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.
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