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Transaction Publishers

New Brunswick (U.S.A.) and London (U.K.)

Copyright © 2008 by Transaction Publishers, New Brunswick, New Jersey.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. All inquiries should be addressed to Transaction Publishers, Rutgers—The State University, 35 Berrue Circle, Piscataway, New Jersey 08854-8042. www.transactionpub.com

This book is printed on acid-free paper that meets the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials.

Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2006044497

ISBN: 978-1-4128-0934-4

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Shanahan, Daniel.

Language, feeling, and the brain : the evocative vector / Dan Shanahan. p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-4128-0934-4 (E-Book)

1. Language and languages. 2. Emotions. 3. Language and languages— Origin. 4. Myth. 5. Culture. I. Title.

P107.S53 2007

401’.9—dc22

2006044497

For Gabriel and Marc, whose adventures in language have always moved in me the deepest feeling

Preface

This book had its genesis in the 1980s, during the years I spent on the faculty of the Monterey Institute of International Studies. It was there I first encountered a divergence of opinion about language that was to lead me to believe that an area of language study had been ignored during the heady days of the Cognitive Revolution, when our notions about the mind were so dramatically transformed.

The essence of the divergence I found among my colleagues at the Institute lay in their attitudes towards teaching foreign language. One group—mostly classically trained Europeans—saw culture,1 particularly in the great works of literature produced by a target culture, as the sine qua non of their language teaching philosophy. The other group—mostly younger colleagues trained in the relatively new methods of the thenexpanding discipline of Teaching of English as a Second Language—espoused a more systematic approach to curriculum design, one based on cognitive research into the nature teaching, learning, and language done since the end of World War II. What was curious—and, for me, deeply frustrating—about this divergence was an inability on the part of most of those on either side of the fence dividing the two groups to see their views as complementary. In most meetings and discussions, the remarks made and the attitudes expressed were largely adversarial, sometimes heatedly so.

As fate would have it, the new, more systematic approach to teaching language was the rising star of the time, and the older, more classicallyoriented approach in its sunset years, guaranteeing that the younger colleagues would have the greater influence on the development of the curriculum. But feeling strong allegiance to arguments put forward on both sides, I felt that either/or attitudes were not only unnecessary, they ignored the fact that the dialectic between the two views represented a great opportunity for bringing together two powerful features of language in the service of the language learner. Moreover, it quickly became apparent to me that, at the time, comparatively little systematic investigation

x Language, Feeling, and the Brain

had been done into the power of culture and literature to invigorate the language learning experience. While there was a veritable explosion taking place in research into the cognitive side of language learning, such things as emotion, if considered at all, were largely consigned either to generalities about learner motivation or to resistance to language learning—the “affective filter.” And that imbalance in our knowledge about language learning led me to realize that the very good work that had been done in the entire field of language theory since World War II was rather lopsided. And thus to the fifteen year investigation that has produced this book, which moves far beyond the questions I was putting to myself in those early days, but that remains motivated by them all the same.

There are many who contributed to the high learning curve I experienced in those fifteen years, and first among them must come Karl Pribram, whose support for my work during our quarter-century relationship has been unflagging and always profoundly appreciated. Close behind come those, like Nenad Miscevic, Juraj Hvorecky, Alessandro Duranti, Mark Turner, Richard Kern, and Richard Yarborough, who provided support for this project, sometimes almost on a daily basis.

But thanks must also go to the many who contributed, as colleagues and friends, to my understanding of language and mind: Peter Shaw, Paula Moddel, Jane Atkins, and Glenn Fisher at the Institute; Wally Lambert, Fred Genesee, Tony Clark, Claire Kramsch, Jim Tollefson, Rafael Ramirez, and Marilyn Garcia—to name only those who cut the highest profile in helping my understanding evolve. And thanks as well to others who commented on various parts of the manuscript itself, John Schumann, Antonio Damasio, and Merlin Donald among them, and to Pascale Paquet for help in preparing a skeletal version of the manuscript early on, and to Ondej Beran, who prepared the index in the final stages.

I must also acknowledge the help of Project A funds of the Ecole des hautes etudes commercials for supporting the first stages of my research, and the Grant Agency of the Czech Republic (GACR) for the very generous grant (Grant Number 406/04/1307) that allowed me to pull all the pieces of the puzzle together. Thanks as well go to Irving Louis Horowitz and Transaction Publishers for having found sufficient merit in the manuscript to publish it, and to Jan Sokol and Ivan Havel for having helped provide an intellectual environment in which I could bring the work to completion. And finally, special thanks to others who, in more indirect ways, provided their help in the sometimes difficult

Preface xi

circumstances that accompanied pursuit of the project: Delphine Barbier, Tom Bishop, Pavel Mohr, et l’équipe du Café Mirabeau, qui a m’accueilli comme une membre de la famille pendant ma “periode d’isolation.”

Selections trom Mind.’ An Essay on Human Feeling, vol. 2 (pp. 122, 123, 269, 274,294,295,296,298,300,301) by Susanne K. Langer, Copyright 1973 by the Johns Hopkins University Press, are reprinted with the permission of Johns Hopkins University Press.

Note

1. Whether one should use the word Culture, culture, or “culture” in this context is the subject of Shanahan (1998).

Introduction

Suck was a queer word…the sound was ugly…when [the water] had all gone down…the hole in the basin had made a sound like that: suck.

The “speaker” of these phrases is James Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus, consummate wordsmith and lover of language, for whom “kiss” is the “tiny little noise” made when his mother “put her lips on his cheek” and for whom the word “wine” is “beautiful.” That Stephen—and, most would agree, Joyce himself—finds words “ugly” and “beautiful” is both predictable and unremarkable, except in one respect. The fact that one of the most gifted writers in the English language attributes these qualities to words—to the “word in itself,” rather than the meaning it conveys—suggests a contradiction of the conventional wisdom that has dominated our thinking about language in the last half century. For that thinking has itself been heavily influenced by the dramatic increase in our understanding of cognition characteristic of the Cognitive Revolution, and as a consequence we have tended to think of language along largely cognitive lines, examining the ways in which it reflects and is influenced by human modes of thinking. And Stephen/Joyce’s response to these words obviously goes well beyond those familiar cognitive lines. True, it may be possible to look at Stephen Dedalus’ reaction to words as “ugly” and “beautiful” as revealing particular habits of cognition. But one cannot deny that reactions such as his are at least as reflective of feeling. The ugliness of “suck” is almost a visceral response that, while it has aesthetic elements included in it, is powerfully influenced by what we commonly call “emotions.” So too Stephen’s characterization of “wine” as a “beautiful” word. And one needn’t stop there: “Aroha” and “laska” might easily be characterized as “soft,” even “affectionate,” words independent of whether the hearer knows they share the same meaning with “love” and “amour,” and such characterizations would be, like Stephen’s characterizations of “ugly” and “wine,” responses of feeling rather than cognition.1

Language, Feeling, and the Brain

The fact that we may respond to words in ways that go beyond their cognitive functions as carriers of literal meaning is hardly a new one, nor is it particularly earthshaking. Well before the advent of the written word, oral wordsmiths used the music of words and the feelings provoked by that music to give power to their chants, their spells, their poems, and their oratory, and we have been doing the same ever since. We are not moved by the information contained in Antony’s repeated, “Brutus is an honorable man,” but by the feelings evoked by the irony and the repetitive technique. Nor do we laugh at the information contained in the commercial narrative of the man who has fulfilled a lifelong ambition of becoming a poet merely by drinking a name brand soft drink:

Now I rhyme all the time

See what I mean? It comes out keen!

If I don’t stop, I think I’ll pop…

In each of these situations, and countless others like them, the impact of language on listeners, and on readers as well, goes beyond the cognitive and includes some element of feeling. We know this instinctively about language. However, the more formal kinds of understanding we have developed in the last half-century and more largely ignore the fact that feelings inform language as much as the cognitive features that have come to dominate our study of it.

In his masterful The Mind’s New Science: A History of the Cognitive Revolution, Howard Gardner (1987) points out that the history of linguistics in the second half of the twentieth century has been irrevocably bound up with the cognitive revolution that has swept such other disciplines as psychology, anthropology, and philosophy during the same period. In no small degree, Gardner says, we have Noam Chomsky and the revolution in linguistic thinking he helped introduce to thank for that fact. While such figures as Saussure, Pierce, Jakobson, Sapir, and others can be ranked as among the earliest truly modern linguists, Chomsky was responsible for delineating the “paradigm shift” that would set the agenda for linguistics in the post-World War II period.

As Gardner puts it,

Chomsky took issue with the view that the methodological burden of linguistics is the elaboration of techniques for discovering and classing linguistic elements, and that grammars are inventories of these elements and classes. Instead, he saw grammar as a theory of the sentences of the language; and he saw the major methodological problem as the construction of a general theory of linguistic structure in which the properties of grammars…are studied in an abstract way. (194; italics in the original)

This emphasis on theory and abstraction is one of the features of Chomsky’s work that, in Gardner’s view, links it to the cognitive revolution taking place in the postwar period. That revolution involved, again in Gardner’s words, “a contemporary, empirically-based effort to answer long-standing epistemological questions—particularly those concerned with the nature of knowledge, its components, its sources, its development, and its deployment.” (1987:6) Postwar linguistics and its emphasis on the theoretical and abstract features of language fall neatly within the boundaries Gardner describes for the cognitive revolution precisely because that emphasis provoked a thorough preoccupation with language as a form of knowing that reveals cognitive structures in the human species. Whether one is dealing with theoretical questions of Chomskyan “surface structure” versus “deep structure,”2 or, in such sub-disciplines of applied linguistics as second language acquisition, Stephen Krashen’s “input hypothesis,”3 the fundamental questions underlying theory and practice alike have to do with mental representations, the structures which contain them, and the picture both give us of the workings of the human mind.

The criticisms, the convolutions, the controversies, and the restatements produced by Chomsky and his theories are both myriad and profoundly fertile—and far too complex to be summarized here. 4 However, the fact that the Chomskyan paradigm shift has placed modern linguistics squarely in the middle of the cognitive revolution is inescapable. Moreover, that fact provides a key to understanding other features of contemporary linguistics that go hand in hand with its status as a founding participant in that revolution. Gardner says, for instance, that among the common characteristics of disciplines that make up the cognitive revolution are a “faith that central to any understanding of the human mind is the electronic computer,” as well as a belief “that much is to be gained from interdisciplinary studies.” (1985:6) While it may be that linguistics has more influence over studies in artificial intelligence than the other way round, the cross-referencing between the two is not insignificant5 and the common ground increasingly occupied by linguistics, anthropology, psychology, and AI is testimony to the fact that the interdisciplinary element has played an increasingly forceful role in the development of contemporary linguistic theory.

Naturally, this interdisciplinary bias can be expected to produce valuable cross-fertilization of the best kind among these disciplines, and Gardner provides numerous examples of this cooperative, and at times

Language, Feeling, and the Brain

collegially competitive, approach, all-too-rare in contemporary scholarship. However, the ongoing interdisciplinary conversation, if one may call it that, between like-minded researchers and theorists exists in part because each in his or her own way, “speaks a common language,” that is, operates on the basis of common assumptions about what is and is not important, valid, and worth investigation. And Gardner points to one of those assumptions as central to the cognitive enterprise when he cites

the deliberate decision to de-emphasize certain factors which may be important for cognitive functioning but whose inclusion at this point would unnecessarily complicate the cognitive-scientific enterprise. These factors include the influence of affective factors or emotions… (6)

Exclusion of complicating features of a subject of study is no vice: It is part and parcel of what constitutes scientific selectivity—the refining of our focus on what can be identified and studied, leaving for later what cannot. However, the failure to allow for the shortcomings that may be built into one’s study when such exclusion takes place can be a problem, particularly if the pared-down version of one’s subject of study begins to establish itself as a definitive, rather than selective, picture of reality.

In Acts of Meaning, Jerome Bruner (1990), arguably as much a founding father of the cognitive revolution as Chomsky, suggests that such a conceptual hegemony has, indeed, taken over and diverted the revolution from its original goals. Bruner remarks that

what I and my friends thought the revolution was about back there in the late 1950s…was…an all-out effort to establish meaning as the central concept of psychology…to discover and to describe formally the meanings that human beings created out of their encounters with the world, and then to propose hypotheses about what meaning-making processes were implicated. (2)

Bruner does not provide a clear and concise definition of what he intends by the word “meaning,” but that intention becomes clear in his remark that the cognitive revolution has been “technicalized” by its success (1)—and particularly by its shift from concern with meaning to “information.” For Bruner, information processing is content-blind; that is, one codes information, stores it, manipulates it, and recalls it without “respect to whether what is stored is words from Shakespeare’s sonnets or numbers from a random table.” (4) Thus information processing

precludes such ill-formed questions as “How is the world organized in the mind of a Muslim fundamentalist?” or “How does the concept of Self differ in Homeric Greece and in the postindustrial world?” And it favors questions like “What is the optimum

strategy for providing control information to an operator to ensure that a vehicle will be kept in a predetermined orbit?” (5)

There are, no doubt, those who would become immediately uncomfortable with Bruner’s criticism on the grounds that the introduction of such things as “world view” brings with it a measure of subjectivity that would undermine the empirical aspect of the cognitive revolution project set forth in Gardner’s characterization above. Moreover, one might argue that Bruner’s (and his friends’) notion of what the cognitive revolution was about “back there in the late 1950s” was one that was particular to their limited perspective, outdated by later advances in such things as neuropsychology and AI, or that it was simply a “subjective” view unsupportable with evidence from the historical perspective. In certain respects, such objections constitute meta-versions of the complex controversies surrounding Chomsky and can even less fully be dealt with here. However, it can be said that 1) Bruner’s characterization of the path taken by the cognitive revolution, toward information-based rather than meaningbased theories, is fair and accurate; that 2) the shift away from “meaning” toward “information” has constituted the establishing of a limited view of reality as a definitive, at times even hegemonic, view; and that 3) research of the last ten years has suggested that it is time to recognize the limits imposed by that view and broaden the picture to include aspects of human experience previously excluded for practical reasons.

In Bruner’s opinion, one key step in broadening our picture of human cognitive functioning is the inclusion of cultural aspects of cognition—“the emergence of shared symbolic systems, of traditionalized ways of living and working together.” (11) Bruner sees the subjective element of cultural meaning as the chief obstacle to including it within the domain of cognitive study, most especially the extent to which focus on subjective elements may allow relativism to creep into the endeavor and render all our findings irrelevant. In response, he says that no perspective can claim true objectivity, that anyone who comes to the endeavor of cognitive study does so with value-laden presuppositions:

[K]nowledge is “right” or “wrong” in light of the perspective we have chosen to assume. Rights and wrongs of this kind—however well we can test them—do not sum to absolute truths and falsities. The best we can hope for is that we be aware of our own perspective and those of others when we make our claims of “rightness” and wrongness.” (25)

This awareness of our own perspective and those of others, Bruner says, will not lead to an “anything goes” philosophy but “to an unpacking of presuppositions, the better to explore one’s commitments.” (27)

Language, Feeling, and the Brain

Bruner’s critique is a valuable one, and his insistence that culture must be included in the study of human cognitive experience is entirely valid. However, the rationale he presents is at least somewhat incomplete. While one can easily agree that a systematic examination of how “people and cultures…are governed by shared meanings and values” (20) will get us beyond the narrow view of what constitutes “meaning,” the question of subjectivity is a more complex one than can be addressed by mere comparative study of such things as cultural values. The fact that cultural “unpacking of presuppositions” allows us to better understand our own is a comforting—and true—insight into the value of the endeavor Bruner proposes. However, while it broaches fundamentally important moral questions about how we see ourselves and others, it makes something of an end run around more fundamental questions about “the nature of the beast.” That is to say, if the introduction of cultural aspects of cognition into the discussion challenge premises upon which the discussion has been held up until now, we must go beyond merely addressing concerns about the moral consequences of that challenge and ask whether or not the premises themselves must be adjusted to fit the expanding picture we aim to encompass with our investigations. This returns us to “the de-emphasis on affective factors or emotions” cited by Gardner above as one of the five hallmarks of study in the cognitive sciences. In fact, Gardner’s remark is probably an understatement of the true nature of cognitive study. His own very comprehensive and thorough work is remarkable for the fact that it shows no index entry for “emotions,” “affect,” or “feelings.” Nor is his book unique. Bruner himself includes only one set of substantive remarks about affect, referring to Bartlett’s study of memory in the thirties and his contention that recall is “loaded” with affect, which helps to schematize memory.6 Moreover, Bruner raises Bartlett’s findings only to comment that they must be seen in an interpersonal or intercultural context; the influence of affect itself on the structure of cognitive experience is not considered.

Neither Bruner nor Gardner is to be faulted for their “omission.” Questions of emotion or affect, while they have begun to receive considerably more attention in the last decade, have not been integrated into the larger project of “the mind’s new science.” As Gardner’s remarks suggest, emotion and affect are often only mentioned in passing. More frequently they are relegated to other domains, if only rhetorically, with the implicit suggestion that work in this area is the concern of another discipline.7 Unfortunately, the domination of what Bruner calls the “technicalized”

approach within cognitive study, and the ascension of cognitive study as the domain for relevant discussion about the human mind, has lain at the heart of the exclusion of affect and emotion from the discussion of cognitive faculties. Though the only thing deliberate about this exclusion may be the desire to eliminate “unnecessary complication” of the cognitive-scientific enterprise, it must be said that the relative paucity of work on affect and emotion in the first few decades after Gardner’s revolution got itself underway suggests a growing bias against dealing with emotions, a bias that must be challenged if Bruner’s project of uncovering the bases for “meaning-making processes” is to be realized.

Science is meant to be a dispassionate enterprise, free of the emotional factors that kept humankind “in the dark” before the rise of the scientific method; thus it would be natural to find, as one does, a tendency to gravitate towards studying aspects of the human experience that are closer to the rational faculties that have provoked scientific study in the first place. Moreover, science is highly—some would hope entirely—rationalistic, and if its enterprise is laced with a sense of “mission,” as has always been the case, then it is only natural that it would pursue an agenda that deepens our understanding of cognitive faculties, even if in so doing it limits the completeness of the picture it gives us. But, happily, elements of a more complete picture have begun to emerge even from within the “camp” that Bruner sees as having so given itself over to being “technicalized.”

While “emotions are the heart and soul of human life,” as one contemporary textbook in psychology puts it, “it is curious that the field…didn’t pay more attention to [them] until relatively recently.” (Wade and Tavris, 1993:312-313) In fact, psychology has dealt with emotions for many years,8 but their study has largely been relegated to theories of personality such as psychoanalysis, or to social psychology. Extensive “hard” research on emotions of the kind one associates with the cognitive revolution has been a long time coming. Not surprisingly, when that research did begin to come into its own, the relation of emotion to cognition took paramount, sometimes even exclusive, importance. As K. T. Strongman acknowledges in The Psychology of Emotion (1996), “those who have created [theories of emotion] have given pride of place to cognition, and in some cases have left out other aspects of emotion entirely.” (61)

Moreover, attitudes of researchers towards emotion often tend to reveal a subtle bias against them, if only in the form of the suggestion that they often cloud, or completely obscure, the clear vision that our cognitive

Feeling, and the Brain

faculties make possible; “control” of emotions seems to lie at the heart of most psychological approaches to them, whether in the area of therapy or of hard science. Joseph LeDoux, one of those responsible for helping to bring emotions back into the mainstream of cognitive studies, reveal this bias in the conclusion of his The Emotional Brain (1996), when he points out that the emotional-cognitive dyad of the human experience is in a state of evolutionary change:

As things now stand, the amygdala has a greater influence on the cortex than the cortex has on the amygdala, allowing emotional arousal to dominate and control thinking…

At the same time, it is apparent that the cortical connections with the amygdala are far greater in primates than in other mammals. This suggests the possibility that as these connections continue to expand, the cortex might gain more and more control over the amygdala, possibly allowing future humans to be better able to control their emotions. (303)9

Alert himself to the problem of unfair bias against the role of emotion in human experience, LeDoux’s penultimate paragraph suggests the possibility that evolution may ultimately establish “a harmonious integration of reason and passion,” but the remark stands largely as a hopeful afterthought, rather than as a basis upon which we must construct our view of the relationship between cognition and emotion.

The possibility that cognitive functions and emotional functions may already exist in some complementary symbiosis is, however, at the core of one of the more balanced views of the cognitive-emotional relationship in human experience to appear, Antonio Damasio’s Descartes’ Error (1996). Working, like LeDoux, from the neuropsychological work done on emotions in the last twenty-five years, Damasio argues not only that emotions play a role in cognitive processing—an assertion made, as LeDoux points out, as long ago as the early 1960s10—but that the two exist in a tightly-integrated reciprocal relationship that, if disturbed, causes the breakdown of cognitive processing as we know it. Reason, Damasio argues, relies heavily on emotional cues in making its decisions, and detachment from these cues, whether the result of neurological damage, of inadequate development of the emotions, or of some other disturbance of the emotions’ link to judgment-making, results in a diminished ability to function “reasonably.” In other words, Damasio’s findings strongly suggest that what we have come to call “cognitive processing” may better termed “cognitive-emotional processing,” or, to

return to the term introduced by Bruner, “meaning making.” Of course, as we have seen, Bruner himself does not highlight the central role of emotions. However, embedded in his critique of the failure of cognitive studies to include the intersubjective side of “meaning-making” in its picture of the human experience is the importance of emotion: Intersubjectivity presupposes emotional investment; for without it there is only indifference, the equivalent of a null hypothesis for intersubjectivity.

Which brings us to the question of language. If, indeed, Damasio is right that all cognitive processing has an equally important emotional component, what should that tell us about language? As has been said already, the cognitive revolution has led us to see language largely from a cognitive perspective, both with respect to the shape language takes from its origins in the psyche and the shape it gives to the world around us. Emotions have not figured prominently, if at all, in our view of the nature of language,11 which has been seen largely as a cognitive construct and tool. But if we accept Bruner’s distinction between “information processing” and “meaning processing” it becomes quite clear that language has important features that fall outside of the former and that can be treated successfully only by a more penetrating look at the latter. Moreover, as will be argued in chapter 3, the notion of “meaning” must, at least with reference to language, and perhaps beyond, take into account the emotional investment that goes into “meaning making.”

Take, for instance, the question of symbols and the role they play in “processing” language. In his tour de force on the origins of language, symbol-making, and the neurological underpinnings that made both possible, The Symbolic Species (1997), Terence Deacon provides (69101) a detailed account of cognitive experimentation that has revealed how we move from indexical relationships (relatively one-to-one correspondences between objects and signs) to what he calls “transitional relationships” in which patterns of token combinations appear, to true symbolic relationships, in which higher order, generalized relationships begin to emerge. However, Deacon’s account of symbols is largely rooted in the cognitive view: They are seen as cognitive constructs based on higher order, generalized relationships.12 Absent from his discussion is the question that would lead us into a direct encounter with the role of emotions in both symbol-making and in language: What is it about symbols (and language) that lend them their vitality and their “magic,” the critical element that erupted when Helen Keller moved across the

Language, Feeling, and the Brain

threshold from sign to symbol in her famous encounter with the “living word” at the well?13

Of course, in bringing up the question of the power of language to move us, one immediately encounters two formidable objections: the conviction that such “power” lies outside the realm of cognition, especially within the limits Gardner describes; and the even deeper underlying suspicion—going back at least as far as Plato’s insistence that poetry be barred from his ideal society—of the ubiquitous power of language to sway us subjectively. But if we maintain our focus on the true basis for language, the symbolic mode, we detect the grounds upon which one may reevaluate the presumption that we must detach the “persuasive” features of symbols from their cognitive features. While it may be desirable, for the sake of clarity and precision, to distinguish between a “symbol” on a keyboard that is used by a chimp in primate language studies and the scarlet letter that appears on Hester Prynne’s cloak (not to mention Arthur Dimmesdale’s chest and in the night sky) in Hawthorne’s romance, two things are clear: 1) Both types of symbols represent the “higher order” generalizing functions of which Deacon and others speak; and 2) language and symbol-making are much more likely to have emerged in an environment similar to the steamy atmosphere of Hawthorne’s novel than the clinical atmosphere of a primate lab.

In short, just as it is incomplete to see the study of the human mind as limited to the “rational”—or better, rationalizable—faculties of that mind, so too is it incomplete to deal with language only from the perspective of its structural, cognitive features. This is not to say that the cognitive approach is “wrong.” On the contrary, it has produced much of irreplaceable value in our understanding of ourselves and our understanding of the act of understanding. However, in order to produce these insights it adopted, perhaps unavoidably, a limited perspective that excludes a whole domain of human experience and understanding from view. Moreover, this exclusivity seems now not to have been merely componential: that is to say, we are not merely faced with adding a piece of the puzzle that had previously been withheld. The reevaluation of emotions currently underway suggests that there is an integral, reciprocal relationship between the emotional and the rational; each informs the other, interacts with the other, and relies on the other in order to function. While dividing things into two domains may have had value for understanding one or the other, a true reevaluation must discard the polarity between the

two that has come to dominate our view of each and recognize that they exist in intimate symbiosis with one another.

So too with language. To see the emotional as simply an “overlay” at the level of rhetoric, prosody, or metaphor is to fail to understand that language is, like all cognitive faculties, steeped in the emotional features of the human experience; at the deepest level, there is the same interaction, influence, and reliance between the emotional and the rational aspects of language that we are beginning to recognize in other faculties of the mind. Language is, at bottom, as much a product of humankind’s emotional faculties as it is a product of its rational faculties, and the discussion that follows attempts to set out some of the parameters for extending the reconsideration of the role of the emotions in the nature of language itself.

A final word on the philosophical implications of cognitive studies. Gardner suggests that philosophy has always been given the role of agenda-setting for scientific study, and that this has been no less the case for the cognitive revolution:

[P]hilosophers propose certain issues, empirical disciplines arise in an attempt to answer them, and then philosophers cooperate with empirical scientists in interpreting the results and in proposing new lines for work. (1986:54)

Starting with Descartes, Gardner says, modern philosophy has struggled with the “rationalist-empiricist” question with respect to the mind, the dialectic between those, like Descartes, who “believe that the mind exhibits powers of reasoning which it imposes upon the world of sensory experience,” and those, like Locke, who believe “mental processes either reflect, or are constructed on the basis of, external sensory impressions.” (53) Contemporarily, Gardner argues, work such as that by Jerry Fodor has been less concerned with “which perspective ‘wins’ this debate,” than with demonstrating “the bankruptcy of the empiricist position” (86) as embodied in behaviorism.

This is certainly an accurate characterization of the importance philosophy has played in the evolution of cognitive studies. However, it goes without saying that the cognitive revolution naturally drew on aspects of philosophical work that complimented its own biases in favor of cognitive faculties and rational functions of the mind. This being the case it seems not only appropriate but necessary to reconsider the contribution other veins of philosophy might make to the discussion when one begins to include the emotional features of human experience. Unfortunately,

Language, Feeling, and the Brain

philosophy has been no less biased “against” emotion than psychology in that most philosophical theory on human experience reflects either a rationalistic approach (as opposed to the “rationalism” Gardner cites) or a romantic reaction against it. In the former case, philosophy is seen as the exercise of humankind’s “greatest” faculty, reason, in the service of “higher” ends; in the latter case, the irrational is celebrated as an antidote to the excesses of the former.14 The notion that emotion and reason may be complementary has been put forward in one ambitious study,15 but there is nothing by way of a “school” that proposes either the importance of emotion, or the complementarity of reason and emotion as a fundamental principle.

However, there is a body of work that not only includes, but even highlights the importance of emotion and emotion-related phenomena in its analysis of the human experience, and it is curious, though perhaps understandable in light of the behaviorist hegemony that ruled at the same time, that this work has gone unrecognized for the insights it affords into symbolic “processing.” I am speaking here of the work of Ernst Cassirer and Susanne Langer, the former perhaps best characterized, not by the “neo-Kantian” label often attached to him, but by his bedrock assessment of the human species as the “symbolizing animal,” and the latter, in my opinion, greatly undervalued with respect to the reliance she place on “hard” cognitive data for the formulations put forward in her Mind: An Essay on Human Feeling. 16 Both Cassirer and Langer made profound contributions to our understanding of symbol-making, most especially because they take the step implied but not made explicit in Bruner’s critique and presuppose that the making of symbols is an emotion-laden activity. For Cassirer, these emotions are implicit in the role that religion plays in culture, myth, and language; for Langer, emotions are like molecules composed of atomic particles she calls “feelings,” the molecules themselves being the building blocks of all other human experience.

In that the cognitive enterprise privileges information-processing, symbol-making, and language, and that it also embodies an interdisciplinary approach, I have drawn freely from both Cassirer and Langer in what follows. It seems to me that they represent a rich line of thought that has lain fallow for too long and that our developing understanding of the complementarity of cognition and emotion, most especially with respect to the way it is reflected in language, will be greatly enhanced by a new appreciation of their work. To that end, the discussion begins with a comparison of Cassirer’s (1946) Language and Myth—first published

in German in 1925—and Merlin Donald’s (1991) Origins of the Modern Mind. Though published almost half a century apart, the two books are remarkable for their close correspondences in many areas, and their dramatic contrast in one: the role of emotion in the life of the mind.

With that contrast as a landmark, the discussion turns to an examination of contemporary research into the role of the emotions; chapter 2 examines the wealth of research that has been developed in recent years and attempts to construct a model of the emotions that allows us to examine how they influence language. Chapter 3 applies that model to some basic questions about symbolic thinking, syntax, and the ways in which we derive meaning from language, emphasizing particularly how “reified” emotions might have, with repetition, become the basis for symbols and symbolic representation, giving language “evocative” foundations. Chapter 4 draws these various lines of thought into an ordered picture of how language might have evolved from evocative beginnings, and Chapter 5 discusses the evocative side of metaphor, arguably the basis of all language. Chapters 6, 7, and 8 demonstrate that the evocative vector and its influence can be traced through narrative, cultural and literary forms which language makes possible, and the Conclusion suggests that appreciating the importance of that influence will give greater balance, and in some cases perhaps fundamentally change, our understanding of those forms.

Finally it should be said that while the ideas presented here represent my own strong conviction that there is an entire facet of language that has gone unappreciated and relatively unstudied for too long, we are too early in the scheme of things to be able to organize and present the wealth of new data in a way that would substantiate that conviction as empirical fact. Rather, working with findings and conceptualizations that are part of the cognitive enterprise, and complementing those with related material from related areas, my intention has been to create a sufficiently persuasive overview of the way in which evocative elements influences language at its very foundations that others will be provoked to make a more detailed reassessment of that influence. Even if that reassessment were to produce, on reliable evidence, the reverse outcome, in the form of a demonstration that emotion and language are not intimately connected, I believe this discussion would have accomplished a valuable task.

Notes

1. One might also see these reactions as evidence that contradicts the conventional wisdom about whether language is “motivated.” See below, chapter 3.

Language, Feeling, and the Brain

2. See Noam Chomsky, Aspects of the Theory of Syntax, Cambridge: MIT Press, 1965.

3. See The Input Hypothesis, London: Longman, 1985.

4. In addition to Gardner’s capable account, Steven Pinker provides a valuable list of sources in The Language Instinct, New York: Penguin Books, 1994; p. 431, n. 23.

5. See the work of Joan Bresnan, cited in Gardner, p. 217.

6. Bruner’s discussion of Bartlett’s remarks on affect and memory takes place on pp. 57-9.

7. One colleague has suggested that the research upon which this mansucript draws gives the lie to the notion that the study of emotion has been neglected. My contention is that the new attention paid to emotion represents a significant departure from previous practice, but that its fruits are still far from having been integrated into our overall understanding of the psyche.

8. Virtually any discussion of emotions in psychology today begins with commentary on the James-Lange theory, which dates from 1884-85. See, for instance, K. T. Strongman’s The Psychology of Emotion, 4th ed., New York: Wiley & Sons, 1996; pp. 8-10.

9. LeDoux is a competent and cautious scholar, and studiously avoids unfair characterization of emotions. However, the popular Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goldman (1996), based largely on LeDoux’s work, essentially starts off from the assumption that the natural order of things is for cognitive functions to bring emotions under control.

10. Ledoux, p. 38.

11. To cite once again the domain of applied linguistics, emotions have been invoked as obstacles to second language acquisition by Schumann (1997), and, rather exceptionally, as an important aspect of first language acquisition by Ochs (1988), but rarely as essential to the nature of the thing that is acquired.

12. In fairness to Deacon’s very fine book, it must be said that he does include passing references to the role of emotion, among them, “language, as the most sophisticated symbolic system, prvoides a medium for building complex symbolic representations of emotions.” (429)

13. See discussion below, chapter 3.

14. The range of citations one might suggest in this area is all but limitless, but such things as Nietzsche’s Apollinian-Dionysian dialectic, Freud’s Eros and Thanatos, and the contrast between postwar philosophers like Sartre and Camus are illustrative examples.

15. See Ronald de Sousa, The Rationality of Emotion, Cambridge: MIT Press, 1987.

16. Merlin Donald, whose work is compared to that of Cassirer in chapter 1, is one of the few cognitive scientists who lists Langer’s magnum opus in his bibliography, though he cites only the first volume (1967); the two subsequent volumes (1972, 1982) are not mentioned.

1

Two Theories of the

Emergence of Language

If one is to establish a basis for the notion that language has inherently affective features—that is, its emotional base is as essential to its nature as its cognitive base—there are a myriad of possibilities that present themselves as areas that might be investigated. One might begin, for instance, with the rhetorical power of language and its ability to sway those exposed to it; one might also examine (as we later will) poetic expression and the emotive power it carries with it. However, clearly the most firm foundation on which to build a model of how language reveals affective features would be to examine the origins of language itself. But several problems present themselves.

First of all, the emergence of language is shrouded in mystery. With the emergence of writing, one has the advantage of rock carvings that have survived the weathering of time to provide modern theoreticians with the hardest of data; with the emergence of language, one is immediately stymied by a medium even more fluid than the water in which John Keats feared his name was writ. Some very good work has been done in recent years using a variety of kinds of evidence to infer what the emergence of language might be said to have involved,1 but the relatively new nature of this work and the relative difficulty of testing hypotheses make the evidentiary base quite fragmentary for the moment. For our purposes, perhaps it is best to consider the question from a slightly different angle, that of the emergence of the capacity for language, about which there has been increasing speculation throughout the last three centuries and which has begun more recently to enjoy an increasing body of evidence drawn from anthropology, primate studies, and neuropsychology. If some of the early studies, which were heavily philosophical in content, can be yoked together with some of the more recent cross-disciplinary findings, that might provide us with a model well-grounded both in breadth of time and of discipline.

Language, Feeling, and the Brain

Long before the Cognitive Revolution, as part of his larger attempt to trace “the story of human mentality before the birth of that rather abstract form of conception which we call ‘logic,’”2 Ernst Cassirer set out to demonstrate his belief that an intimate relationship exists between language and myth. Language and Myth (1927/46) is concerned with the human psyche’s development of language before that psyche had much interest in reflecting on itself and before it was capable of the more reasoned reflection that one would find in, say, Platonic thought.3 Turning his attention first to myth, Cassirer begins by rejecting the once common view that myth and mythical conceptions represent linguistic “mistakes,” that myths such as the Greek belief in stones as the origin of human beings represent nothing more than the confusion of two names (“stones” and “men” in Greek), which are assonant. Arguing that myth rests, not upon a mental defect, but “upon a positive power of formulation and creation,” (6) Cassirer says that myth is never an attempt to duplicate reality, let alone can it be said that confusion makes it fall short of an imitative goal: Myth, like language, “strives to ‘express’ subjective and objective happening, the ‘inner’ and the ‘outer’ world.” (7) To put it another way, myth and language are gestalts of perception and expression. Moreover, in Cassirer’s view, mythical conceptualization did not develop in Aristotelian fashion from the “inspection and observation…of definite forms, each with its own perfectly determinate spatial limits that give it its specific individuality”; (13) on the contrary, “mythic conception originally grasps…one complex whole, out of which definite characters only gradually emerge.” (13) Thus, one cannot assume that either myth or language reflect an attempt on the part of the human mind to fit objective reality into logical categories; categories are a subsequent development. As Usener puts it, “language…causes the multitude of casual, individual expressions to yield up one which extends its denotation over more and more special cases, until it comes to denote them all, and assumes the power of expressing a class concept.” (Usener, as quoted in Cassirer; 1946: 16)

Having established his view of the basis of myth—that it is not “defective” but “mediative” thinking, and that categorical thinking is subsequent, not antecedent, to mythical conceptualization—Cassirer turns to the parallels that he sees between the emergence of myth and the emergence of language. Adopting the three phases that Usener identifies in the evolution of divine nomenclature—the production of “momentary deities”; the emergence of “special gods”; and the final conception of

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Ecribellatae, 385

Ectatosticta davidi, 393

Ectinosoma, 62

Edriophthalmata, 112, 121

Eggs, of Phyllopoda, 32; of Cladocera, 44; of Copepoda, 59, 62, 66, 67, 71, 74; of Branchiura, 77; of Syncarida, 114; of Peracarida, 123; of Hoplocarida, 141; of Eucarida, 144; of Trilobites, 238; of Limulus, 275; of Pedipalpi, 309; of Spiders, 358; of Solifugae, 424; of Pseudoscorpions, 434; of Phalangidea, 442; of Acarina, 456; of Tardigrada, 478; of Pentastomida, 493; of Pycnogons, 520

Ehrenberg, on systematic position of Tardigrada, 483

Eleleis crinita, 396

Ellipsocephalus, 224, 235, 247; E. hoffi, 248

Embolobranchiata, 258, 259, 297 f.

Emmerich, on facial suture of Trinucleus, 226

Encephaloides, 193; E. armstrongi, 192, 193; habitat, 205

Encrinuridae, 251

Encrinurus, 227, 235, 251

Endeis didactyla, 534; E. gracilis, 539; E. spinosus, 541

Endite, 9, 10

Endopodite, 9, 10; of Trilobites, 237

Endosternite, 257, 305, 330

Endostoma, of Eurypterus, 287

Engaeus, 157; E. fossor, distribution, 213

Enoplectenus, 418

Enterocola, 67; E. fulgens, 67

Entomostraca, defined, 6; diagnosis, 18; of littoral zone, 197; fresh-water, of southern hemisphere, 216

Entoniscidae, 130, 134

Enyo, 400

Enyoidae, 399

Eoscorpius, 298

Epeira, 409; E. angulata, 315, 409; E. basilica, 350, 351; web of, 351; E. bifurcata, 359; E. caudata, 359; E. cornuta, 409; E. cucurbitina, 372, 409; E. diademata, 335, 340, 343, 345, 359, 366, 380, 409; anatomy, 332;

cocoon, 358; silk, 360; spinnerets, 325; E. labyrinthea, 350; E. madagascarensis, 360; E. mauritia, 349; E. pyramidata, 409; E. quadrata, 366, 409; E. triaranea, 350; E. umbratica, 409

Epeiridae, 376, 377, 406

Epeirinae, 408

Ephippium, 48

Epiblemum, 420

Epicarida, 129; sex in, 105

Epicaridian, larva of Epicarida, 130

Epicoxite, of Eurypterus, 287

Epidanus, 449

Epigyne, 319, 333, 378

Epipharynx, 459

Epipodite, 9, 10

Episininae, 402

Episinus truncatus, 403

Epistome, of Eurypterida, 291; of Pseudoscorpions, 431, 436; of Phalangidea, 443

Erber, 355, 356

Eremobates, 429

Eremobatinae, 429

Eresidae, 398

Eresus cinnaberinus, 398

Eriauchenus, 411

Erichthoidina, larva of Stomatopod, 143

Ericthus, larva of Stomatopod, 143

Erigone, 405

Erigoninae, 404

Eriophyes, 465; E. ribis, 455, 465; E. tiliae, 465

Eriophyidae, 464

Eriphia, 191; E. spinifrons, 191

Erlanger, von, on development and position of Tardigrada, 483

Ero, 411; E. furcata, 366, 411; cocoon, 358; E. tuberculata, 412

Eryonidae, 158; habitat, 204

Eryonidea, 157

Erythraeinae, 473

Estheria, 21, 22, 23, 36;

E. gubernator and E. macgillivrayi, habitat, 33; E. tetraceros, 36

Eucarida, 114, 144 f.

Euchaeta norwegica, 58

Eucopepoda, 57 f.

Eucopia australis, 119

Eucopiidae, 113, 114, 118

Eudendrium, Pycnogons on, 520

Eudorella, 121

Eukoenenia, 423; E. augusta, 423; E. florenciae, 423; E. grassii, 423

Eulimnadia, 36; E. mauritani, 36; E. texana, 36

Euloma, 230

Eumalacostraca, 112 f.

Eupagurinae, 180

Eupagurus, 180; E. bernhardus, commensalism, 172; distribution, 199; E. excavatus, parasitic castration of, 101; E. longicarpus, metamorphosis, 179; E. prideauxii, commensalism, 172; E. pubescens, distribution, 199

Euphausia pellucida, 145, 146

Euphausiacea, 144

Euphausiidae, 113, 114, 144; larval history, 145; eyes, 150

Eupodes, 471

Euproöps, 278

Eurycare, 232, 247

Eurycercus, 53; alimentary canal, 42; E. lamellatus, habitat, 207

Eurycide, 505, 533; E. hispida, 506, 507, 533

Eurycididae, 533

Eurydium, 485

Euryopis, 404

Eurypelma, 389; E. hentzii, 361, 370

Euryplax, 195

Eurypterida, 258, 278, 283 f.

Eurypteridae, 290 f.

Eurypterus, 283 f., 290, 291, 292; E. fischeri, 284, 286, 289

Eurytemora, 59; E. affinis, habitat, 206

Eusarcus, 283, 291

Euscorpiinae, 308

Euscorpius, 298, 308; E. carpathicus, 299

Eusimonia, 429

Euterpe acutifrons, 61, 61; distribution, 203

Euthycoelus, 389

Evadne, 54; young, 47

Excretory system (including Renal organs), in Crustacea, 12; in Arachnids, 257; in Limulus, 270; in Tardigrada, 481; in Pentastomida, 491

Exner, on mosaic vision, 148

Exopodite, 9, 10; of Trilobites, 237

Eyes, compound, of Crustacea, 146, 147; physiology of, 148;

of deep-sea Crustacea, 149; connexion with phosphorescent organs, 151; regeneration of, 6; of Trilobites, 227 f., 228; of Limulus, 271; of Eurypterida, 285; of Scorpions, 301; of Pedipalpi, 309; of Spiders, 315, 334; of Solifugae, 426; of Pseudoscorpions, 431; of Phalangidea, 442; of Acarina, 458; of Pycnogons, 517

Fabre, on habits of Spiders, 298 f.; of Tarantula, 361 f.; on Wasp v. Spider, 368 f.

Facet, of Trilobites, 235

Facial suture, 225 f., 232

Falanga, 424

False articulations, 444

False-scorpions, 430

Fecenia, 399

Filistata, 391; F. capitata, 392; F. testacea, 392

Filistatidae, 319, 336, 391

Finger-keel, 303

Fixed cheek, 225, 226, 227

Flabellifera, 124 f.

Flabellum, 270

Flacourt, 363

Flagellum, in Solifugae, 426, 428; in Pseudoscorpions, 433

Forbes, 374

Ford, S. W., on development of Trilobites, 238

Forel, on Lake of Geneva, 206

Formicina, 405

Formicinae, 405

Formicinoides brasiliana, 318

Fragilia, 535

Free cheek, 225, 226, 227

Fresh-water, Crustacea, 205 f.; Spiders, 357

Furcilia (Metazoaea), larva of Euphausia, 145

Fusulae, 325, 335

Galathea, 169, 170;

G. intermedia, Pleurocrypta parasitic on, 133; G. strigosa, 170; gut of, 15

Galatheidae, 169

Galatheidea, 169

Galea, 433, 436

Galena, 412

Galeodes, 429, 527; nervous system, 428; chelicera, 429; G. arabs, 425; G. araneoides, 425

Galeodidae, 428

Gall-mites, 455, 464

Gamasidae, 470

Gamasinae, 470

Gamasus, 460, 461, 463, 470; G. coleoptratorum, 470; G. crassipes, 470; G. terribilis, 461

Gammaridae, 138

Gammarus, 137, 138; of Lake Baikal, 212; of Australia, 216; G. locusta, 138, 138; G. pulex, 138

Gampsonyx, 115, 118

Garstang, on respiration of crabs, 186 n.

Garypinae, 436, 437

Garypus, 431, 436, 437, 438; chelicera, 432; G. littoralis, 430

Gaskell, 270, 277, 334

Gasteracantha, 410; G. minax, 410

Gasteracanthinae, 317, 409

Gastrodelphys, 73

Gastrolith, of Lobster, 155

Gaubert, 525 n.

Gebia littoralis, 167

Gecarcinidae, 196

Gecarcinus, 194, 195, 196

Gegenbaur, 523

Gelanor, 411, 412

Gelasimus, 194, 196; habitat, 198; distribution, 210; G. annulipes, 194

Genal angle, 225

Gené, 461

Genital operculum, of Eurypterida, 288, 289, 291

Genysa, 388

Gerardia, Laura parasitic on, 93

Geryon, 195

Giardella callianassae, 73

Gibocellidae, 448

Gibocellum sudeticum, 447

Giesbrecht, on Copepoda, 57; on phosphorescence, 59

Gigantostraca, 258, 283 f.

Gill-book, 270

Glabella, 223

Glabella-furrows, 223

Glands, of Tardigrada, 481; of Pentastomida, 490, 491; of Pycnogons, 511; coxal, of Arachnids, 257, 270, 337; green, of Malacostraca, 110; poison-, of Arachnids, 337, 360; spinning, of Spiders, 335; of Pseudoscorpions, 434

Glaucothoe, larva of Eupagurus, 179, 180

Gluvia, 429

Glycyphagus, 466; G. palmifer, 466;

G. plumiger, 466

Glyphocrangon, 164; G. spinulosa, 158, 164

Glyphocrangonidae, 164

Glyptoscorpius, 283, 291, 294

Gmelina, 138

Gmogala scarabaeus, 394

Gnamptorhynchus, 533

Gnaphosa, 397

Gnathia maxillaris, 124; life-history of 125

Gnathiidae, 124

Gnathobase, 10, 264

Gnathophausia, 119, 256 n.; maxillipede of, 10

Gnathostomata, 56

Gnosippus, 429

Goldsmith, 362

Gonads, = reproductive organs, q.v.

Gonodactylus, 143; G. chiragra, 143

Gonoplacidae, 195

Gonoplax, 195; G. rhomboides, 195

Gonyleptidae, 442, 448, 449

Goodsir, Harry, 535, 540

Gordius, parasitic in Spiders, 368

Gossamer, 342

Graells, 364

Graeophonus, 309

Graff, von, on position of Tardigrada, 483

Grapsidae, 193, 195; habitat, 198, 201

Graptoleberis, 53

Grassi, 422

Green gland, 110 (= antennary gland, q.v.)

Gregarious Spiders, 340

Grenacher, 517

Griffithides, 251

Gruvel, on Cirripedia, 80, 86

Guérin-Méneville, 439

Gurney, on Copepoda, 62; on Brachyuran metamorphosis, 181 n.

Gyas, 450

Gylippus, 429

Gymnolepas, 89

Gymnomera, 38, 54

Gymnoplea, 57

Hadrotarsidae, 394

Hadrotarsus babirusa, 394

Haeckel, on plankton, 203

Haemaphysalis, 469

Haematodocha, 322

Haemocera, 64; H. danae, life-history, 64, 65

Haemocoel, 5, 11

Hahnia, 325, 416

Hahniinae, 416

Halacaridae, 472

Halocypridae, 108

Halosoma, 539

Hannonia typica, 533

Hansen, on Choniostomatidae, 76; on Cirripede Nauplii, 94; on classification of Malacostraca, 113

Hansen and Sörensen, 422, 439, 443, 448

Hapalogaster, 181; H. cavicauda, 178

Hapalogasterinae, 181

Harpactes hombergii, 395

Harpacticidae, 61, 62; habitat, 206

Harpedidae, 245

Harpes, 225, 226, 230, 231, 234, 246; H. ungula, 248; H. vittatus, eyes, 228

Harporhynchus, 53

Harvest-bugs, 454, 473

Harvestmen, 440, = Phalangidea, q.v.

Harvest-spiders, 440, = Phalangidea, q.v.

Harvesters, 440, = Phalangidea, q.v.

Hasarius falcatus, 421

Haustellata, 501 n.

Haustoriidae, 137

Haustorius arenarius, 137

Hay, on name Lydella, 486 n.

Heart, of Phyllopoda, 29; of Cladocera, 43; of Nebalia, 112; of Syncarida, 115; of Peracarida, 118; of Isopoda, 122; of Danalia, 132; of Amphipoda, 136; of Squilla, 142; of Eucarida, 144; of Limulus, 268; of Scorpions, 305; of Pedipalpi, 311; of Spiders, 331; of Solifugae, 427; of Pseudoscorpions, 434; of Phalangidea, 445; of Acarina, 460; of Pycnogons, 516

Heart-water, 470

Hedley, on home of cocoa-nut, 174

Heligmonerus, 388

Heller, 455

Hemeteles fasciatus, 367; H. formosus, 367

Hemiaspis, 278; H. limuloides, 278

Hemioniscidae, 130

Hemiscorpion lepturus, 307

Hemiscorpioninae, 306, 307

Henking, 447, 460

Hentz, 367

Herbst, on regeneration of eye, 6 n.

Hermacha, 388

Hermaphroditism, 15; caused by parasite, 101, 102; partial and temporary, 102; normal, 105; in Cymothoidae, 126; in Isopoda Epicarida, 129; in Entoniscidae, 135; in Caprella, 140

Hermippus, 317, 399; H. loricatus, 400

Hermit-crab, 167, 171; commensalism, 172; reacquisition of symmetry, 173; regeneration of limbs, 156

Hermit-lobster, 167

Herrick, on the Lobster, 154

Hersilia (Araneae), 401; H. caudata, 400

Hersiliidae (Araneae), 326, 400

Hersiliidae (Copepoda), 73

Hersiliola, 401

Heterarthrandria, 58

Heterocarpus alphonsi (Pandalidae), phosphorescence, 151

Heterochaeta papilligera, 60

Heterocope, 59

Heterogammarus, 138

Heterometrus, 307

Heterophrynus, 313

Heteropoda venatoria, 414

Heterostigmata, 471

Heterotanais, 123

Hexameridae, 91

Hexathele, 390

Hexisopodidae, 429

Hexisopus, 429, 429

Hexura, 391

Hippa, 171; H. emerita, distribution, 202

Hippidae, 171

Hippidea, 170; habitat, 198

Hippolyte, 164; distribution, 200; H. varians, 164

Hippolytidae, 164; distribution, 199

Hodge, George, 523, 540

Hodgson, 508

Hoek, on Cirripedia, 80; on Pycnogons, 505, 512, 513

Holm, G., on Agnostus, 225; on Eurypterus, 285 n.

Holmia, 236, 242, 247; H. kjerulfi, 242, 246

Holochroal eye, 228

Holopediidae, 51

Holopedium, 38, 51

Homalonotus, 222, 249; H. delphinocephalus, 223

Homarus, 154; habitat, 200; excretory glands, 13; H. americanus, 154; H. vulgaris, 154

Homoeoscelis, 76

Homola, 184; distribution, 205

Homolidae, 184

Homolodromia, 184; H. paradoxa, resemblance to Nephropsidae, 184

Hood, of Phalangidea, 442, 452

Hoplocarida, 114, 141

Hoploderma, 468; H. magnum, 467

Hoplophora, 468

Horse-foot crab, = Limulus, q.v.

Hoyle, on classification of Pentastomids, 495

Hughmilleria, 283, 290, 292

Humboldt, on Porocephalus, 488 n.

Hutton, 424

Huttonia, 398

Hyale, 139

Hyalella, 137, 139; distribution, 211, 217

Hyalomma, 469

Hyas, 192, 193;

distribution, 200

Hyctia nivoyi, 421

Hydrachnidae, 472

Hydractinia, Pycnogons on, 523

Hydrallmania, Pycnogons on, 524

Hymenocaris, 112

Hymenodora, 163

Hymenosoma, 193; distribution, 200

Hymenosomatidae, 193

Hyperina, 140

Hypochilidae, 393

Hypochilus, 336, 393; H. thorelli, 393

Hypoctonus, 312

Hypoparia, 243

Hypopus, 463

Hypostome, of Trilobites, 233, 237; of Bronteus, 233; of Acarina, 469

Hyptiotes, 349, 411; H. cavatus, snare, 350; H. paradoxus, 350, 411

Iasus, 165, 167; distribution, 200

Ibacus, 167

Ibla, 88; I. cumingii, 88; I. quadrivalvis, 88, 89

Ichneumon flies, and Spiders, 367

Icius, 421; I. mitratus, 382

Idiops, 388

Idothea, habitat, 211

Idotheidae, 127

Ihle, J. E. W., 526 n.

Ilia, 188; I. nucleus, 188; respiration, 187

Illaenus, 229, 231, 235, 249; I. dalmanni, 248

Ilyocryptus, 40, 53

Inachus, 192, 193; I. mauritanicus, Sacculina parasitic on, 97 f.; parasitic castration in, 101; temporary hermaphroditism of, 103; Danalia and Sacculina parasitic on, 131

Integument, of Pycnogons, 518

Irregular Spider-snares, 351

Ischnocolus, 389

Ischnothele dumicola, 390

Ischnurinae, 306, 307

Ischnurus ochropus, 307

Ischnyothyreus, 394

Ischyropsalidae, 451

Ischyropsalis, 444, 451

Isokerandria, 69 f.

Isometrus europaeus, 306

Isopoda, 121 f., 242

Ixodes, 469; I. ricinus, 469

Ixodidae, 469

Ixodoidea, 455, 462, 468

Janulus, 403

Jaworowski, on vestigial antennae in a Spider, 263

Johnston, George, 540

Jumping-Spiders, 419

Karshia, 429

Karshiinae, 429

Katipo, 363, 403

King-crab, =Limulus, q.v.

Kingsley, on Trilobites, 239, 243 n.; on breeding habits of Limulus, 271

Kishinouye, on Limulus, 274, 275

Klebs, on the frequency of human Pentastomids, 494

Knight Errant, 540

Koch, C., 397 n.

Koch, L., 397 n.

Kochlorine, 92; K. hamata, 93

Koenenia, 422, 527, 528; K. mirabilis, 423

Koltzoff, 15

König, 524

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