concept of speech acts, which has become a crucial framework in both linguistic and philosophical circles for analysing how speakers use language to accomplish intended actions. This book is especially recommended for you if you are interested in the intersection of language, intent, and social interaction. It explains how language operates in various contexts to effect changes and communicate beyond literal meanings.

Naming and Necessity by Saul A. Kripke

Saul A. Kripke’s "Naming and Necessity" expands upon traditional notions of semantics and reference in language. Kripke’s theories on proper names, necessity, and identity have reshaped philosophical perspectives on how language relates to the world. This text is critical for any philosophy of language course, providing arguments that are essential for understanding how names and objects are linked in our discourse. It is particularly valuable for those interested in metaphysics and the logic that underpins linguistic structures.

The Minimalist Program by Noam Chomsky

If you are a linguist or a philosopher who hasn’t read Chomsky, then I am not sure you have earned the right to refer to yourself as such. For one, there is no way that you can escape his works in linguistics and philosophy, and second, if you did manage to somehow escape him, you may not survive in the field for too long. Noam Chomsky’s "The Minimalist Program" outlines his influential approach to syntax within the broader field of linguistics, which also intersects significantly with philosophical inquiries into language. Chomsky proposes that our linguistic knowledge is grounded in a universal grammar that is minimal yet rich enough to generate the diversity of languages seen worldwide. I have written about it extensively on this substack. Just have a look at the back catalogue to find the articles. There are plenty. This work is crucial for understanding the cognitive aspects of language, exploring how human mental capacities shape and are shaped by linguistic structures. Although more technical, it provides essential insights into the underlying principles that govern language acquisition and use.

Books

Courses are for boosting your understanding of the subject matter. Textbooks are for supplementing that understanding with essential information. But books are for boosting your curiosity and interest in the field itself. That is why it is crucial to read interesting books by experts in the field. Books, unlike textbooks, are written for a more broad audience often covering insights into the field that build curiosity and inspire awe. I can recommend plenty of books in this regard, but keeping with the minimalist approach that we have maintained thus far, I will only recommend my absolute favourites.

What Kind of Creatures Are We? by Noam Chomsky

This is one of my all time favourites. It's relatively short, but packed with amazing insights into the nature of language and human cognition. I have it in audio format and must have listened to it at least 14 times by now. Everytime I listen to it, I learn something new. It explores the nature of human cognition with a focus on linguistic capabilities and the philosophical questions surrounding them. Chomsky delves into the mysteries of human intellectual capacities, particularly discussing the limitations and scope of human knowledge, the uniqueness of human language, and the philosophy of mind and consciousness. Chomsky makes a compelling argument for understanding language as a window into the human mind. It's an ideal read for those who want to engage with profound philosophical and ethical questions about what it means to be human.

The Language Instinct by Steven Pinker

This book argues that humans are born with an innate capacity for language. It is a compelling blend of psychology, linguistics, and evolutionary biology. It casts a wide net of exploration about how languages are learned, how they evolve, and how the human brain interprets them. Pinker uses accessible language and engaging anecdotes to discuss complex ideas, making this book a favourite for anyone interested in the biological and psychological underpinnings of language. It is particularly valuable if you are looking to understand how natural language fits into the broader context of human biology and cultural evolution.

Metaphors We Live By by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson

This is another one of those books that you will keep re-reading. This book is revolutionary in its claim that metaphors are central to understanding and functioning in the world, influencing how we perceive and interact with our environment. This book goes beyond traditional philosophy of language by linking metaphors to everyday life and showing how our realities are shaped by the language we use. The authors provide numerous examples to illustrate how metaphors not only reflect but actually structure our perceptions and interactions. This book is essential for anyone interested in the powerful role language plays in shaping our thoughts, behaviours, and institutions. I first read this book in October of last year and must have re-read it at least 10 times since. 

The Stuff of Thought by Steven Pinker

In this book, Steven Pinker examines the relationship between language and human nature, exploring how our words reflect our thoughts, relationships, and societal norms. Pinker investigates topics like swearing, naming, and what verbs say about temporal and causative thought processes. This book combines cognitive science with linguistic analysis to reveal insights into how our language choices can illuminate hidden aspects of the human psyche and social relationships. It's particularly recommended for those looking to deepen their understanding of how cognitive processes are mirrored and shaped by language.

So there you have it. That is my tailor made, minimalist essentialist syllabus to master the philosophy of language in a summer. I sincerely hope that you find these resources as valuable as I did and that your journey into learning the philosophy of language is as enlightening and rewarding as it has been for me. If you think there are some excellent resources that are missing in this article, please leave a comment and let me know. I will make sure to update this article periodically with as and when I find new valuable resources. 

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This got me thinking about the role of words within a sentence, specifically the role of verbs, a concept that Tesnière himself deeply investigated. This couldn’t have been more timely as I only recently started learning Japanese, a language that essentially frames almost every sentence around the verb or action it conveys. 

In the study of linguistics, understanding the structure of language is extremely important, and various theories have been pronounced to decipher the complex architecture of human communication. Among these,  dependency grammar, developed by Lucien Tesnière, offers its own unique take to syntactic analysis. This theory prioritises relationships between words based on dependency rather than grouping them into hierarchical constituents.

The relevance of comparing different syntactic models becomes apparent when dealing with the practical challenges of parsing, translation, and language teaching. 

So in this article, I shall discuss the distinctions and practical implications of Tesnière’s dependency grammar and juxtapose it with Noam Chomsky’s phrase structure grammar. If you are unaware of Chomsky’s works in this regard, then I highly recommend this article that I had written earlier this year. I have covered Chomsky’s thesis in detail in that article and other articles on this Substack. 

This analysis is particularly pertinent for those intrigued by languages like Japanese, where traditional syntactic models encounter limitations. By engaging with this article, you will gain a deeper understanding of how different grammatical theories provide the tools to better describe and analyse languages across the spectrum, offering practical benefits for both academic research and real-world applications.

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Dependency Grammar

Dependency grammar, as articulated by Lucien Tesnière, positions the verb as the central axis of syntactic structures, asserting that all other elements in a sentence orbit this all important word. This conceptualisation diverges markedly from traditional phrase structure grammars that segment the sentence into nested hierarchies of constituents (noun phrases, verb phrases, etc.).

Dependency grammar simplifies the analysis of sentence structure by focusing on the relationships between words, i.e., how each word connects to its governor (or head) with direct lines that denote dependency. This model is visually represented through tree diagrams, where each node (word) links directly to the node (word) upon which it depends. Tesnière illustrated this with his stemmas, which not only clarified the linear relationships but also highlighted the functional roles of words as they contribute to the overall meaning of the sentence.

Consider the English sentence, "Alice gave Bob a book." In a dependency diagram, "gave" serves as the root, with "Alice," "Bob," and "book" all depending on "gave." "Alice" is the subject, "Bob" the indirect object, and "book" the direct object, each linked directly to the verb without intermediary nodes, reflecting their semantic roles more transparently than constituent-based models typically allow.

Contrasting with Phrase Structure Grammar

While phrase structure grammar, particularly as developed by Chomsky, is good for analysing language with its rules for generating tree structures, it can obscure some of the direct relationships between words by embedding them within larger constituents. For instance, in the same sentence, "Alice gave Bob a book," phrase structure would require us to parse the sentence into a noun phrase and a verb phrase, which are then broken down into smaller constituents. This method often adds layers of complexity that may not directly correspond to the functional roles words play.

Why Dependency Grammar Matters

Dependency grammar’s focus on direct relationships and minimal reliance on abstract constituents makes it particularly advantageous for analysing languages with free or flexible word order, such as Russian, Japanese or Turkish. This approach aligns closely with recent advances in computational linguistics, where dependency-based models have facilitated more accurate parsing algorithms by closely mirroring natural language processing.

By adhering to Tesnière’s view, where he argues that "the connections between words in a sentence are not to be seen as merely syntactic formalities but as vital arteries through which the lifeblood of meaning circulates," linguists and language technologies gain a framework for dissecting the syntax that more closely resembles how meaning is constructed and interpreted in human languages.

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Tesnière vs Chomsky

Tesnière's model is particularly effective for analysing languages with free or flexible word order because it focuses on the functional dependencies between words rather than their positions within a fixed phrase structure. This approach aligns more closely with semantic interpretation, where the verb acts as the nucleus of sentence meaning, and all other elements are directly linked to it, reflecting their semantic roles.

Chomsky’s framework, on the other hand, with its emphasis on rules and transformations, is adept at dealing with complex syntactic phenomena like embedded clauses and passive constructions. The hierarchical nature of this grammar allows for a detailed analysis of how different language components interact within a sentence, making it particularly suitable for languages like English, where word order plays a critical role in grammatical structure.

Dependency grammars, with their direct modelling of syntactic relations, often provide a more straightforward framework for developing parsing technologies. This is especially true in the context of languages where maintaining the order of words is less crucial to the meaning than the relationships between them.

Conversely, phrase structure grammars have been foundational in developing theories of syntax that accommodate a wide range of linguistic data, helping create models for generating and transforming syntactic structures. This has significant implications for linguistic theory, especially in areas that explore the cognitive aspects of language processing.

To better understand these differences, let's examine specific sentence structures and how each model would parse them.

Example 1

Sentence: "The cat sat on the mat."

Dependency Grammar: In this model, "sat" is the central verb and the root of the structure. The words "the cat" (subject) and "on the mat" (prepositional phrase indicating location) are dependent on "sat." This can be visualised as

  sat

   ├── the cat

   └── on the mat

Phrase Structure Grammar: Phrase structure would break this down into a noun phrase (NP) and a verb phrase (VP). The VP "sat on the mat" includes a prepositional phrase (PP) nested within it. The structure might look like

  S

  ├── NP

  │   └── The cat

  └── VP

      ├── V

      │   └── sat

      └── PP

          ├── P

          │   └── on

          └── NP

              └── the mat

Example 2

Sentence: "The student who read the book laughed."

Dependency Grammar: "Laughed" is the main verb and the root. "The student" is the subject depending on "laughed," and "who read the book" is a relative clause depending on "student." The verb "read" within the relative clause makes "the book" its dependent.

  laughed

   └── the student

       └── who read

            └── the book

Phrase Structure Grammar: This analysis would involve multiple layers of nesting. The sentence would be divided into an NP containing a relative clause and a VP.

S

  ├── NP

  │   ├── The student

  │   └── S'

  │       ├── NP

  │       │   └── who

  │       └── VP

  │           ├── V

  │           │   └── read

  │           └── NP

  │               └── the book

  └── VP

      └── V

          └── laughed

From the above examples, we can understand that dependency grammar provides a more straightforward and semantically transparent analysis for sentences, especially when dealing with languages that exhibit a significant degree of syntactic flexibility. It emphasises the direct relationships between verbs and their arguments or modifiers, which can be particularly beneficial for semantic analysis and machine translation.

Phrase structure grammar, on the other hand, with its detailed constituent breakdown, is highly effective for handling complex syntactic transformations and is good for linguistic research that focuses on the structural intricacies of language, such as movement phenomena and syntactic ambiguity.

Dependency Grammar and Japanese Syntax

The structure of the Japanese language, with its characteristic Subject-Object-Verb (SOV) order and flexible sentence construction, makes it an excellent case study for the application of Lucien Tesnière's dependency grammar. 

Example

Sentence in Japanese: 猫がマットの上に座った。 (The cat sat on the mat.)

Transliteration: Neko ga matto no ue ni suwatta.

Dependency Grammar: In this sentence, "suwatta" (sat) serves as the root. The subject "neko" (cat) and the location phrase "matto no ue ni" (on the mat) both depend directly on the verb. This can be visually represented as

  suwatta

   ├── neko ga

   └── matto no ue ni

This structure highlights how each component of the sentence connects directly to the verb, reflecting their functional roles clearly and succinctly.

Example 2

Sentence in Japanese: 本を読んだ学生が笑った。 (The student who read the book laughed.)

Transliteration: Hon o yonda gakusei ga waratta.

Dependency Grammar: "Waratta" (laughed) is the main verb and the root. "Gakusei ga" (the student) is the subject depending on "waratta," and i (who read the book) forms a dependent clause linked to "gakusei." The diagram for this structure would be

 waratta

   └── gakusei ga

       └── hon o yonda

This representation clearly delineates how the relative clause connects to the noun it modifies, demonstrating dependency grammar’s utility in mapping even complex sentence structures in Japanese without additional syntactic overhead.

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Dependency Grammar in Computational Linguistics

Dependency grammar has become increasingly influential in the field of NLP, where understanding the relationships between words directly impacts the effectiveness of parsing algorithms and machine translation systems.

Consider a machine translation system designed to translate complex sentences from English to a relatively free word order language like German. Dependency grammar allows for a more flexible alignment of sentence components, ensuring that semantic relationships are maintained even when syntactic structures differ a lot between the source and target languages.

Visualisation

English: She gave him the book.

Dependency Diagram: [gave] -> [She, subject]; [him, indirect object]; [the book, direct object]

German: Sie gab ihm das Buch.

Dependency Diagram: [gab] -> [Sie, subject]; [ihm, indirect object]; [das Buch, direct object]

This direct mapping of dependencies across languages simplifies the translation process by maintaining the core grammatical relationships.

Notes on Japanese Grammar and the Philosophy of Language

My recent exposure to Japanese grammar has helped me discover the language’s reliance on verb dependency. This has also brought to my attention the importance of dependency grammar not just as a syntactic preference but as a reflection of how meaning is constructed and communicated. This structural emphasis on verbs (actions and states) over subjects (entities) is an interesting aspect in the broader themes of the nature of reality as perceived and described through language.

In Japanese, the verb's positioning at the end of the sentence influences how actions and states are perceived as central to understanding interactions and events. This can be interpreted through the lens of existentialism, where actions define beings or through process philosophy, which sees processes rather than static entities as fundamental to the universe.

The dependency of other sentence elements on the verb in Japanese shows the contextual nature of meaning it entails. Unlike languages with rigid syntactic structures, the meaning in Japanese is highly dependent on context.

In a linguistic sense, this could be seen as a reflection of a worldview where entities are not isolated but exist only in relation to others and their actions.

The challenge for artificial intelligence in processing such languages is not just technical but also conceptual. It involves understanding and replicating a form of thought that sees the world in terms of interrelated actions and contexts, which is fundamentally different from the entity-centric view prevalent in Western linguistics.

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As you know, this April marks the completion of our first year together on Substack. In the span of this year alone, I have managed to publish close to 100 articles across both Arkinfo Notes and The Lumeni Notebook

It has been an incredibly rewarding experience and I am grateful to all my subscribers and fellow writers who have buoyed me throughout.

Going forward, I shall continue my journey on this platform, focussing specifically on sharing content that is long form and extremely high quality both in terms of its depth of research and insights for my readers.

This will require me to dedicate more time and effort behind each article and a weekly publishing routine may not be the perfect fit for this approach. So starting next week, I will reorganise the publishing schedule for both the substacks from a weekly to a bi-weekly basis, i.e., 2 articles a month instead of 4 articles on each Substack.

I believe this is best approach, both for my readers as well as the future of these substacks. The quality of each article will drastically improve as a result and make the work more rewarding and durable in the long run.

Thank you all so much for supporting me throughout this journey and I look forward to another great year on Substack. Cheers!

I’m thrilled to share with you my latest research, a deep dive into one of the most interesting aspects of our existence - silence. In this comprehensive essay, I discussed the paradoxical nature of silence, not just as an absence of sound but as a presence that permeates our being and shapes our understanding of the world. I have made it open access for your convenience so you can download it for free.

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"The Paradox of Being Silent" is an investigation of the multifaceted dimensions of silence, its ontology, its universal expression across languages, and its various manifestations in our daily lives. Through a blend of philosophical discourse, linguistic analysis, and even mathematical notation, the essay seeks to peel back the layers of silence, revealing its complexity and elusive nature.

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Why focus on silence? In our incessantly noisy world, understanding silence becomes essential not only as a respite but as a deeper form of communication and being.

Each section of the essay explores different aspects of silence—from its role in existential philosophy and spiritual practices to its practical implications in everyday life. However, at its heart, the exploration grapples with the paradox of "being silent"—a state that defies simple categorisation and speaks to the very core of our being.

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Botanically, tomatoes are classified as a fruit, a berry, to be precise. Yet, culturally and culinarily, it finds its home among vegetables. This dichotomy is where we will start our discussion on abstraction.

Clearly, tomato seems to have a natural fluidity to its identity. How can one object simultaneously exist in two categories that we've constructed to be distinct? To me, this challenges the foundations of classification, and makes me think about our methods of abstracting concepts. 

Each attempt to categorise the tomato, to place it neatly within our conceptual frameworks, only serves to highlight the limitations of those frameworks. Therefore, this ontological discussion about the tomato is really an attempt to grasp the essence of anything. In order to do so, I will engage in a process of continuous abstraction of the tomato and see how far I can get before things start to become too blurry. 

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Abstraction on a Biological Level

So, we've touched on this idea of the tomato straddling worlds. Fruit and vegetable, yes, but let's dive deeper, past the labels, into its very essence. I'm now thinking about what actually makes a tomato, well, a tomato. 

A tomato, at its essence on a biological level, is a fruit of the Solanum lycopersicum plant, a member of the nightshade family, which includes species like potatoes, eggplants, and bell peppers. The classification of the tomato as a fruit stems from its botanical definition. It develops from the ovary after fertilisation and contains the seeds of the plant. This distinguishes it from vegetables, which are other plant parts such as roots, leaves, and stems.

The tomato plant exhibits a determinate or indeterminate growth habit. Determinate types grow to a certain height and then stop, focusing energy on fruit production all at once. Indeterminate types continue to grow and produce fruit throughout the growing season, until killed by frost or another external factor.

On a cellular level, the tomato is composed of cells with a typical plant structure, including a rigid cell wall made of cellulose, a large central vacuole that stores nutrients and water, and chloroplasts for photosynthesis. The vibrant red colour of ripe tomatoes is due to lycopene, a type of carotenoid pigment that is an antioxidant beneficial to human health.

So as you can see, a tomato can be classified into multiple categories, each taking a different direction in terms of further classification. 

In botany, the tomato is classified as a fruit because it develops from the ovary of a flower and contains seeds. In culinary contexts, the tomato is often treated as a vegetable due to its savoury flavour profile and usage in salads, sauces, and cooking, rather than as a sweet dessert or snack. 

Agriculturally, tomatoes are classified based on their growth habits (determinate vs. indeterminate), the shape and size of the fruit, and their suitability for various climates and soil types. From a nutritional standpoint, tomatoes are rich in vitamins (especially vitamin C and vitamin K), minerals, and antioxidants like lycopene. This makes the tomato an interesting subject for dietary studies and health-related classifications.

Abstraction on a Molecular & Atomic Level

Now, let’s further abstract the tomato down to the molecules and atoms. We've seen how the tomato's existence is a marvel of biology that can be abstracted in multiple directions. But what about the colours, flavours, and smells that define the very essence of what a tomato is to our senses? They're the product of molecular and atomic phenomena happening every second within its flesh.

The bulk of a tomato's weight is water, comprising about 95% of its mass. Water molecules (H₂O) are crucial for the tomato's structure and function, influencing its texture and juiciness. The remaining 5% consists of various organic compounds that contribute to the tomato's nutritional value, flavour, and colour. These include carbohydrates (such as glucose and fructose), proteins, vitamins (like vitamin C and vitamin K), and phytochemicals. 

One of the most notable molecules in tomatoes, as previously discussed, is lycopene, a bright red carotenoid pigment responsible for the tomato's red colour. Lycopene is an antioxidant, which means it helps neutralise free radicals, potentially reducing oxidative stress and lowering the risk of chronic diseases.

On a structural level, molecules like cellulose and pectin play critical roles. Cellulose, a polysaccharide, is a key component of the plant cell wall, providing structural support, while pectin, another polysaccharide, is crucial for the tomato's texture.

At the atomic level, a tomato is composed of a vast array of atoms such as hydrogen (H), oxygen (O), carbon (C), nitrogen (N), and various minerals like potassium (K), phosphorus (P), magnesium (Mg), and calcium (Ca). These atoms form the building blocks of the molecules mentioned above.

Atoms in the tomato are linked by chemical bonds (covalent, ionic, and hydrogen bonds) that determine the structure and properties of molecules. For example, the covalent bonds in water molecules give water its unique properties, essential for the life processes of the tomato plant.

At an even deeper level, the interactions between these atoms and molecules, the transfer of electrons, and the formation and breaking of chemical bonds involve the transformation of energy via photosynthesis.

So on a molecular & atomic level, you can abstract a tomato in terms of its chemical composition, structural biology, nutritional biochemistry, molecular genetics, quantum chemistry (more on this in the next section), mineral, and elemental composition. Each abstraction takes us down a different abstractive path. 

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Abstraction at the Quantum Level

Alright now let’s take a leap into the fundamental principles of physics and abstract a tomato on that level. Here, the distinctions between a tomato and other forms of matter become blurred, as we focus on the particles and forces that constitute all physical entities.

The tomato, like all matter, is composed of atoms, which in turn are made up of subatomic particles including protons, neutrons, and electrons. Protons and neutrons form the nucleus of atoms, while electrons orbit the nucleus in a cloud. However, in quantum mechanics, particles such as electrons are described not just as points in space but as wave functions, which represent probabilities of finding the particle in a certain location.

Through the principle of Wave-Particle Duality,  quantum mechanics suggests that subatomic particles, including those that make up the atoms in a tomato, exhibit both particle-like and wave-like properties. For example, electrons can be diffracted like waves and also hit targets like particles. This duality is a fundamental aspect of the quantum description of nature.

At the quantum level, particles can become entangled i.e., the state of one particle instantaneously influences the state of another, no matter the distance separating them. Particles, such as electrons in a tomato's atoms, can exist in multiple states simultaneously until measured or observed, a concept known as superposition. This principle is crucial for understanding the chemical bonding that holds the tomato's molecules together, as it involves electrons existing in a cloud of probabilities rather than fixed orbits.

The quantum mechanical model of the atom explains the discrete energy levels electrons can occupy and the transitions between these levels. In the context of a tomato, the absorption of light by pigments like lycopene involves electrons jumping to higher energy levels, and the colour we see is the result of specific wavelengths of light being absorbed and others being reflected.

The interactions that determine the structure, stability, and reactions of the molecules in a tomato, including those responsible for its taste, aroma, and nutritional properties are governed by the principles of quantum mechanics. Quantum chemistry explores these interactions, providing insights into the bonds between atoms and the transitions of electrons that determine molecular configurations.

Abstracting a tomato to the quantum level shows that the essence of what we perceive as a distinct, tangible object is, in its most elemental form, a collection of quantum events and probabilities. This opens up avenues to further abstract a tomato in multiple dimensions. It can be abstracted in terms of quantum chemistry, wave-particle duality, superposition, entanglement, tunnelling, quantization, decoherence, and so on.

Abstraction on a Metaphysical Level

Here, the tomato ceases to be an entity defined by particles and probabilities, transcending to become a pure idea, a concept unfettered by the constraints of physical form or scientific principle.

What is the essence of a tomato? This question probes the intrinsic nature of a tomato, what it means for a tomato to be. Is its essence tied to its physical properties, its genetic makeup, or something more intangible? This perspective examines the concept of "tomatoness," the qualities that define a tomato's existence beyond its physical components.

Beyond its physicality, a tomato carries cultural, historical, and symbolic meanings. It can represent fertility, earth, passion, or life itself in different contexts. This abstraction involves exploring how humans imbue the tomato with meanings that transcend its material existence, reflecting our own experiences, beliefs, and values.

How does the perception of a tomato alter its metaphysical reality? From this angle, the reality of a tomato is not fixed but is shaped by the sensory experiences and subjective interpretations of those who interact with it. This approach invites us to consider how our minds construct the reality of a tomato from its colour, taste, texture, and smell.

Another perspective on tomatoes is its existence in relation to other beings. It explores the interconnectedness of all things and the tomato's role in the web of life. How does a tomato's existence impact and reflect our own existence and our relationships with other forms of life?

We can also abstract the tomato to its idea, considering it not as a physical object but as a concept within human consciousness. This exploration involves understanding how the concept of a tomato exists within and influences our cognitive frameworks, our languages, and our systems of knowledge.

Deconstructing a tomato on a metaphysical level we can thus approach a tomato from multiple dimensions of abstraction. We can consider it as an ontological inquiry, symbolic interpretation, epistemological exploration, ethical or moral consideration, aesthetic reflection, phenomenological analysis, existential or even cosmological consideration. 

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Abstraction at a Unitarian Level

In this abstraction, the tomato is no longer just a physical entity or a symbol. It goes beyond that and becomes a conduit to the fundamental truths of reality.

The tomato becomes a paradox of form, i.e., its colour, shape, taste, and texture, and formlessness, representing the idea that all forms emerge from and return to the formless. In this sense, the tomato mirrors the cycle of creation and dissolution reminding us of the transient nature of all forms and the eternal essence from which they arise.

The tomato symbolises both presence i.e., its tangible, sensory qualities that we can perceive, and absence, the ineffable, underlying reality that exists beyond sensory perception. This duality reflects the nature of existence, where what is manifest (presence) and what is unmanifest (absence) are intertwined, suggesting that true understanding encompasses both the seen and the unseen.

The tomato becomes the essence (the inherent nature of being) and the potential (the boundless potentiality from which all forms originate). This perspective acknowledges that at the core of existence is a Fundamental Existence filled with potential, from which the essence of all things emerges.

Through a tomato, we can perceive the unity underlying the apparent diversity of forms in the universe. Just as a tomato is one yet can manifest in various colours, shapes, and sizes, existence is a singular reality expressing itself in many forms.

The life cycle of a tomato plant, from seed to fruit to decay, serves as a potent symbol for the cycle of life and death that governs all living beings. This cycle, reflected in the tomato, speaks to the perpetual flow of existence, where death is not an end but a transformation, a return to the source, and the beginning of new forms.

We recognise the tomato’s immanence (its presence and manifestation in the world) and its transcendence (its partaking in a reality beyond the physical). This duality points to a vision of existence where the sacred is immanent in the mundane, where the Divine permeates every aspect of the world, including the simple tomato.

By contemplating a tomato on this level, we can engage in abstracting it in various dimensions. We can consider the tomato as an element in the interconnectedness of all life, a conduit for the cycle of life and death, a portal for understanding the Divine, as a paradox of unity and diversity, as a paradox of existence, as a microcosm of the universe, as a transcendental symbol, and so on. 

This might be a good place to stop. Things were blurry enough on the quantum level itself, but we managed to get much further than that. Lines only get blurrier still as we venture forward.  

Conclusion

So in conclusion, I hate tomatoes because I don’t like the taste.

Also, the process of abstracting a simple tomato into various conceptual realms suggests that there is potentially no end to abstraction. With each step deeper, new dimensions and perspectives emerge, indicating that abstraction is limited only by our imagination, curiosity, and the frameworks we use to understand the world.

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The Integrative Power of Puritative Words

In this research paper, I have discussed the deep-seated power that words wield over our psyche. With a foundation in the philosophical, psychological, and linguistic dimensions, this study introduces the concepts of Kalimaat-e-Safa (Puritative Words) and Kalimaat-e-Ghubar (Dustitative Words)—terms that embody the dual nature of language to construct or deconstruct our inner world.

Keeping with our tradition at Lumeni of making knowledge accessible to all, I have made this research accessible to all for free. 

Let me know your thoughts, insights, or any reflections this piece sparks in you. Cheers!

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This week, I thought of exploring another dimension of ambiguity, i.e., its tendency to efface freedom by offering liberation, and its complex relationship with its counterpart, i.e., clarity which comes with its own limitations.

These concepts, I posit, are not merely linguistic tools but profound existential forces that shape our perception, our choices, and ultimately, our freedom.

Ambiguity, in its vast openness, can both liberate and confine us, while clarity, with its precise definitions, can both restrict and free us. This duality strikes at the core of our being, challenging us to navigate the delicate balance between knowing and not-knowing, between defining our path and losing ourselves in the possibilities.

This paradox is far from new. Every philosopher, from Aristotle to Wittgenstein, has had something to say in this regard. Throughout this contemplation, I will try my best, to include as many of these arguments as possible, to give a more well pronounced view in this regard.  

My aim is not to resolve the tension between ambiguity and clarity but to illuminate its contours, to understand how we might live, think, and speak within its bounds and ultimately, find the middle ground. 

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The Nature of Language and Thought

Language is not just a communicative tool but a foundation that shapes and is shaped by our perceptions, thoughts, and understandings of reality.

A Constructive and Constraining Tool

Ludwig Wittgenstein offers a starting point with his proposition in the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, "The limits of my language mean the limits of my world". This statement depicts language's dual capacity to construct our reality and circumscribe our cognitive horizons. Language, in Wittgenstein's later works, particularly in Philosophical Investigations, is further depicted as a set of games, each with its own rules defining meanings. This analogy elucidates that language's meaning is contingent upon usage and context, rather than fixed references.

Building on Wittgenstein's foundation, Ferdinand de Saussure's semiotic theory introduces the concept of the 'sign,' comprising the 'signifier' (the form of a word or phrase) and the 'signified' (the conceptual meaning). 

Saussure's dichotomy emphasises the arbitrary relationship between signifiers and signified, describing how linguistic symbols gain meaning through their differential relationships rather than inherent properties.

Revealing and Concealing

In Being and Time, Heidegger posits that language is the "house of Being," where our understanding of existence is both articulated and obscured. He suggests that through language, Being is disclosed, yet the very essence of what it means to 'be' is often concealed by the everydayness of linguistic expressions, leading to a forgetfulness of being.

J.L. Austin's theory of speech acts in How to Do Things with Words contributes to understanding the performative nature of language, where saying something can also be doing something. This perspective broadens the conception of language from a descriptive tool to an active participant in shaping reality.

A Reflection and Moulder of Thought

The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, albeit controversial, offers an intriguing lens through which to view the influence of language on thought. It proposes that the structure of a language affects its speakers' cognition and worldview. While strong forms of linguistic determinism have been critiqued, weaker forms suggest a significant, albeit not exclusive, influence of language on thought processes.

Ambiguity and the Double-Edged Sword of Liberation

Ambiguity, at its core, refers to the capacity of language to support multiple interpretations. This characteristic, inherent in words, phrases, and sentences, creates diverse understandings and meanings. Umberto Eco, in Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language, elucidates the role of ambiguity as a semiotic strategy, not merely a linguistic defect, suggesting its potency in enriching texts and discourses with layers of meaning. Eco’s perspective considers ambiguity not as a flaw to be eradicated but as a feature that adds depth and complexity to linguistic exchanges.

Ambiguity as Liberation

The liberating aspect of ambiguity is heavily discussed in existentialist philosophy. Søren Kierkegaard, often regarded as the first existentialist philosopher, implicitly leveraged the concept of ambiguity through his exploration of subjective truth and the multiplicity of human experience. In works like Either/Or, Kierkegaard presented the reader with choices and paradoxes that defy clear-cut interpretations, thereby highlighting the liberating, yet daunting, nature of existential ambiguity.

The Trap of Ambiguity

The liberation that ambiguity brings is not without its pitfalls. The paradox of choice, a concept popularised by Barry Schwartz, posits that an abundance of choices can lead to decision paralysis and dissatisfaction. In the context of ambiguity, the multitude of possible interpretations can similarly result in a state of indecision, where the individual feels trapped by the very freedom ambiguity provides.

The existentialist theme of "choice anxiety" further exemplifies this trap. Jean-Paul Sartre, in Being and Nothingness, discusses the burden of freedom and the angst it entails, arguing that the responsibility of choosing in a world without predefined meaning can be overwhelming. 

This existential burden, exacerbated by linguistic ambiguity, illustrates how the absence of clarity can lead to a feeling of entrapment, where the liberating potential of ambiguity converges with a sense of confinement.

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Clarity and the Double-Edged Sword of Limitation

The pursuit of clarity in language, while often lauded as a virtue in communication and thought, harbours its own complexities and contradictions. 

Clarity, in the linguistic sense, pertains to the precision and straightforwardness with which ideas, intentions, and meanings are conveyed. It is often associated with the reduction of ambiguity, aiming for a one-to-one correspondence between signifiers and their signified concepts. 

Gottlob Frege, in Über Sinn und Bedeutung (On Sense and Reference), distinguished between the sense (Sinn) and reference (Bedeutung) of a term, advocating for a level of clarity in understanding the distinct ways in which language refers to the world. 

Clarity as a Path to Freedom

The quest for clarity is deeply rooted in the Enlightenment’s ideals of reason, knowledge, and progress. Immanuel Kant in What is Enlightenment?, advocates for the pursuit of clear, rational thought as the pathway to intellectual liberation and autonomy. 

Clarity and the Confinement of Thought and Possibility

The pursuit of clarity is not without its limitations. Ludwig Wittgenstein, who initially sought to delineate the precise limits of language, later recognised the richness of linguistic games and the folly of seeking absolute clarity in all forms of life. 

In Philosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein argues that the quest for definitive clarity can lead to a misunderstanding of how language functions, effectively confining our understanding within rigid boundaries that do not always reflect the fluidity of human thought and experience.

The emphasis on clarity can stifle creativity and innovation. As Edward de Bono noted in Lateral Thinking, the clear and linear paths of conventional logic often preclude the exploration of novel solutions and ideas, which frequently emerge from ambiguity and uncertainty. Thus, while clarity can guide and inform, it can also constrain the imaginative and creative capacities essential for problem-solving and invention.

The Illusion of Freedom in Clarity

The allure of clarity lies in its promise of certainty and control, offering a safe harbour from complexity and confusion. Yet, this promise can be illusory. Friedrich Nietzsche, in Beyond Good and Evil, critiques the dogmatic pursuit of truths as manifestations of a will to power that masks the fundamentally interpretative nature of knowledge and reality. 

Nietzsche’s critique suggests that the certainty afforded by clarity may lead to a false sense of freedom, ensnaring individuals within a web of oversimplified truths and reducing the richness of existence to a monochrome of absolutes.

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The Golden Mean

So, when it comes to language, where is the line between too much ambiguity and too much clarity? What is the most optimum heuristic to abide by? What is the Golden Mean, as proposed by Aristotle, i.e., the desirable middle between two extremes? 

The answer, as can be expected, is nuanced. In language and thought, this balance does not prescribe a static midpoint but rather a dynamic equilibrium, responsive to the ever-changing demands of communication, understanding, and interpretation.

The Contextual Value of Value

The value of ambiguity and clarity is profoundly context-dependent, varying significantly across different domains of knowledge, forms of expression, and situational demands. 

In scientific discourse, for example, clarity is paramount, as precision and replicability are essential for the accumulation of knowledge and the advancement of technology. 

Conversely, in the arts and literature, ambiguity can be a source of richness and depth, deriving multiple interpretations that reflect the complexity of human experience. The deliberate use of ambiguity by authors and artists, as I discussed in the previous article, can provoke thought, evoke emotion, and engage the audience's imagination in ways that clear, unambiguous works, simply CANNOT. 

Strategies for Balancing Ambiguity and Clarity

Articulating a decision, strategy, or a plan, often involves navigating through a fog of uncertainty. The crux lies in recognising when to embrace ambiguity as a source of flexibility and innovation, and when to seek clarity to ensure direction and coherence. 

The most effective writing is one that strikes a balance, leveraging the creative potential of ambiguity while grounding actions in clear, strategic objectives. Here are a few tokens to consider.

1. Set Objectives that are Optimally Clear: The conventional wisdom in decision making science is often to begin with a clear understanding of the goals and outcomes desired. While sensible, this operation is not always useful. One approach to consider could be to make sure your objectives are optimally clear, i.e., clear enough to not stall your progress. 

   For example, if you'd like to devise a plan to learn a language, setting a clear goal, such as “I will complete an A1 level course of French in 2 months”, may be too specific and clear and might hinder your creative thinking. 

   A more optimal approach may be, “I will learn enough French to be able to offer greetings and introduce myself. If I enjoy doing that, then I will consider pursuing an A1 level course in French”. This objective is optimally clear with just the right amount of ambiguity in it to deploy creativity to this process and refine your steps as you go along.

2. Cultivate a Tolerance for Ambiguity: All writing has some level of ambiguity and yours will be no different. Learn to see ambiguity not as a threat but as an opportunity. Having some manner of ambiguity in your work creates room not just for you to improve but for others to suggest improvements, thus making your work collaborative in nature. This is crucial for thriving in complex and uncertain environments.

3. Employ Iterative Writing: Utilise iterative processes that allow for adjustments based on feedback and new information. This approach leverages both the exploratory nature of ambiguity and the directive power of clarity. 

4. Journal: Maintain open lines of communication with yourself using journaling as a tool. Writing your thoughts helps you in formalising your own thinking. This enhances the ability to navigate ambiguity and crystallise clear strategies.

The balance between ambiguity and clarity is a fundamental aspect of the human experience. By navigating this balance with intention and awareness, we can harness the strengths of both clarity and ambiguity, enriching our understanding and creativity. A balanced approach requires a nuanced and flexible engagement with language and thought. This opens pathways to more meaningful interactions with others and with ourselves in a diverse and complex world.

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