Category Archives: Social Linguistics

Speech Genres and Dialogics; Notes and Summations

I’ve been reading a lot of Todorov’s summaries and explanations of Bakhtin’s theory of dialogism as it spanned his entire career. In fact, I just finished Todorov’s short book _Mikhail Bakhtin; The Dialogical Principle_. I found it to be both dense and enlightening. I think that it’s not the book to start with if you’ve never encountered Bakhtin before because Todorov frequently refers to Bakhtin’s theories on heteroglossia, polyphony, and (of course) dialogism while assuming that the audience already has a firm grasp on each of these dynamic elements within Bakhtin’s meandering theories.

Here are some of my own (meandering) notes written after reading the book:

Much of my own critical studies of culture and literature as they revolve around Bakhtin’s own theories focus on notions of popular culture as represented and commented on by art. We know that Bakhtin wrote an entire book (Rabelais and His World) on the carnivalesque, and this book makes a number of defining statements on popular culture and its wish to break free from accepted or status-quo culture. Todorov brings up the same issue of popular culture’s existence and questions Bakhtin’s notion of just what popular culture constitutes. He makes the point that “the mythical image” that supposed popular culture wishes to remake into its own remains contingent on power structures of the times. Todorov makes this point by raising the issue that “culture…[during the renaissance and medieval eras] [was] the preserve of an elite fundamentally alien to the ‘people'” (78). But still he agrees, as Bakhtin states, that forces remain in absentia and in praesentia, or in anthropological opposition to each other; likewise, according to Bakhtin, these forces would be called centrifugal and centripetal. But the most important part that remains relevant to all kinds of culture today is the remaining distinction that can be made from both theorists delineation’s between “serious” culture and “subversive” culture (the latter being the culture of laughter).

I think an easy example of the serious culture and subversive culture coming into contact with each other would be Kanye’s incident at the VMAs and Obama’s condemnation of the musical artist’s horning-in on the ceremony. The interaction between the two, Obama’s calling Kanye a jackass, breaches the barrier between serious culture, that of politics, laws, all the things that embody seriousness, with that of popular culture, a phenomena propelled by the visceral and capricious buying habits furthered by the individualistic need for satisfaction. The effect is humorous, hyperbolic, and subversive. One might first ask why Obama would bother to take the time to make a statement on something so innocuous as the VMAs, especially in regard to passing judgment on a mouthy artist operating within the circle of popular music. But it did happen, and the immediate effect, according to Bakhtin’s theory, is a dialogical subversion of power structures.

I found another interesting point that Todorov unravels from Bakhtin’s various writings in regard to how humans conceptualize things. I know, that’s an enormously broad topic, one that Todorov favors highest among Bakhtin’s disparate ideas. Bakhtin himself calls it philosophical anthropology, a term coined to describe the act of creating art. In attempting to describe it, Bakhtin wishes to understand human existence, and for those who have studied Foucault, who started his revolutionary work some twenty years after Bakhtin started his own, the Other becomes a prime agent in understanding and explicating this subject. Taking perspective as the subject, the other, therefore, becomes an entity impossible to conceive of without having the links that relate the subject to the other or others.

People’s connections to others are intrinsic in how people perceive the world. Bakhtin argues this in his roundabout way and Todorov doesn’t refute the notion. But quite interestingly, Todorov unravels Bakhtin’s ruminations on how the self becomes self-conscious. Bakhtin argues that how we see ourselves is intrinsically bound to the other’s perception of us. Bakhtin argues this point by using examples of how children both acquire speech, and accordingly, learn how to identify their own body parts; children borrow “baby talk” from their parents (96). Bakhtin states, “In this sense, the body is not a self-sufficient entity; it needs the other, his recognition and his formative activity” (47).

Putting the issue aside that this notion presages contemporary psychoanalysis, we can get to a clearer understanding of how Bakhtin weighs the issues at stake. Environment, language, vernacular, idiom, consciousness itself, are all perceptions hinging on information received from others. And once a person matures to adulthood, the circle continues. In his Dostoevsky book, Bakhtin makes the point that one becomes him or herself when this person can reveal him or herself to another, “through another and with another’s help” (311). He has much more to say on the subject of self, so if you’re interested please pick up his wonderful book _Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics_.

Todorov also brings up the topic of love and how Bakhtin explains it. Love, for Bakhtin is of course a highly conditioned and perspective-driven activity. But the most important point he makes, stemming from his theory that people gain a sense of self from others, is that one cannot love another as one loves oneself. Bakhtin states “one cannot love oneself as if one were one’s neighbor…Suffering, the fear for oneself, joy, all are qualitatively and deeply different from compassion, the fear for other, common joy…” (44). Regardless of how one becomes a self-assured, heteroglossic self, what’s received is different from what one projects and assumes upon others. “You,” “me,” and “her” are drastically different parallel pronouns that provide false analogies between disparate entities that cannot be so easily reduced. Bakhtin puts it quite clearly when describing how one conceptualizes the love and understanding for others: “in all cemeteries there are only others” (99).

If you’re a follower of literature you’re probably wondering where art fits in the midst of this mish-mash of theoretical meandering. Well, Bakhtin often raises the question of the artist’s role or job in creating art, especially when one considers all the social and environmental forces at work. After all, how does an author inhabit the heads of many characters if he cannot truly conceptualize the other, as Bakhtin argues? This is where his theories on artistic creation emerge.

Bakhtin, therefore, distinguishes two distinct stages of an artist’s creative act. The first stage is empathy or identification; it is during this stage that the novelist steps into the shoes (or place) of the character. The second stage is when the novelist re-enters his own character as writer. Bakhtin calls this second movement “finding oneself outside,” which Todorov translates as extopy (99). Thus the author closes himself off from himself, enters the character of another, as integral to himself as that of the other who formed him, then re-emerges as himself again, knowing that expressing his “self” in art would be impossible because of the self’s contingencies on the other. The author can only relate to the other through his own sense of self: “Only the other as such can be the axiological center of the artistic vision” (99: 163). An event, then, whether in a novel written by a man born into destitute poverty, or by a woman who was the queen of Lichtenstein cannot be reduced solely in terms of that author’s environmental stimuli. The consciousness that catalyzed each respective novel is consciousness made up of many others, each feeding, instilling, detracting, and reinforcing this same consciousness in many ways.

Leaving the topic of the author, Bakhtin takes a gouge at bourgeoisie methods of finding a solution to a problem, specifically in terms of discourse, noting that this method is comprised of explaining how one got to the problem and not what the problem actually may be. He labels this method as reification of discourse. Intrinsic to the bourgeoisie method, ideological discourse is central to enlightenment thought. Bakhtin argues that not only in literature, but also in the human sciences, a tendency exists that research begins with the question of the “dominant viewpoint” for the purpose of getting at the easiest “solution” to whatever this contemporaneous problem may be. In later works Bakhtin makes similar pronouncements about modernism.

The last issue I’d like to mention is Todorov’s noting Bakhtin’s comments on Hegelian dialectics and how they compare to Bakhtin’s theories on dialogism. Quite simply, Bakhtin labels Hegelian philosophy as only leading to a monological understanding of ‘everything’ and leading to a finalizable explication of literature. Bakhtin says in reference to Hegel’s work: “Monist Idealism is the least favorable ground for the flowering of a multiplicity of unmerged consciousness” (Todorov 104). Using this same statement, Bakhtin refers to Dostoevsky’s pluralistic work to contrast Hegel’s monastic dialectic theories that wish to unify all areas of thought into one monological ‘Phenomenology of Spirit.’ To Bakhtin, Dostoevsky’s novels represent a world comprised of many desperate elements that speak unto themselves as reflected by the many self-propelling voices found within. Bakhtin drives at supporting the many voices that occur, each with their many destinies and profusion of lives, each fortified by the other in their profusion of actualizing themselves in a world, not centralized and objective, but liberal and permeable by another, never being finalized, closed.

Bringing the author back into the discussion, Bakhtin identifies Dostoevsky’s method of taking the author’s position out of the story, showing that the author’s goal is not to place him or herself in a state of isolation independent from others. Dostoevsky may or may not be commenting on the larger theme of individualism that the Romantic era championed, and which is an inherent part of capitalist or bourgeois society. Bakhtin feels that Dostoevsky is against idealism and decadence which breeds “desperate loneliness” (105).

Quite fittingly, as the American economy seems to be slowly rebounding from a crash brought on by capitalist greed and unchecked idealism, pundits and politicians are beginning to prescribe solutions to prevent such a tragedy (which ironically hurts the working class the most) from ocurring again. To fix the situation, experts wish for Americans to collectively buy more, consume more. In terms of how this paradigm might be commented on in literature, Bakhtin would argue that the hegemony that capitalistic individualism exerts onto people is really a violent, alienating act that disjoints the many voices possible in a heteroglossic populace.

Also posted in Bakhtin, Critical Theory, Cultural Anthropology, Essay, Pop Culture Issues

How Does Our Language Shape The Way We Think? [6.12.09] By Lera Boroditsky

I’ve been tripping on this article for a while, so I decided to repost. It contains some pretty ground-breaking information about the connections with language as a display of culture and how language effects how we view the world.

For a long time, the idea that language might shape thought was considered at best untestable and more often simply wrong. Research in my labs at Stanford University and at MIT has helped reopen this question. We have collected data around the world: from China, Greece, Chile, Indonesia, Russia, and Aboriginal Australia. What we have learned is that people who speak different languages do indeed think differently and that even flukes of grammar can profoundly affect how we see the world. Language is a uniquely human gift, central to our experience of being human. Appreciating its role in constructing our mental lives brings us one step closer to understanding the very nature of humanity.

HOW DOES OUR LANGUAGE SHAPE THE WAY WE THINK? [6.12.09]
By Lera Boroditsky

LERA BORODITSKY is an assistant professor of psychology, neuroscience, and symbolic systems at Stanford University, who looks at how the languages we speak shape the way we think.

Lera Boroditsky’s Edge Bio Page


From WHAT’S NEXT?
Dispatches on the Future of Science
Edited By Max Brockman


Humans communicate with one another using a dazzling array of languages, each differing from the next in innumerable ways. Do the languages we speak shape the way we see the world, the way we think, and the way we live our lives? Do people who speak different languages think differently simply because they speak different languages? Does learning new languages change the way you think? Do polyglots think differently when speaking different languages?

These questions touch on nearly all of the major controversies in the study of mind. They have engaged scores of philosophers, anthropologists, linguists, and psychologists, and they have important implications for politics, law, and religion. Yet despite nearly constant attention and debate, very little empirical work was done on these questions until recently. For a long time, the idea that language might shape thought was considered at best untestable and more often simply wrong. Research in my labs at Stanford University and at MIT has helped reopen this question. We have collected data around the world: from China, Greece, Chile, Indonesia, Russia, and Aboriginal Australia. What we have learned is that people who speak different languages do indeed think differently and that even flukes of grammar can profoundly affect how we see the world. Language is a uniquely human gift, central to our experience of being human. Appreciating its role in constructing our mental lives brings us one step closer to understanding the very nature of humanity.

I often start my undergraduate lectures by asking students the following question: which cognitive faculty would you most hate to lose? Most of them pick the sense of sight; a few pick hearing. Once in a while, a wisecracking student might pick her sense of humor or her fashion sense. Almost never do any of them spontaneously say that the faculty they’d most hate to lose is language. Yet if you lose (or are born without) your sight or hearing, you can still have a wonderfully rich social existence. You can have friends, you can get an education, you can hold a job, you can start a family. But what would your life be like if you had never learned a language? Could you still have friends, get an education, hold a job, start a family? Language is so fundamental to our experience, so deeply a part of being human, that it’s hard to imagine life without it. But are languages merely tools for expressing our thoughts, or do they actually shape our thoughts?

Most questions of whether and how language shapes thought start with the simple observation that languages differ from one another. And a lot! Let’s take a (very) hypothetical example. Suppose you want to say, “Bush read Chomsky’s latest book.” Let’s focus on just the verb, “read.” To say this sentence in English, we have to mark the verb for tense; in this case, we have to pronounce it like “red” and not like “reed.” In Indonesian you need not (in fact, you can’t) alter the verb to mark tense. In Russian you would have to alter the verb to indicate tense and gender. So if it was Laura Bush who did the reading, you’d use a different form of the verb than if it was George. In Russian you’d also have to include in the verb information about completion. If George read only part of the book, you’d use a different form of the verb than if he’d diligently plowed through the whole thing. In Turkish you’d have to include in the verb how you acquired this information: if you had witnessed this unlikely event with your own two eyes, you’d use one verb form, but if you had simply read or heard about it, or inferred it from something Bush said, you’d use a different verb form.

Clearly, languages require different things of their speakers. Does this mean that the speakers think differently about the world? Do English, Indonesian, Russian, and Turkish speakers end up attending to, partitioning, and remembering their experiences differently just because they speak different languages? For some scholars, the answer to these questions has been an obvious yes. Just look at the way people talk, they might say. Certainly, speakers of different languages must attend to and encode strikingly different aspects of the world just so they can use their language properly.

Scholars on the other side of the debate don’t find the differences in how people talk convincing. All our linguistic utterances are sparse, encoding only a small part of the information we have available. Just because English speakers don’t include the same information in their verbs that Russian and Turkish speakers do doesn’t mean that English speakers aren’t paying attention to the same things; all it means is that they’re not talking about them. It’s possible that everyone thinks the same way, notices the same things, but just talks differently.

Believers in cross-linguistic differences counter that everyone does not pay attention to the same things: if everyone did, one might think it would be easy to learn to speak other languages. Unfortunately, learning a new language (especially one not closely related to those you know) is never easy; it seems to require paying attention to a new set of distinctions. Whether it’s distinguishing modes of being in Spanish, evidentiality in Turkish, or aspect in Russian, learning to speak these languages requires something more than just learning vocabulary: it requires paying attention to the right things in the world so that you have the correct information to include in what you say.

Such a priori arguments about whether or not language shapes thought have gone in circles for centuries, with some arguing that it’s impossible for language to shape thought and others arguing that it’s impossible for language not to shape thought. Recently my group and others have figured out ways to empirically test some of the key questions in this ancient debate, with fascinating results. So instead of arguing about what must be true or what can’t be true, let’s find out what is true.

Follow me to Pormpuraaw, a small Aboriginal community on the western edge of Cape York, in northern Australia. I came here because of the way the locals, the Kuuk Thaayorre, talk about space. Instead of words like “right,” “left,” “forward,” and “back,” which, as commonly used in English, define space relative to an observer, the Kuuk Thaayorre, like many other Aboriginal groups, use cardinal-direction terms — north, south, east, and west — to define space.1 This is done at all scales, which means you have to say things like “There’s an ant on your southeast leg” or “Move the cup to the north northwest a little bit.” One obvious consequence of speaking such a language is that you have to stay oriented at all times, or else you cannot speak properly. The normal greeting in Kuuk Thaayorre is “Where are you going?” and the answer should be something like ” Southsoutheast, in the middle distance.” If you don’t know which way you’re facing, you can’t even get past “Hello.”

The result is a profound difference in navigational ability and spatial knowledge between speakers of languages that rely primarily on absolute reference frames (like Kuuk Thaayorre) and languages that rely on relative reference frames (like English).2 Simply put, speakers of languages like Kuuk Thaayorre are much better than English speakers at staying oriented and keeping track of where they are, even in unfamiliar landscapes or inside unfamiliar buildings. What enables them — in fact, forces them — to do this is their language. Having their attention trained in this way equips them to perform navigational feats once thought beyond human capabilities. Because space is such a fundamental domain of thought, differences in how people think about space don’t end there. People rely on their spatial knowledge to build other, more complex, more abstract representations. Representations of such things as time, number, musical pitch, kinship relations, morality, and emotions have been shown to depend on how we think about space. So if the Kuuk Thaayorre think differently about space, do they also think differently about other things, like time? This is what my collaborator Alice Gaby and I came to Pormpuraaw to find out.

To test this idea, we gave people sets of pictures that showed some kind of temporal progression (e.g., pictures of a man aging, or a crocodile growing, or a banana being eaten). Their job was to arrange the shuffled photos on the ground to show the correct temporal order. We tested each person in two separate sittings, each time facing in a different cardinal direction. If you ask English speakers to do this, they’ll arrange the cards so that time proceeds from left to right. Hebrew speakers will tend to lay out the cards from right to left, showing that writing direction in a language plays a role.3So what about folks like the Kuuk Thaayorre, who don’t use words like “left” and “right”? What will they do?

The Kuuk Thaayorre did not arrange the cards more often from left to right than from right to left, nor more toward or away from the body. But their arrangements were not random: there was a pattern, just a different one from that of English speakers. Instead of arranging time from left to right, they arranged it from east to west. That is, when they were seated facing south, the cards went left to right. When they faced north, the cards went from right to left. When they faced east, the cards came toward the body and so on. This was true even though we never told any of our subjects which direction they faced. The Kuuk Thaayorre not only knew that already (usually much better than I did), but they also spontaneously used this spatial orientation to construct their representations of time.

People’s ideas of time differ across languages in other ways. For example, English speakers tend to talk about time using horizontal spatial metaphors (e.g., “The best is ahead of us,” “The worst is behind us”), whereas Mandarin speakers have a vertical metaphor for time (e.g., the next month is the “down month” and the last month is the “up month”). Mandarin speakers talk about time vertically more often than English speakers do, so do Mandarin speakers think about time vertically more often than English speakers do? Imagine this simple experiment. I stand next to you, point to a spot in space directly in front of you, and tell you, “This spot, here, is today. Where would you put yesterday? And where would you put tomorrow?” When English speakers are asked to do this, they nearly always point horizontally. But Mandarin speakers often point vertically, about seven or eight times more often than do English speakers.4

Even basic aspects of time perception can be affected by language. For example, English speakers prefer to talk about duration in terms of length (e.g., “That was a short talk,” “The meeting didn’t take long”), while Spanish and Greek speakers prefer to talk about time in terms of amount, relying more on words like “much” “big”, and “little” rather than “short” and “long” Our research into such basic cognitive abilities as estimating duration shows that speakers of different languages differ in ways predicted by the patterns of metaphors in their language. (For example, when asked to estimate duration, English speakers are more likely to be confused by distance information, estimating that a line of greater length remains on the test screen for a longer period of time, whereas Greek speakers are more likely to be confused by amount, estimating that a container that is fuller remains longer on the screen.)5

An important question at this point is: Are these differences caused by language per se or by some other aspect of culture? Of course, the lives of English, Mandarin, Greek, Spanish, and Kuuk Thaayorre speakers differ in a myriad of ways. How do we know that it is language itself that creates these differences in thought and not some other aspect of their respective cultures?

One way to answer this question is to teach people new ways of talking and see if that changes the way they think. In our lab, we’ve taught English speakers different ways of talking about time. In one such study, English speakers were taught to use size metaphors (as in Greek) to describe duration (e.g., a movie is larger than a sneeze), or vertical metaphors (as in Mandarin) to describe event order. Once the English speakers had learned to talk about time in these new ways, their cognitive performance began to resemble that of Greek or Mandarin speakers. This suggests that patterns in a language can indeed play a causal role in constructing how we think.6 In practical terms, it means that when you’re learning a new language, you’re not simply learning a new way of talking, you are also inadvertently learning a new way of thinking. Beyond abstract or complex domains of thought like space and time, languages also meddle in basic aspects of visual perception — our ability to distinguish colors, for example. Different languages divide up the color continuum differently: some make many more distinctions between colors than others, and the boundaries often don’t line up across languages.

To test whether differences in color language lead to differences in color perception, we compared Russian and English speakers’ ability to discriminate shades of blue. In Russian there is no single word that covers all the colors that English speakers call “blue.” Russian makes an obligatory distinction between light blue (goluboy) and dark blue (siniy). Does this distinction mean that siniy blues look more different from goluboy blues to Russian speakers? Indeed, the data say yes. Russian speakers are quicker to distinguish two shades of blue that are called by the different names in Russian (i.e., one being siniy and the other being goluboy) than if the two fall into the same category.

For English speakers, all these shades are still designated by the same word, “blue,” and there are no comparable differences in reaction time.

Further, the Russian advantage disappears when subjects are asked to perform a verbal interference task (reciting a string of digits) while making color judgments but not when they’re asked to perform an equally difficult spatial interference task (keeping a novel visual pattern in memory). The disappearance of the advantage when performing a verbal task shows that language is normally involved in even surprisingly basic perceptual judgments — and that it is language per se that creates this difference in perception between Russian and English speakers.

When Russian speakers are blocked from their normal access to language by a verbal interference task, the differences between Russian and English speakers disappear.

Even what might be deemed frivolous aspects of language can have far-reaching subconscious effects on how we see the world. Take grammatical gender. In Spanish and other Romance languages, nouns are either masculine or feminine. In many other languages, nouns are divided into many more genders (“gender” in this context meaning class or kind). For example, some Australian Aboriginal languages have up to sixteen genders, including classes of hunting weapons, canines, things that are shiny, or, in the phrase made famous by cognitive linguist George Lakoff, “women, fire, and dangerous things.”

What it means for a language to have grammatical gender is that words belonging to different genders get treated differently grammatically and words belonging to the same grammatical gender get treated the same grammatically. Languages can require speakers to change pronouns, adjective and verb endings, possessives, numerals, and so on, depending on the noun’s gender. For example, to say something like “my chair was old” in Russian (moy stul bil’ stariy), you’d need to make every word in the sentence agree in gender with “chair” (stul), which is masculine in Russian. So you’d use the masculine form of “my,” “was,” and “old.” These are the same forms you’d use in speaking of a biological male, as in “my grandfather was old.” If, instead of speaking of a chair, you were speaking of a bed (krovat’), which is feminine in Russian, or about your grandmother, you would use the feminine form of “my,” “was,” and “old.”

Does treating chairs as masculine and beds as feminine in the grammar make Russian speakers think of chairs as being more like men and beds as more like women in some way? It turns out that it does. In one study, we asked German and Spanish speakers to describe objects having opposite gender assignment in those two languages. The descriptions they gave differed in a way predicted by grammatical gender. For example, when asked to describe a “key” — a word that is masculine in German and feminine in Spanish — the German speakers were more likely to use words like “hard,” “heavy,” “jagged,” “metal,” “serrated,” and “useful,” whereas Spanish speakers were more likely to say “golden,” “intricate,” “little,” “lovely,” “shiny,” and “tiny.” To describe a “bridge,” which is feminine in German and masculine in Spanish, the German speakers said “beautiful,” “elegant,” “fragile,” “peaceful,” “pretty,” and “slender,” and the Spanish speakers said “big,” “dangerous,” “long,” “strong,” “sturdy,” and “towering.” This was true even though all testing was done in English, a language without grammatical gender. The same pattern of results also emerged in entirely nonlinguistic tasks (e.g., rating similarity between pictures). And we can also show that it is aspects of language per se that shape how people think: teaching English speakers new grammatical gender systems influences mental representations of objects in the same way it does with German and Spanish speakers. Apparently even small flukes of grammar, like the seemingly arbitrary assignment of gender to a noun, can have an effect on people’s ideas of concrete objects in the world.7

In fact, you don’t even need to go into the lab to see these effects of language; you can see them with your own eyes in an art gallery. Look at some famous examples of personification in art — the ways in which abstract entities such as death, sin, victory, or time are given human form. How does an artist decide whether death, say, or time should be painted as a man or a woman? It turns out that in 85 percent of such personifications, whether a male or female figure is chosen is predicted by the grammatical gender of the word in the artist’s native language. So, for example, German painters are more likely to paint death as a man, whereas Russian painters are more likely to paint death as a woman.

The fact that even quirks of grammar, such as grammatical gender, can affect our thinking is profound. Such quirks are pervasive in language; gender, for example, applies to all nouns, which means that it is affecting how people think about anything that can be designated by a noun. That’s a lot of stuff!

I have described how languages shape the way we think about space, time, colors, and objects. Other studies have found effects of language on how people construe events, reason about causality, keep track of number, understand material substance, perceive and experience emotion, reason about other people’s minds, choose to take risks, and even in the way they choose professions and spouses.8 Taken together, these results show that linguistic processes are pervasive in most fundamental domains of thought, unconsciously shaping us from the nuts and bolts of cognition and perception to our loftiest abstract notions and major life decisions. Language is central to our experience of being human, and the languages we speak profoundly shape the way we think, the way we see the world, the way we live our lives.

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NOTES

1 S. C. Levinson and D. P. Wilkins, eds., Grammars of Space: Explorations in Cognitive Diversity (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006).

2 Levinson, Space in Language and Cognition: Explorations in Cognitive Diversity (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003).

3 B. Tversky et al., “ Cross-Cultural and Developmental Trends in Graphic Productions,” Cognitive Psychology 23(1991): 515–7; O. Fuhrman and L. Boroditsky, “Mental Time-Lines Follow Writing Direction: Comparing English and Hebrew Speakers.” Proceedings of the 29th Annual Conference of the Cognitive Science Society (2007): 1007–10.

4 L. Boroditsky, “Do English and Mandarin Speakers Think Differently About Time?” Proceedings of the 48th Annual Meeting of the Psychonomic Society (2007): 34.

5 D. Casasanto et al., “How Deep Are Effects of Language on Thought? Time Estimation in Speakers of English, Indonesian Greek, and Spanish,” Proceedings of the 26th Annual Conference of the Cognitive Science Society (2004): 575–80.

6
Ibid., “How Deep Are Effects of Language on Thought? Time Estimation in Speakers of English and Greek” (in review); L. Boroditsky, “Does Language Shape Thought? English and Mandarin Speakers’ Conceptions of Time.” Cognitive Psychology 43, no. 1(2001): 1–22.

7 L. Boroditsky et al. “Sex, Syntax, and Semantics,” in D. Gentner and S. Goldin-Meadow, eds., Language in Mind: Advances in the Study of Language and Cognition (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003), 61–79.

8 L. Boroditsky, “Linguistic Relativity,” in L. Nadel ed., Encyclopedia of Cognitive Science (London: MacMillan, 2003), 917–21; B. W. Pelham et al., “Why Susie Sells Seashells by the Seashore: Implicit Egotism and Major Life Decisions.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 82, no. 4(2002): 469–86; A. Tversky & D. Kahneman, “The Framing of Decisions and the Psychology of Choice.” Science 211(1981): 453–58; P. Pica et al., “Exact and Approximate Arithmetic in an Amazonian Indigene Group.” Science 306(2004): 499–503; J. G. de Villiers and P. A. de Villiers, “Linguistic Determinism and False Belief,” in P. Mitchell and K. Riggs, eds., Children’s Reasoning and the Mind (Hove, UK: Psychology Press, in press); J. A. Lucy and S. Gaskins, “Interaction of Language Type and Referent Type in the Development of Nonverbal Classification Preferences,” in Gentner and Goldin-Meadow, 465–92; L. F. Barrett et al., “Language as a Context for Emotion Perception,” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 11(2007): 327–32.

Also posted in Critical Theory, Language