Bloomfield, “A Set of Postulates for the Science of Language” (1926)
Bloomfield, Language (1933)
Hockett, “What Algonquian is Really Like” (1966)
“Clarity is no virtue; it is the most elementary of scholarly duties. Obfuscation, on the other hand, is a sin.”
--Charles Hockett
Although he spent much of his professorial career as a German Philologist, Bloomfield will be remembered most for what he did in establishing Linguistics as a science in American. He did this in two ways: (1) by drawing disciplinary boundaries around the fledgling field of linguistics, and (2) by developing a methodology for explaining linguistic phenomena in purely grammatical terms. Thus, Bloomfield banished from the arena of linguistics both psychological theorists and philosophical speculators. They had their own disciplines, after all. Yet like many a scientist before him (and like Zelig Harris and Noam Chomsky after), Bloomfield encouraged a mathematically inspired modeling of patterns of linguistic behavior.
Bloomfield also derived from the philological tradition a deep satisfaction with formal alternations (like plural -s realized as -z after voiced segments → backs vs. bagz) and with the regularity of sound change (like Latin ‘pater’ corresponding with English ‘father’ because voiceless stops (like p and t) became fricatives (like f and th) in Germanic). The case for an autonomous science of linguistics was greatly strengthened by such elegant correspondences, for these impressive regularities demonstrated not only that linguistic alternations are empirically observable but also that they cannot be explained as well with the postulates of any other discipline.
For a few decades, Bloomfield’s own delimitation of an autonomous linguistics proved to be a highly productive move. However dry mid-twentieth century linguistics might seem to the reader of today, the era was an exciting time for the development of both synchronic and diachronic grammar. But linguists were forbidden to discuss mental states, cognition, or any intuitions of meaning, for all of these had been banished to the realms of psychology and logic. In practice, this meant Bloomfield started grammatical analysis from the raw sound of the utterance, building from the ground up his interpretation of a particular language, always privileging form over meaning. Many of his analyses of phonological and morphological rules are brilliant. But somehow he never quite managed to say much of lasting value on the higher domains of glossemes and noemes, or in more modern terms, of syntax and semantics.
Bloomfield might have taught much Germanic philology, but he also studied a wider range of languages than perhaps any of his contemporaries. Bloomfield’s work on Tagalog, published over a century ago, is still regarded as the gold standard in Austronesian linguistics. And his work on Sanskrit and on four Algonquian languages (Fox, Cree, Menominee, and Ojibwa) brought to every scholar of language’s attention the ways in which languages can astonish by their ingenuity and complexity. A devout Bloomfieldian, Charles Hockett, analyzed one such ingenious and complex example, the obviation system found in many Algonquian languages. From the point of view of English, obviation is a tangle of semantic and indexical distinctions: animate/inanimate; near/far; actor/theme; direct/inverse. But Hockett managed to represent these relations in a diagram with planes, lines, points, and vectors. All very Euclidean. Yet the demonstration works surprisingly well as an explanation of the obligatory hierarchical arrangement of participants in Algonquian sentences. Through a kind of feature geometry, which ties together in a neat bundle several morphological paradigms, we learn something significant about “what Algonquian is really like.”
Being a good Bloomfieldian structuralist, Hockett devised an insightful theory of Algonquian. He did not create a theory of language in general or of all languages at once. For as Bloomfield and Hockett made plain, structural linguistics tips to the side of what Boas called historical particularism, away from the opposite pole of Saint Noam’s Universal Grammar. Each language is thus understood as the product of its own peculiar drift and development. There is no timeless essence of language which we are either headed toward or emerging from. Instead, each language has unique features to be understood in their own terms. By 1926, Bloomfield had arrived at a kind of relativist stance. It was not a Sapir-Whorf (meaning-based) relativism. Rather, Bloomfield’s relativism developed into a creed that languages will always vary formally and will inevitably contradict any purported substantive universals. As Bloomfield expressed in 1926: “Notions such as subject, predicate, verb, noun, will apply only to some languages, and may have to be defined differently for different ones,--unless, indeed, we prefer to invent new terms for divergent phenomena.” I feel this willingness to be surprised or vexed by languages radically different from our own furnishes the real basis for speaking of linguistics as an empirical science. Generativism cannot possibly account for astonishing variation if their entire apparatus (however minimal) is taken as a priori.