Day 102: Wednesday
Good Morning Zak,
Zak this morning I find myself in the middle of a very busy season as well as of Umberto Eco’s Trattato di semiotica generale. I’m not really sure which of the two deserves more of my attention.
What’s the difference between a gerund and a gerundive? …
The reason I bring up Eco is… well… how can I explain?
That! That phenomenon is exactly the reason I’m bringing up Eco. You know that feeling, where you have something to say, but you can’t seem to find the words to say it. How does that happen? I mean, I use words to think, don’t I? How could I have a thought for which there are no words?
… About four hours of excruciatingly dry explanation.
Or have you ever said a word over and over so many times that it seemed to lose it’s meaning? Frog legs, frog legs, frog legs… frog legs…
We’ll there’s a word for that. It’s called jamais vu… The neglected cousin lurking in the shadow of déjà vu‘s limelight.
Anyway, my question is basically this: which comes first, thoughts or words? As I put it a while back:
Which came first, the chicken, or the word we use to distinguish said young-domestic-fowl-raised-for-meat-and-dairy-products from the so-called “egg”?
Or maybe the title of that post captured the question more concisely:
“What are words, even?!”
Well, it’s a difficult question… one that would take a lot of words to answer. Faced with problems like these my first impulse is usually to read some ancient Greek:
“In the beginning was the word…” (John 1:1)
I guess that solves it. Words come first. That’s what that means right?
But what about every time you’ve tried to say something and the words just wouldn’t come? What about that time you forgot the word for piano and accidentally called it a “pumpkin”? Or when you had an entire conversation with someone about your pet cat before realizing that the words “your pride and joy” were probably intended to refer to your daughter instead? Or what about that time you gazed longingly into someone’s eyes, and all the brokenness of the world seemed to somehow reconstruct itself for just a minute—but the only words that would come to you were a dry exposition on the meaning of the term fungibility in modern philosophical usage?
What… are those examples a little overly specific?
Anyway, one thing Umberto Eco brings to the table is his insistence on the general semiotic function of culture as a whole, not just of language. Zak, I believe there may be some contributors on this blog who feel that language is a precondition of moral agency. Eco says that (moral) intelligence can exist without language but semiotic function is the same thing as intelligence.
I’m not sure if I feel language has much to do with morality. I do believe there’s something moral about expressive clarity… you know, that magical phraseological tension that happens only intermittently between the usual drunken babbling of life. Every once in a while you pick up a book and encounter this mystical sort of translinguistic purity… something that seems to escape the limits of words and directly expresses l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.
The so-called deconstructionist perspective that’s dominated literary theory since the later part of the last century seems to represent a breach of faith in that Amor which gives structure to the universe. On the one hand there’s nothing wrong with our desire to move beyond the pedantry of a purely structuralist reading; it’s perfectly understandable.
But at the same time, there’s no escaping the fact that the very act of reading is predicated on structure. The moment the receiver of a semiotic expression loses faith in the structural integrity of that message, he or she ceases to be a reader. A reader is someone who intentionally seeks to reconstruct the coherent meaning of semiotic fragments. Human contact simply cannot exist without that reconstructive process.
It’s a good thing that semiotics have been deconstructed. I think Derrida’s school would be cool with me saying this: without deconstructing, how would we ever be able to reconstruct?