VII
Further
Issues in Text Processes
1. TEXT TYPES
1.1
To progress from a study of abstract structures in possible sentences to the
study of texts as communicative occurrences, we must confront a new challenge in
the domain of linguistic TYPOLOGY. In descriptive linguistics, typology centered
on minimal units, i.e., on repertories for distinctive features, phonemes,
morphemes, etc. In transformational grammar, typology centered on a set of basic
sentence patterns and classes of rules for building other patterns. Alternative
typologies for sentences used categories like “declarative – interrogative
– imperative – exclamatory” (traditional grammar); or “process –
action – judgment – identification” (Brinkman); or “process – action
– feature – classification’ (“functional” grammar) (see Helbig 1974:
159, 186). These latter typologies suggest a fundamental confusion about the
nature of the sentence. It is people, not sentences, who
“declare,” “interrogate,” and “exclaim.” It is concepts
and relations that are the basis of “processes,”
“classifications,” and the like, not grammatical
formats. Hence, the usual typologies of sentences cannot offer a means of
classifying texts as occurrences in communicative interaction (cf. Morgan 1975).
1.2
If sentence typologies are simple but sterile, text typologies are dauntingly
vast and subjective. Early attempts to press conventional linguistic methods
into service for text typologies were discouraging. We may count up word classes
or measure sentence length and complexity (Mistrík 1973) with no certainty of
distilling out crucial distinctions. Being told that advertising texts have an
abundance of adjectives, and news reports have lots of verbs (Grosse 1976a) may
provide a statement of symptoms for deeper-lying tendencies, but certainly
doesn’t explain the types themselves.
1.3
The landmark colloquium at the Center for Interdisciplinary Research at the
University of Bielefeld in January 1972 (proceedings in Gülich & Raible
[eds.] 1972) brought new issues to light. The proliferation of binary
oppositions so well known in phonology was proposed, yielding such questionable
and diverse constructions as “± spontaneous” (Sandig) or “±
figurative’ (Stempel). The plus-or-minus sign, placed in front of any
convenient expression as if it could transform an intuitive notion into a
scientific one, was denounced as indicating the absence of all formalisms (Kummer)
and hindering the development of theory altogether (van Dijk) (Gülich &
Raible [eds.] 1972: 136, 181). In effect, such features don’t account for a
phenomenon, but simply mark it with one of a large, totally unsystematic set of
arbitrary labels.
1.4
It might be more productive to study text types from the standpoint of evolution
and usage. The INTERTEXTUALITY I suggested as indispensable for utilizing texts
(I.4.11.6) evolves from social as well as linguistic factors:
1.4.1
A differentiation of social settings and participant roles leads to a
differentiation of situation types.
1.4.2
The differentiation of situation types engenders reliance upon those text types
held to have greater appropriateness (cf. I.4.14).
1.4.3
The accrual of episodic knowledge about situations and texts fosters
expectations about what is acceptable and effective in a given context.
1.4.4
People build strategies to fit those expectations and to control textual
occurrences accordingly.
1.4.5
The priorities of control result in the relative dominances of surface features,
e.g. word class proportions and syntactic complexity.
1.4.6
These surface dominances gain the status of heuristic patterns against which new
texts can be matched.
1.4.7
The patterns may exert influence back on the control strategies applied to
situation management (I.3.4.6).
1.5
In this view, text types cannot be defined independently of pragmatics (Dressler
1972: 95; Kummer 1972a; Schmidt 1972; notwithstanding Grosse 1976b: 119). People
use text types as fuzzy classifications to decide what sorts of occurrences are
probable among the totality of the possible (cf. IV.1.23.3). As such, the text
type can be defined only as strictly as considerations of efficient
applicability allow. Unduly stringent criteria, like the rigorous borderline
between sentences and non-sentences, can either (1) open up endless disputes
over the admissibility of unusual or creative texts to a type, or (2) lead to so
many detailed types that any gains in heuristic usefulness are lost. It has
often happened that preconceived notions about a text type have led people to
reject a particular text which later became an acclaimed and classic
representative. The history of literature is filled with examples.
1.6
Two approaches to the TYPOLOGY of texts are readily evident (Schmidt 1978:55).
First, one could begin with the traditionally accepted text types, e.g.
narrative, descriptive, literary, etc., and seek to define distinctive traits of
each one; second, one could undertake to define a theory of texts independently,
and then observe whether one obtains a workable typology. The issue may have to
be resolved by a compromise: in the development of a text theory, the
applicability to text typology should be envisioned such that traditional types
become definable. I shall adopt this approach here.
1.7
Perhaps the following definition of the notion might prove useful for further
research.
A
text type is a distinctive configuration of relational dominances obtaining
between or among elements of: (1) the surface text; (2) the textual world; (3)
stored knowledge patterns; and (4) a situation of occurrence.
The
relevant dominances can apply to elements of any size, according to the
circumstances. Without stipulating exactly what a text must look like for a
given type, these dominances powerfully influence the preferences for selecting,
arranging, and mapping options during the production and processing of the text.
We can at most obtain FUZZY sets of texts among which there will be mutual
overlap. Some textual traits will be DOMAIN-SPECIFIC, i.e., peculiar to the
situation, topic, and knowledge being addressed.
1.8 Some conventional categories of texts in our own culture (on some very
different cultures, cf. Grimes 1975) could be explicated along these lines:
1.8.1
In DESCRIPTIVE texts, the CONTROL CENTERS in the textual world are in the main
object and situation concepts whose environments are to be enriched with a
multiple directionality of linkage. All link types of state, attribute,
instance, and specification will be frequent. The surface text will reflect a
corresponding density of modifier dependencies. The most commonly applied global
knowledge pattern will be the frame.
1.8.2
In NARRATIVE texts, the control centers in the textual world are in the main
event and action concepts which will be arranged in an ordered directionality of
linkage. The link types of cause, reason, enablement, purpose, and time
proximity will be frequent (cf. VIII.2.13). The surface text will reflect a
corresponding density of subordinating dependencies.1
[Accordingly, the version (164b) of the Hawkins protocols seems to be a more
fitting narrative than version (163) with ‘and’ used throughout (cf V.7.3).]
The most commonly applied global knowledge pattern will be the schema.la
[1a. Freedle and Hale (1979) show that a narrative schema, once learned, can
easily be transferred to the processing of a descriptive text on the same topic.
]
1.8.3
In ARGUMENTATIVE texts, the control centers in the textual world will be entire
propositions which will be assigned values of truthfulness and reasons for
belief as facts (cf. IV.1.23.1); often there will be an opposition between
propositions with conflicting value and truth assignment. The link between types
of value, significance, cognition, volition, and reason will be frequent. The
surface text will contain a density of evaluative expressions. The most commonly
applied global knowledge pattern will be the plan whose goal state is the
inducement of shared beliefs.
1.8.4
In LITERARY texts, the textual world stands in a principled alternativity
relationship to matchable patterns of knowledge about the accepted real world.
The intention is to motivate, via contrasts and rearrangements, some new
insights into the organization of the real world. From the standpoint of
processing, the linkages within real-world events and situations is
PROBLEMATIZED, that is, made subject to potential failure (cf. I.6.7), because
the text-world events and situations may (though they need not) be organized
with different linkages. The effects would be an increased motivation for
linkage on the side of the text producer, and increased focus for linkage on the
side of the receiver. This problematized focus sets even “realistic”
literature (reaching extremes in “documentary” art) apart from a simple
report of the situations or events involved: the producer intends to portray
events and situations as exemplary elements in a framework of possible
alternatives.
1.8.5
In POETIC texts, the alternativity principle of literary texts is extended to
the inter-level mapping of options, e.g. sounds, syntax, concepts, relations,
plans, and so on. In this fashion, both the organization of the real world and
the organization of discourse about that world are problematized in the sense of
VII. 1.8.4, and the resulting insights can be correspondingly richer. The
increase of producer motivation and receiver focus will also be more intense, so
that text elements will be assignable multiple functions (cf. Schmidt 1971a).
1.8.6
In SCIENTIFIC texts, the textual world is expected to provide an optimal match
with the accepted real world unless there are explicit signals to the contrary
(e.g., a disproven theory). Rather than alternative organization of the world, a
more exact and detailed insight into the established organization of the real
world is intended. In effect, the linkages of events and situations are
eventually de-problematized via statements of causal necessity and order.
1.8.7
In DIDACTIC texts, the textual world must be presented via a process of gradual
integration, because the text receiver is not assumed to already have the
matchable knowledge spaces that a scientific text would require. Therefore, the
linkages of established facts are problematized and eventually de-problematized.
1.8.8
In CONVERSATIONAL texts, there is an especially episodic and diverse range of
sources for admissible knowledge (cf. VIII.1.4ff.). The priorities for expanding
current knowledge of the participants are less pronounced than for the text
types depicted in VII.I.8.4-7. The surface organization assumes a characteristic
mode to reflect changes of speaking turn (cf. VIII.1.2ff.; VIII.1.18).
1.9
Even within this modest typology, we can see that types cannot all be explicated
along the same dimensions. Whereas there may well be dominances of concept and
relation types for descriptive, narrative, and argumentative texts, the concept
and relation types in the other text types are probably domain-specific in the
sense of VII.1.7. Moreover, description, narration, and argumentation will be
found in various combinations in the other text types. And finally, if text
types are dependent upon situational settings (cf. VII.1.4ff.), the basic
question is how people use CUES to assign texts of various formats to a given
type.
1.10
People can seek cues outside the text itself. Some situation types are
institutionally defined regarding the text types to be used, e.g. a church
service (in Pike 1967). Explicit announcements may establish the situation type,
e.g. a political gathering. Appearances of particular speakers or of a
writer’s name in print can activate expectations about the forthcoming text
type. A printed format, as in poems or newspapers, or a characteristic title,
such as for drugstore novels, may be influential. Even a specific topic, such as
those in many technical reports, can act as a cue. In accordance with what I
hold to be a general principle of human processing (cf. III.4.15; IV.1.10;
IV.2.9), the less evidence there is in the immediately apperceived text, the
more the text receivers will gather and utilize all kinds of cues.
1.11
A single text can indeed be shifted from type to type by altering its situation
of presentation. For example, it has become fashionable to “find” poems by
removing texts from their original environments (Porter 1972), such as cooking
recipes (Nöth 1978: 29f.) or classified advertisements (Kloepfer 1975: 88).
Conversely, poems are converted into advertisements (Reiss 1976: 70). Although
the text remains stable, the audience’s processing procedures are placed under
different controls and priorities. A non-poem presented as a poem is subjected
to the intensified assignment of multiple communicative functions to language
options (Schmidt 1971a, 1971b; Beaugrande 1978b). Presented as an advertisement,
a poem undergoes an impoverishment of the functions of its elements.
1.12
For a linguistics of texts as communicative occurrences, the issue of text types
is one of global processing controls. People are probably able to utilize texts
without identifying the type, but efficiency suffers, and the mode of
interaction of speaker/writer and hearer/reader remains vague. It seems unlikely
that we can throw away the traditional text types; after all, they have
functions in language users’ heuristics. Here as in many other areas, we may
instead have to throw away the hopes for air-tight, exhaustive, and mechanical
sorting techniques that consult only formal features without regard for human
activities.
2.
THE PRODUCTION OF TEXTS
2.1
In comparison to comprehension, the production of texts has been left unexplored
(Fodor, Bever, & Garrett 1974: 434; Goldman 1975: 289; Osgood & Bock
1977: 89; Rosenberg 1977: xi; Levin & Goldman 1978: 14; Simmons 1978: 26).
The plausible reason is that linguists’ analysis can be taken as a model for
language understanding much more readily than for language production (II.2.4).
If we take linguistics too literally, the production of utterances seems like a
miracle of computation (cf. II.1.2f.). R. Jacobs and Rosenbaum (1968: 286)
criticize traditional grammar for conveying the impression that “human
language is a fragile cultural invention, only with difficulty maintained in
good working order.” But the transformational grammar advocated by Jacobs and
Rosenbaum is infinitely more fragile with its endless lists of rules that can
barely be kept under control and, to this day, have never been assembled into a
complete grammar for any language (cf. Achtenhagen & Wienold 1975: 9f.).
2.2
It might seem desirable to have a language model that uses the same procedures
for both the reception and the production of texts (cf. Klein 1965; Harris 1972;
Simmons 1973; Simmons & Chester 1979). The mapping between the surface text
and the underlying text-world would then be SYMMETRICAL in either direction
(Simmons & Chester 1979). However, this procedurally advantageous approach
would not be plausible for humans. Mapping is, in some ways at least, clearly
asymmetrical in textual communication (cf. I.6.12; III.3.5)—even people with
good memories will report what they have heard and understood in words differing
slightly from the original presentation. However, there is probably considerable
symmetry among the operations of mapping from one level to another and back
again (cf. VII.2.11). In practice, pilot programs for generating have usually
been performed with what Goldman (1975: 290) calls “canned output”: a small
repertory of expressions that forces everything into the same format. An
alternative with more varied options selected by weighting probabilities has
been developed by Sheldon Klein and co-workers (1973) (cf. the “weighted
filters’ for paraphrasing advocated by Mel’čuk & Žolkovskij 1970).
But a more detailed, circumspect model of the motivations for selecting a
particular option (some of these will be outlined below) is still needed.
2.3
Procedurally, reversals of operations would cover some differences between
production and reception of texts, but by no means all.2
[2. The processing via a transition network would foresee parallel
control in prediction of occurrences, but reversed control in stacking and
building the network (cf. 11.2.7ff.).] A text producer has to map a plan onto
conceptually relational content, and the content onto a surface format; the
receiver maps the surface back to the content, and the content back to the plan.
But it is surely an idealization to suggest that the receiver arrives at the
same material which the producer started out with. In some cases, the producer
would prefer keeping the plan secret or creating the impression of a quite
different plan. The receiver may also adopt an unexpected personal outlook on
the presentation. Reversability is furthermore not applicable to the textual
operations in which production and reception are running in parallel: the
producer monitoring the reception, and the receiver predicting the production.
And the production involves much more active selection and decision processes
which consume more resources and attention than does reception.
2.4.
These considerations suggest that text production can only be treated by a
linguistics of actualization. The older linguistic methods oriented toward
identification, generalization, and description (cf. I.1.10f.) were purely analytic,
whereas a linguistics for explanation, reconstruction, and management, such as
is needed to study text production, must also have a synthetic outlook.
2.5
Consider the issue of misfunctions. We can recognize fairly clearly cases where
our own texts have been misunderstood, and we can discover the causes in factors
like surface ambiguities or misleading expectations. But it is vastly more
difficult to recognize when a text has been misproduced, i.e., when operations
have been wrong rather than merely inefficient, ineffective, or inappropriate
(I.4.14). If we count ambiguities as mistakes, we end up with vastly fuzzy
borderlines, because language options are systematically ambiguous in their
potential, and their usages possess variable degrees of determinacy. If we count
ungrammatical surface formats, we include occurrences such as Milton’s famous
warning to follow Christ, or else:
(189)
Him who disobeys, me disobeys. (Paradise Lost, V, 611-12)
To
deal with misfunctions, we evidently need a language model which does not simply
discover and analyze structures, but also relates structures to processes
operating with greater or lesser satisfactoriness.
2.6
In face-to-face communication, decisions and selections often have a provisional
character. The speaker may reconsider and introduce revisions when difficulties
ensue—”self-initiated repair,” according to Schegloff, Jefferson, and
Sacks (1977). Due to numerous factors competing for limited time and processing
resources, the operational load for spontaneous speaking may become unduly
heavy. People expect, on the other hand, much more controlled organization in
written texts, where the producer has time to discover and develop an efficient
and effective arrangement. If processing is overloaded during the initial phase
of expression, the producer has opportunity of going back and reviewing results
with a specially distributed focus. Hence, merely writing down the same
utterances one might produce in conversation—a frequent practice of untrained
writers—should not be expected to result in satisfactory texts. Writing
demands that situational factors, such as intonation, gestures, facial
expression, and immediately available feedback, be given compensation by factors
specific to written organization. The aspects of participant roles, time, and
location seem unproblematic in face-to-face communication, where people are
immediately present. In writing, they too must be accounted for by the
organization of the text world and its expression.
2.7
Like reception, production must involve a satisfaction THRESHOLD where
operations are TERMINATED (cf. I.6.4). Just as a receiver might go on and on
with inferences and spreading activation, a producer might keep revising a text
over and over. At some point, a decision to cease must be made, based on the
intended effects of the text on its audience; taken by itself, production
appears to be an open-ended operation. I shall attempt to sketch out the various
phases of this operation before going on to actual samples. I shall be concerned
in particular with the production of written texts (for a more thorough
treatment, see Beaugrande, in preparation).
2.8
The production process can be seen to consist of PHASES.3
[3. I note a different, simpler phase model proposed by Milic (1971) in
VII.2.38. For a full elaboration of my own model, see Beaugrande 1984] The
phases are presumably not separate operations in a time sequence, but rather
stages of PROCESSING DOMINANCE during which some operations are accorded more
resources and attention than others. I would distinguish at least four phases:
PLANNING, IDEATION, DEVELOPMENT, and EXPRESSION. During the PLANNING phase, a
text producer focuses on the PURPOSE of the text as a step toward a personal,
social, or cognitive GOAL, and on the intended AUDIENCE of text receivers. A
TEXT TYPE is selected, and correlations set up between the various component
steps of the plan and the general criteria of the production process. I use the
term RELEVANCE to designate these correlations: knowledge or discourse is thus
not inherently relevant, but relevant only with respect to a task at hand (cf.
I.4.14).
2.9
The IDEATION phase places processing dominance upon the discovery of CONTROL
CENTERS for cognitive content. An IDEA is the internally activated configuration
of concepts and relations, which lies at the foundation of meaning-creating
behavior, including text production. It is extremely difficult to judge how
ideas originate, because the operations involved are in part at least beyond the
reach of conscious control. As a comparison, we could envision the focus of
attention as a beam of light sweeping across an enormously elaborate network of
knowledge; whatever the beam hits becomes active and can be inspected with
regard to its RELEVANCE. To write a friendly letter, the ideation phase could
cast about for material bearing the traits of INTERESTING (i.e., not obvious as
a matter of course) and EPISODICALLY RECENT (i.e., experiences in one’s
personal environment that the text receiver would not already know). To write a
scientific text, ideation could focus on a pre-decided knowledge space with its
own dense internal connectivity. To write a news report, ideation would be
directed toward the episodic storage of a situation or event sequence. To write
a novel, the ideation of situations and events would be substantially less
controlled by episodic storage of the producer.
2.10
These early production phases of planning and ideation need not be dependent
upon language. The raw materials feeding into production are essentially points
and pathways of knowledge: concepts, relations, mental images, states of the
world (past, present, projected), emotions, desires, and so on. The
correlation of all of these entities among themselves and with natural language
expressions is, I suspect, accomplished via respective modes of PROBLEM-
SOLVING: search, testing, and traversing of access routes. To attain COHERENCE,
the access routes are established among knowledge points; to attain EXPRESSION,
access routes are established between knowledge points and language expressions;
to attain COHESION, access routes are established among expressions within a
surface format (cf. I.4.4); and to attain RELEVANCE, access routes must be
established between knowledge points or expressions (or whole configurations of
these) and the steps and conditions of the producer’s plan in the current
setting.
2.11
Although there is surely considerable ASYMMETRY among these various accessing
operations (cf. I.6.12), I would view the operations themselves as comparable;
while the materials to be managed differ, the SYSTEMATICITY of their management
is unified by a common commitment to search, access, and connectivity. The
operations all require CONTROL CENTERS that determine the DIRECTIONALITY of
search and access (cf. II.2.9; III.3.6; VI.3.5; VII.1.8.1ff.; etc.). They all
vary according to degree of detail from LOCAL to GLOBAL (cf. VI.1.1, etc.) and
from MICRO-elements to MACRO-elements (cf. II.2.9; III.4.27;. VI.4.7; etc.).
They all work toward a THRESHOLD OF TERMINATION where processing is deemed
satisfactory for the task at hand (cf. I.6.4; III.3.3; III.3.23f.; IV.1.6;
VII.2.7; etc.) These common factors only emerge in the synthetic outlook I
advocated for a linguistics of textual communication in VII.2.4, where
structures and rules are interpreted as processes and procedures (cf. I.3.5.8).
2.12
The DEVELOPMENT phase receives the results of planning and ideation, whether or
not language expressions are already in sight at this moment. This phase is
responsible for the detailed internal organization of concepts and relations. To
the extent that this organization is not stored as determinate or typical
linkage, ORIGINALITY results. Originality may even lead to the creation of
totally new concepts like “chaos theory”. However, I suspect that if we go
into sufficient detail, we may find even new concepts to be composed mainly of
established materials put together in new ways (cf. IV.3.14). As the development
phase goes forward, the control centers passed on from ideation continue to
spread and intersect. If the conceptual-relational configuration were mapped
into expression at an early stage, we would have a terse text that would appear
as an OUTLINE (not fully cohesive) or a SUMMARY (fully cohesive) of the text
that would be mapped out at a later stage;4 [4. The difference
between outline and summary would be that the outline possesses a fragmentary
surface structure, and the summary a regular one (e.g. more complete
sentences).] at a still later stage, the summary relationship would be
reiterated, and so on indefinitely. The oppositions of local/global or
micro/macro are thus relative to the scope of the perspective we adopt.
2.13
Some typical operations of development could be carried out via linkages of
specification and instance, e.g. ‘people – young people – my friends –
my best friend’. Time and location can be subdivided into steadily smaller
components, e.g. ‘what I did this year – what I did this summer –what I
did on a weekend at the seashore’. Or ‘life in the south-life in Florida –
life in Miami’. The priorities of development, including link types, are
strongly controlled by the text type, e.g. descriptive, narrative, or
argumentative (cf. VII. 1. 8ff.). A further factor influencing development is
the use of the global knowledge patterns we explored in chapter VI: frames,
schemas, plans, and scripts. These patterns act as channels for spreading
activation, alerting the writer about what components require specification in a
relevant context. For such a pattern to become active, TOPIC configurations need
to emerge from densities of linkage in the ongoing textual world (cf.
III.4.11.9). The type of linkage will affect the type of pattern, e.g. states,
attributes, parts, etc, for frames; event or action progressions for schemas;
pathways of goal-attainment for plans and scripts. The variables in the pattern
will be filled in with applicable individuals. Some modifications might also be
required to make the intended content fit. Nonetheless, the PROCEDURAL
ATTACHMENT of the pattern to the planned output makes decision and selection
much more efficient (VI.1.5).
2.14
Global patterns, though channelling the development of the text-world model, do
not necessarily determine the format of the surface text. The most supportive
pattern is the schema, which provides an ordered progression of underlying
events and actions. The writer is free to express those events and actions in
some other order than their temporal and/or causal sequence, provided signals
are given; but the pattern offers guidance even then. The frame, in the sense I
use the term here, is less obvious in its ordering. To describe a scene or a
room, a writer has some typical strategies, such as moving from higher to lower,
central to peripheral, mobile to stationary (cf. IV.2.3ff). Yet these strategies
could compete with each other, and they might fail to respect the nature of the
scene components per se, i.e. relative importance from a human perspective such
as a plan. As a result, the normal ordering strategies for text world content
are usually applied EPISODICALLY, in response to the demands of context and
interest. Consider, for example, Dickens (1836-37: 35f.) depicting a newly
introduced character:
(190)
It was a careworn-looking man, whose sallow face and deeply sunken eyes
were rendered still more striking than nature had made them, by the straight
black hair which hung in matted disorder half-way down his face. His eyes wore
almost unnaturally bright and piercing; and his jaws were so long and lank, that
an observer would have supposed that he was drawing the flesh of his face in,
for a moment, by some contraction of the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and
immovable expression had not announced that it was his ordinary appearance.
Round his neck he wore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his
chest, and making their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes of
his old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and below it he
wore wide drab trousers and large boots, running rapidly to seed.
We
can observe here a number of strategies for describing a person. The general
direction is to begin with the face and move from there to the clothes, working
gradually from highest (shawl) to lowest (boots). Superposed on this
conventional design is a focus on unusual features: eyes that are ‘deeply
sunken’ and ‘piercing’, and jaws that are ‘long and lank’. An episodic
comparison to a man contracting his facial muscles follows for emphasis. As the
writer passes on to describe the clothes, focus is directed to cues indicating
poverty and neglect. The spatial ordering is generally preserved: ‘neck –
shawl – chest – beneath […] waistcoat – surtout – trousers –
boots’. The writer’s selection is motivated by his plan to introduce shortly
afterwards a remarkably dismal tale of ‘want and sickness’ narrated by this
ominous-looking character.
2.15
This illustration suggests how the EPISODIC tendencies of organizing text-worlds
can be controlled by DIRECTIONALITY. No writer would want to describe every
aspect of someone’s appearance, and Dickens’ careful depictions are more
detailed than the average. The writer should fovus attention on to those
portions of the available material which are INTERESTING (i.e. not predictable),
and RELEVANT (i.e. fitting to the plan for guiding the presentation of the
textual world along a given course). The untrained writer is hard-pressed to
make a selection and shifts about in a maze of episodic pursuits, assembling a
mass of discontinuous or superfluous details. Notice the unity of the Dickens’
passage despite the divergent descriptive strategies. The features he mentions
are relevant not merely by belonging to the same character, but by suggesting a
consistent impression of the ‘striking’ (interest) and ‘careworn’
(writer’s plan) aspects.
2.16
Like the development phase, the EXPRESSION phase during which the actual surface
text emerges is subject to a range of control factors. I would propose at least
three CONTROL LEVELS that are important for the mapping operations in the
expression phase:
2.16.1
The ORGANIZATION of EVENTS, ACTIONS, SITUATIONS, and OBJECTS in the textual
world exerts certain influences upon the organization of the surface text. I
reviewed in IV.2.6ff. the experimental literature regarding this issue, such as
the strategies of moving from higher to lower, central to peripheral, changing
to unchanging, mobile to stationary, earlier to later, and so on. I cited in
III.4.18 some correspondences between text-world organization and the use of
tense, voice, and mood. Harald Weinrich (1977) shows how tenses in French tend
to convey either a descriptive or a narrative perspective on the textual world.
Halliday and Hasan (1976: 40) suggest that the characteristics of objects are
cited in a certain order when modifiers are linearized in a noun phrase such as:
(191) two high stone walls along the roadside
where
number is followed by size and substance (on modifier positioning, see also
Vendler 1968; Martin 1969; Danks & Glucksberg 1971).
2.16.2
The STANDARD SEQUENCING OPERATIONS for imposing a linear format on English texts
must be respected. I suggested in section II.2 that the basic phrases, clauses,
and sentences of English act as frameworks for judging what surface occurrences
are probable. These frameworks are not obligatory, but they must be kept in mind
when departing from them, because they still act as a means of orientation. The
correlations between sequencing operations and text-world organization can be
arbitrary on occasion. In English, it is customary to place expressions of
location before those of time, while in German, the reverse order is preferred;
yet the event or situation may be the same. Such formatting standards reduce the
decision-making load, not so much concerning what to say as when to say it.
Sometimes, sequencing operations require conceptually empty placeholders without
justification in the text world, e.g. the dummy ‘it’ used for expressions of
the weather (cf. V.5.4.2). And the LINEARIZATION PROGRAMS often fail to reflect
grammatical dependencies via direct adjacencies (II.2.7ff.).
2.16.3 The INFORMATIVITY of text-world entries can also affect the order in which they are expressed in surface formatting (cf. IV. 3). The general trend is to mention new or focussed material after known or marginal material. For expressing configurations of familiar content, sentences will generally be longer and more complex than for expressing unfamiliar (cf. IX.4.6); perhaps the more problematic coherence of the unfamiliar content is compensated via a less problematic cohesion. The distribution of focus depends not only on the internal linkage of knowledge (whether pathways are predictable vs. problematic), but also on the RELEVANCE of knowledge organization to the producer’s plan (cf. VII.2.8): the arrangement of materials is co-ordinated with the ordering of steps in a plan (see for instance Dr. Haggett’s utterances among (96-104) in the stage play of VI.4.17). This control level thus applies not only to what to say and when to say it, but also to why. Let us pursue the interaction of these control levels by envisioning how a writer might describe a simple event sequence. The writer observes a man leading a dog whose bright-colored collar attracts a child; in order not to be grabbed, the dog breaks its leash to escape. The man spanks the child. If we arrange this much content in a network of concepts and relations, we might obtain Figure 28.
The
three animate agents: man, dog, and child, appear as object nodes with their
respective actions and attributes. I include some descriptive traits, e.g.
‘old’, ‘ugly’, ‘small, for purposes of demonstration. The writer’s
task is to find a surface expression, that is, to find a sequential connectivity
that captures the conceptual connectivity of the text world. This is a special
instance of PROBLEM-SOLVING: mapping out points in problem space according to
the already solved and connected points in a problem space on a different level
(cf. VII.2.10).5 [5.
Burton’s (1976) “semantic grammar” functions by using these two levels in
close correlation; compare also the “cascading networks” (Woods &
Brachman 1978b) depicted in III.4.14]
2.18
The easiest solution would be to chop up the network into individual events and
parse each event onto a surface structure according to PREFERENCES. The agent of
an action (or, for inanimate objects, the instrument) is then mapped onto the
grammatical subject, the event/action onto the verb, and the affected entity
onto the direct object (cf. Bever 1970).6
[6. This strategy does not apply to ‘ergative” languages, in which an
“ergative” case for agency is differentiated from a ‘nominative’
(Dressier, personal communication).] To include the third control level, that of
informativity, we stipulate that the agent or instrument be known, and the
action or affected entity be new. This could result in the following text:7
[7. For still greater banality (cf. 1. 1. 16), we could start out with
‘kernel” sentences:’ ‘I saw a man. The man was old.’ [etc. ad nauseam]
]
(192.1)
I saw an old man. (192.2) He was leading an ugly dog. (192.3) The dog was
wearing a bright orange collar. (192.4) The collar attracted a small child.
(192.5) The child grabbed at the dog. (192.6) The dog broke its leash. (192.7)
The leash hurt the man’s hand. (192.8) The hand spanked the child.
The
surface text is perfectly clear and cohesive, and there are no obstacles to
coherence and comprehension. The “process-type” actions (in terms of
Halliday 1967a) are expressed with the continuous form (‘be’ + verb + ‘ing);
the “uniplex” actions (in terms of Talmy 1978) are expressed via the simple
forms (here, simple past). Notwithstanding, the text is objectionable. It is
monstrously uninteresting to read, precisely because the continued use of
preferences makes such a predictable and repetitious pattern. The mapping is not
efficient because each underlying node has to appear so often in surface
structure: ‘dog’ in four sentences, ‘man’ and ‘child’ in three each,
and ‘collar’, ‘leash’, and ‘hand’ in two. To suggest how our network
from Figure 28 has been divided up for the surface text, I partitioned the
diagram of Figure 29 with dotted-line spaces for each sentence (small numbers
are sentence numbers) (on network partitioning, see Hendrix 1975, 1978).8
[8. Each space encloses its nodes and link labels. The numbers of dots of
enclosing lines match the sentence numbers of (192).]
We
can observe that REDUNDANCY is graphically visible partition overlap. It might
be a general definition that redundancy can be formalized as the overlap of
systemic unity partitioning of an actualization network for the next
deeper-level system.
2.19
The writer has good reason to be dissatisfied with this particular mapping. Let
us consider how an alternative version can be generated which, being based on
the same network, counts as a PARAPHRASE of the first (cf. III.3.11.10). This
new version will adopt a more flexible standpoint regarding event boundaries and
interestingness, and will cut down on redundancy. This procedure is not
comparable to sentence transformations, though the latter are also of paraphrase
character (II.1.11): transformations are done by an autonomous syntax in which
interestingness or efficiency of communication play no distinct role.
2.20
Let us follow the production of the new version along and observe how decisions
are made. The opening sentence is a strategic place to introduce the topic (cf.
VII.3.9). Here, the topic is not so much the old man, as (192.1) would imply,
but the events involving the dog being on a leash. It is therefore expedient to
load this topic material onto the opening sentence, yielding:
(193.
1) I saw an old man leading an ugly dog.
The
predicate has been expanded with a participial modifier, so that the topic
material is effectively located toward the end of the sentence. A gain in
efficiency is also attained by reducing the number of sentences, and hence the
number of focusable predicate slots; moreover, the single occurrence of
‘man’ in (193.1) supplants the redundant occurrences in (192.1-2) with no
loss of clarity.
2.21
The next task is mapping out the events involving the collar. Because a collar
is typically in “containment’ of a dog, and a determinate
“instrument-of’ leading a dog, there is no motive to assert the collar’s
presence in a separate sentence such as (192.3): a predicate slot is wasted on
content that is easily predicted. Instead, the predictable relation can be
mapped onto a possessive modifier dependency and the, predicate slot filled with
the unpredictable event in which the collar figures as instrument:
(193.2)
The dog’s bright orange collar attracted a small child.
Again,
this paraphrase saves resources by conserving a predicate slot and cutting out a
second expression for ‘collar’ vis-à-vis (192.3-4).
2.22
The TURNING POINT of this little story (cf. VIII.2.7) is composed of the events
of grabbing and leash-breaking, because these deflect the course of things most
decisively. As I shall argue in Chapter VIII, the turning point of a story is
usually accompanied by MOTIVATIONAL STATEMENTS that justify the central actions
(cf. VIII.2.23ff.; VIII.2.32). We might want to state the relation between the
‘grabbing’ and the ‘breaking’ that is left implicit (192.5-6). A
subordinative junctive preferentially indicative of purpose will do:
(193.3)
In order not to be grabbed, the dog broke its leash and ran away.
The
‘run away’ action can be derived from the original text-world model via
inferencing based on knowledge of purposes. This presentation helps to integrate
the least predictable event into the reader’s ongoing text-world model.
2.23
The final task is mapping out the conclusion. The ‘hand’ node is linked to
one event as ‘affected entity’ and to another as ‘instrument’
‘If we want to map out the node only once onto surface expression, we
need a sentence format that has a passivizing and an activizing constituent. The
passivizing construction is preferentially the passive voice, or the past
participle. We could then have a choice between:
(193.4a)
The man’s hand was hurt by the sharp tug and spanked the child.
(193.4b)
Hurt by the sharp tug, the man’s hand spanked the child.
To
decide between them, a writer should consider the knownness or inferrability of
the underlying events. The stronger those factors are, the less likely one is to
devote a separate subject-predicate construction to the surface expression of
the event. Because breaking a leash is very likely to hurt the owner’s hand,
(193.4b) seems the better selection. It has the added advantage of a surface
symmetry with ‘hand’ located between the expressions of the two events in
which it was involved, thus enacting the balance where one hurt is the reason
for the inflicting of another.
2.24
Following the decision process along as shown, we arrive at this version:
(193.1)
I saw an old man leading an ugly dog. (193.2) The dog’s bright orange collar
attracted a small child. (193.3) In order not to be grabbed, the dog broke its
leash and ran away. (193.4) Hurt by the sharp tug, the man’s hand spanked the
child.
Although
still pretty trivial in its content, (193) is better reading than (192) in its
form. The redundancy of (192) has been dramatically cut down: ‘dog’ in three
sentences, not four; ‘man’ and ‘child’ in two each, not three; and
‘collar', ‘leash’, and ‘hand’ in one, not two (cf. VII.2.18). The
savings allows the addition of some further material in (193), e.g. ‘in order
to’ and ‘ran away’, yet the total word count is still less than (192): 43
versus 47. The new version is thus more READABLE then the old, conveying as much
with fewer expressions, yet maintaining interest by motivated variety of
structuring. The partitioning of the textual world into sentence-length spaces
for (193) is illustrated in Figure 30.
The lower redundancy appears as reduced overlap.
2.25
Strategic control upon decision and selection is crucial. The mere loading of
more material onto more intricate sentence frameworks offer no certainty of
producing a worthwhile text. Untrained writers, who want to break out of the
monotony resulting from using the same mapping over and over, may fail to retain
the necessary control. Consider the following expression of the same text-world
model loaded onto a single sentence:
(194)
An old man I saw whose dog’s leash, attached to a bright orange collar,
attracting a small child who grabbed at the dog that broke its leash, hurt his
hand, spanked the child.
The
uncontrolled overloading of the sentence structure yields two participial
dependencies and four relative clauses. This structuring is in principle
allowable by rules of syntax proper. It cannot be the task of a grammar to state
at what length or degree of complexity a sentence is no longer allowed for a
language (1.3.4.5). Moreover, redundancy has been reduced still lower than in
(193): ‘dog’ mapped only twice and ‘man’ only once. Still, the text is
far less readable than (192) or (193). Too many events are packed into modifiers
and relatives as if they were already known to the reader. Distinctions between
predictable and non-predictable events are flattened. The reader’s attention
is scattered all around with no cues as to what might be important. For example,
the phrase ‘the dog that broke its leash’ wrongly suggests that a previously
mentioned dog with this action should be in the reader’s active storage.
2.26
These samples illustrate how writers must correlate the strategies used on the
three control levels depicted in VII.2.16. After noticing and developing the
internal structure of the events, the writer has to utilize the sequencing
operations of English in accordance with reasonable rates of informativity. The
arrangement of expressions for knowledge depends decisively on what the reader
is expected to know and to find interesting. The writer cannot fill in every
detail, nor make every underlying relation explicit. The writing and revising
process is terminated with a reasonable balance between what is said and what is
known, between what is said and what can be supplied by spreading activation or
inferencing, and between what is informative and what is dispensable.
2.27
To produce a text of enduring quality, substantially more extensive processing
is demanded. Both the original search for knowledge and the subsequent mapping
must be carried on with great circumspection. I shall attempt to follow the
processes that might create the following Shakespearean sonnet (number 33)
(discussed also in Beaugrande 1979e, 1979i):9 [9 Here, as in
all other Shakespeare quotations in this volume, I follow the Kittredge edition
(Shakespeare 1936).]
(195)
I
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
2
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
3
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
4
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
5
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
6
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
7
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
8
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
9
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
10
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
11
But, out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
12
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
13
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth,
14
Suns of the world may stain where heaven’s sun staineth.
2.28
The writer’s problem for this text is especially delicate: to present the
poetic expression of a complaint to a particular addressee in such a flattering
way that reconciliation is by no means precluded. The PLANNING phase decides to
characterize some of the addressee’s actions negatively, yet without direct
confrontation. The underlying macro-structure of events for this communicative
situation is built along these lines: (1) addressee treats speaker as friend;
(2) addressee changes to unfriendly treatment; (3) speaker enters a negative
emotional state; and (4) speaker complains, the text itself being the
instrument.
2.29
The avoidance of confrontation can be navigated by strategies of role division
and content selection. The SPEAKER of the text (here ‘I’) is kept distinct
from the PRODUCER, and the ADDRESSEE (here ‘he’) from the audience of
RECEIVERS. The outcome is that the personal message fades into the
background—a common principle in literary and poetic communication. The
content is selected via ANALOGY. The actual event sequence is displaced by a
sequence from another topic domain and yet kept recoverable via strategic
placement of cues.
2.30
The planning phase sets up a pathway toward the goal: create a linkage among
entities of knowledge that will make the underlying event series discoverable
via PATTERN-MATCHING. The IDEATION phase accordingly searches knowledge stores
for a TOPIC IDEA that will he a CONTROL CENTER for a textual world entailing a
contrast of positive and negative events. The topic idea is readily accessed
from the UNIVERSE OF DISCOURSE (I.1.3) for Shakespeare’s cultural setting: the
workings of nature as the background of human activities. This general knowledge
frame offers some obvious contrasts; for example, day versus night comes to
mind, but is too irreconcilable and determinate, whereas an accidental contrast
would be more relevant to the writer’s plan. Accidental contrasts are
available in the unstable domain of ‘weather’ (especially in England). If
the TOPIC IDEA were ‘change in the weather’. the DEVELOPMENT phase can
easily attach the contents of a ‘weather-frame, e.g. ‘sun’, ‘sky’,
‘clouds’. and so on, along with their attributes, locations, motions, etc.
To suggest what a typical person’s ‘weather’-frame might look like, linked
onto a ‘landscape’-frame, I provide a network diagram in Figure 31.
It
seems safe to assume that at least this much commonsense knowledge is well
established.
2.31
As the development phase continues, the positive state called for by the plan
can attach a favorable state of the weather; that state should also have an
early time indicator to match the early stage of the personal relationship
between speaker and addressee. It follows that the morning sunrise is a natural
selection, allowing the plan-relevant flattering attribute ‘glorious’. We
notice, that the underlying element ‘sun’ in the ‘weather!-frame is not
explicitly attached yet, but introduced via a further analogy: a
‘person’-frame. The “parts-of” a person that correspond to the sun
include those sharing the same “form,” such as ‘eye’ and ‘face’. The
‘person’-frame is exploited by the mention of humanlike actions:
‘flatter’, ‘kiss’, and ‘gild’. The first two of these suggest the
subclass ‘friend’, pointing back to the underlying macro-structure of events
(cf. VII.2.28).
2.32
In this fashion, several commonsense frames are attached concurrently to build a
text-world model. The opening stretch (lines 1-4) describes the morning light
and its effects on some typical elements of the landscape. But the selection of
expressions is so designed as to point the reader away from that domain toward
‘actions of a friend’; otherwise, entries lick ‘flatter’ and ‘kiss’,
being incompatible with the ‘weather’-frame, cannot be integrated into the
textual world. The phase of conceptual-relational development (VII.2.1 1) has
recovered some incidental knowledge from these frames, such as attributes,
locations, and parts. The cognitive outcome of this multiple attachment is to
impel the reader to recognize the analogy required by the writer’s plan:
events of the weather versus events in a personal relationship.
2.33
This design process becomes a pattern to be repeated in the next stanza of four
lines (5-8). The sunny morning is set in opposition to the ‘clouds’ which
block out the light. The opposition spreads outward into the attributes and
motions of clouds, rendering them uniformly negative: ‘basest’, ‘ugly’,
‘forlorn’, ‘steal, ‘disgrace’. A series of elements is presented, the
integration of which requires the interface of the ‘weather’-frame and the
‘person’-frame: ‘face’, ‘forlorn’, ‘visage’, ‘steal,
‘disgrace’. The analogies for asserting that ‘clouds’ can ‘ride on’
and ‘hide’ the ‘face’ of the sun that moves ‘to west’ are derivable
from the ‘weather’-frame-based knowledge about locations and motions. The
outcome is the complex structure of concepts and relations, many shared among
frames, represented in Figure 32.
The
concepts of ‘morning’ and ‘cloud’ appear as topic nodes with the
material from the first four and second four lines, respectively, being
connected on. We see the further connectivity between the two knowledge spaces
that result, including both equivalences and oppositions. The mastery of
Shakespeare as a text designer is attested in the multiple justification he had
for all of the selections and arrangements. He implements his global plan of
complaining via a textual world with an inherent apperceptual power of its own.
He presents high-informational occurrences as discrepancies and discontinuities
between elements of frame-based knowledge; in downgrading the occurrences, the
reader is irresistibly impelled to recover the planned underlying message.
2.34
The mapping of the textual world onto surface expression must also conform to
the formatting demands of the text type ‘sonnet’. This requirement creates a
special problem setting where cohesion must be managed such that a closely
patterned arrangement is obtained: (1) syntactic arrangement; (2) line
arrangement; (3) sound arrangement; and (4) lexical arrangement. Shakespeare’s
constitutive principle for all of these levels is above all EQUIVALENCE (cf.
Jakobson & Jones 1970). In regard to syntax, six lines contain the
configuration “preposition-modifier-head,” the preposition being ‘with’
in all cases (2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10) (in line 8, there is a determiner rather than a
modifier). Three of those lines (3, 4, 8) also begin with a present participle
expressing an action belonging to the ‘person’-frame. The syntax also
interacts with the line divisions. The first two groups of four lines, and the
last three groups of two have a clear internal cohesion. The first eight lines
form a single sentence; lines 9 and 10 form another sentence; 11 and 12 are a
run-on sentence, easing perhaps the transition to the marked separation of
sentences in 13 and 14. These divisions accord well with the flow of content:
(1) positive early events (1-4); (2) negative events as a change (4-8); (3)
comparison of these events to the speaker’s own experience (9-12); and (4)
withdrawal of the complaint (13-14).
2.35
These divisions are characteristic of the ‘sonnet’ text type as employed by
Shakespeare (whence the enduring term ‘Shakespearean sonnet’). The couplet
at the end is often opposed to the rest in content and format. Here, in effect,
it deflects the whole impact of the statement so far; and it breaks the
alternating rime patterns with consecutive rime. The internal organization is
also reflected in the rhythm pattern. The first four lines have a syllable
distribution of 12-10-10-11; the second have 10-10-10-10; the third group has
11-10-11-10; and the couplet is 11-12. The four-line groups are thus all
distinctive, and the 12-syllable pattern of the first line returns in the
last—just as the speaker hopes that the harmonious early stage of the personal
relationship may return.
2.36
The careful interlocking of mapping options is, as we shall note, essential to
the writer’s plan. The lines (9-12) begin with the junctive ‘even so’ to
signal that knowledge from the first eight lines should be kept active and
re-applied. That signal is reinforced by lexical recurrences and equivalences:
‘morn’ (9) looking back to ‘morning’ (1); ‘splendour’ (10) to
‘glorious’ (1);’but one hour’ (11) to ‘anon’; ‘region’ (12) to
‘heavenly’ (4); ‘cloud’ (12) to ‘clouds’ (5); and ‘masked’ (11)
to ‘hide’ (7). Such extensive correlation supports the transfer of knowledge
from an already constructed model space to an ongoing one-an example of
TEXT-INTERNAL INHERITANCE via pattern- matching (cf. IV.4.5: V.7.1). The
intriguing aspect here is that the negative terms of lines (1 -8) have no
correlates in (9-12). The characterization of the addressee’s actions
regarding the speaker’s situation in (9-12) is accomplished entirely by
inheritance from (1 -8). Moreover, the writer is careful not to personify the
‘sun’ in (9-12). As a result, the complaint is delivered with the greatest
mediation and indirectness. Whatever negative comments are made about the
addressee are filtered through an ennobling analogy in which the latter figures
as nothing less than the ‘sun’. Of course, the ‘sun’ is not at fault if
‘clouds’ intrude; and the message is even so arranged as to keep some
surface distance between the ‘sun’ and those negative terms that do appear.
To conclude, the final couplet withdraws the complaint as inappropriate to a
being of such grandeur. The contrajunctive ‘yet’ in line (13) signals a
surface reversal, but the drift of content organization has been conciliatory
all along.
2.37
The total text-world model for the sonnet is diagrammed in Figure 33.
I
have drawn in the various recurrences, equivalences, or class inclusions that
render the text-world model so uniquely motivated in its design (cf. 1.4.14).
The exceptional density of linkage holding so many entities in place is
indicative of the extraordinarily skillful selection and decision processes of
the writer. The surface text is so designed as to elicit spreading activation
within several frames at once. The intersections, as such, are unforeseeable and
hence interesting, and yet convincing by virtue of their dense connectivity. The
processing that recovers such a configuration underneath the already intensely
structured surface expression is the foundation of AESTHETIC EXPERIENCE:
discovering a multiplicity of functions among elements of the message (cf. VII.
1.8.5), and overcoming problematic linkages by finding their motivations.
2.38
No one would deny the staggering difference between the Shakespeare sonnet and
the ‘ugly dog’ story. But I would surmise that the production processes for
both are analogous: a macro-structure of events is selected and developed
according to content-internal standards and criteria of informativity; the
result is mapped onto a surface structure under interactive controls. The
effectivity of the results varies because of the differences in expenditure of
processing resources. Louis T. Milic (1971) was led by such differences to
postulate two phases of text production: (1) the selection of “stylistic
options” needed to produce any surface structure at all; and (2) the making of
“rhetorical choices” by evaluating and improving upon what has been
generated. Milic concedes that these two phases cannot be separate in real
time—a point I have stressed for my own model with four phases. But I wonder
if Milic might be drawing a line along the inappropriate dimensions. A good
share of Shakespeare’s rhetorical power is antecedent to anything like the
selection of stylistic options: it originates in his ideation and development
phases, e.g. the interfacing of frames for ‘weather’ and ‘person’.
Milic’s scheme appears to imply the notion I rejected in IV. 1. 17 that
all metaphors have commonplace, literal equivalents.
2.39
My experiments regarding the production and reception of creative texts have
been inconclusive so far, due to empirical obstacles of obtaining creative
behavior under reliable conditions. In one set of tests run by Walter Kintsch
and co-workers, subjects who recalled a Shakespeare soloquy did undertake to
rephrase the content in everyday language. Those subjects who did not only
recovered a few bits of the original. Until conclusive evidence to the contrary
is obtained, I merely claim that creativity is an intensification of normal
production processes rather than something altogether different. The question of
whether all content can be accorded creative treatment remains in debate. Given
sufficient licence (and a bent sense of humour like mine), one could wring a
poem even out of the ‘ugly-dog’ story:
(196)
Not many a dotard gentleman I spy
Lead
disfeatured dog on lanky leash,
Drawing
with collar orange a child nigh,
Rending
to ‘scape its rank rapacious reach;
With
stinging hand the man requites the prank,
Belaboring
the infant nether flank.
Even
so did God in Eden new-made beasts display
Before
our childish fancy in parade;
But
we who snatch and seize in wanton way
Must
harrow hence the habitants He made.
Bewhilst
we deem ourselves creation’s dears
And
blight the earth till heaven interferes.
Bally
rotten tosh, I know, but maybe it can help to suggest once again the endlessly
pliant relation of language to content.
3.
RECALLING TEXTUAL CONTENT
3.1
Many years ago, Sir Frederick Bartlett (1932) obtained experimental evidence
that recall is not merely a REPRODUCTION of what people experience, but also a
RECONSTRUCTION.9a [9a
Royer (1977) sees three positions, with ‘construction’ being more moderate
use of the text user’s own disposition. A possible means of reconciling these
positions is discussed in Beaugrande (1980c).] Since then, a series of
experiments showing pervasively accurate recall (e.g. Gomulicki 1956; R. Johnson
1970; B. Meyer & McConkie 1973) apparently challenge Bartiett’s viewpoint.
However, these new results are no genuine refutation of Bartlett. Conventional
psychological tests are routinely designed so that people have little motivation
to integrate the content of texts into their store of useable knowledge, because
the tests lack relevance to everyday life. Also, our educational system stresses
rote memory work so heavily that, placed in a formal test situation, people may
strain to the utmost in order to render every detail as exactly as possible. I
shall explore some new data and suggest ways in which reproduction and
reconstruction interact.
3.2
We must bear in mind that a person’s recall protocol is a text in its own
right (Kintsch & van Dijk 1978a: 374). The production of the protocol, at
least under natural conditions, ought to entail the developmental and selective
processes I outlined in the foregoing section. The recently processed original
would of course be an important source. But if people are building their own
cognitive models of a textual world, their recall should naturally include
material they supplied themselves by spreading activation, inferencing, and
updating (cf. 1.6.4). They should be especially prone to add material if their
protocols would otherwise lack cohesion in expression or coherence in the
textual world.
3.3
At first glance, VERBATIM recall ought to be straightforward beyond dispute.
Output looks exactly like input, so that we feel comfortable about considering
memory a mechanism of “trace
abstraction” (Gomulicki 1956) like a tape recorder or photographic plate. And
yet the possibility cannot be eliminated that seemingly verbatim recall could
result from reconstructive processes (cf. VI.3.12; VII.3.16). Suppose someone
understands a surface expression by recovering the appropriate concept. If that
concept had only the original expression as its plausible name, recall would
probably be verbatim. But we cannot conclude that the person abstracted a trace
of the surface structure and simply reproduced it. From this consideration, it
would follow that verbatim recall may be telling us more about the availability
of alternative names for the concept in a particular text-world than about the
general memory strategies of people at large (cf. VI.3.12).
3.4 To pursue the interactive roles of surface expression and text-world coherence in processing, I designed a reading experiment for the Computer Laboratory of Psychological Research of Walter Kintsch and co-workers at the University of Colorado. My test was conducted by varying versions of the same text (cf. Bower 1976; Jones 1977; Thorndyke 1977), although the parameters of variation were, as far as I know, rather unusual. I created five alternative versions of the ‘rocket’ text cited in III.4.20 to be presented to separate groups of readers, mostly first-year college students venturesome (or naive) enough to enroll in an elementary psychology course, which requires them to act as guinea pigs. No test subject saw more than one version. The five alternatives read as follows:10 [10. Further tests have revealed some weaknesses in the design of these samples. I have made improved versions and run them, including one in German for a group of German native speakers. The outcome is discussed in Beaugrande (1979d).]
(197)
[INVERTED] (1. 1) Empty, it weighed five tons. (1.2) For fuel it carried eight
tons of alcohol and liquid oxygen. (1.3) There it stood in a New Mexico desert:
a great black and yellow V-2 rocket 46 feet long.
(2.1)
Scientists and generals withdrew to some distance and crouched behind earth
mounds. (2.2) Two red flares rose as a signal to fire the rocket. (2.3)
Everything was ready.
(3.1)
Trailing behind it sixty feet of yellow flame that soon came to look like a
yellow star, the giant rocket rose slowly and then faster and faster amid a
great roar and burst of flame. (3.2) Radar tracked it at 3,000 mph when it soon
became too high to be seen.
(4.1)
As the rocket returned at 2,400 mph and plunged into earth a few minutes after
it was fired, the pilot of a watching plane saw it return to a point 40 miles
from the starting point.
(198)
[ORNAMENTAL] (1. 1) In a bleak New Mexico desert, a vast black and yellow rocket
towered 46 feet into the sky. (1.2) In order to lift this five-ton colossus into
space, eight tons of alcohol and liquid oxygen were stored in the fuel chambers.
(2. 1) Scientists and generals scrambled for cover behind mounds of earth as the
signal for launching blazed forth: two bright red flares.
(2.2)
Amid a deafening roar and a blinding burst of fire, the giant ascended with
mounting speed. (2.3) Its trail of yellow flame became a distant star poised on
the outer verge of human vision. (2.4) The eyes of radar alone could follow the
traveller’s flight at 3,000 mph.
(3.1)
High above the earth, a pilot watched from an observation plane as the rocket
retraced its path, slowing to 2,400 mph. (3.2) Only forty miles from the place
of departure, the huge aircraft came to rest. (3.3) The giant was home again.
(199)
[CONDENSED] (1. 1) With eight tons of alcohol and liquid oxygen as fuel to carry
its five- ton frame, a 46-foot black and yellow rocket stood ready in a New
Mexico desert. (1.2) Upon a signal of two red flares, scientists and generals
withdrew to crouch behind earth mounds. (1.3) With a trail of yellow flame that
soon resembled a star, the rocket ascended with increasing speed. (1.4) Radar
clocked it at 3,000 mph after it had passed out of sight. (1.5) Within minutes
an observation plane recorded the return at 2,400 mph and plunge to earth 40
miles from the launching site.
(200)
[DISORGANIZED] (1.1) It was in a desert in New Mexico where, forty-six feet of
black and yellow, a great rocket stood. (1.2) Of its thirteen tons of total
weight, five tons of empty weight were added to eight tons of fuel, this being
alcohol and liquid oxygen.
(2.1) Behind mounds of earth scientists and generals, when everything was ready, withdrew, crouching. (2.2) To fire the rocket, two red flares were given as a signa