Linguistics 001 Lectures 10 & 11 Syntax
We can communicate a lot without words, by the expressive use of eyes, face, hands, posture. We can draw pictures and diagrams, we can imitate sounds and shapes, and we can reason pretty acutely about what somebody probably meant by something they did (or didn't do).
Despite this, we spend a lot of time talking. Much of the reason for this love of palaver is no doubt the advantage of sharing words; using the right word often short-cuts a lot of gesticulating and guessing, and keeps life from being more like the game of charades than it is.
Given words, it's natural enough to want to put them together. Multiple ``keywords'' in a library catalog listing can tell us more about the contents of a book than a single keyword could. We can see this effect by calculating the words whose frequency in a particular book is greatest, relative to their frequency in lots of books. Here are a few sample computer-calculated lists of the top-10 locally-frequent words, for each of a range of books on various topics:
"College: the Undergraduate Experience:" undergraduate faculty campus student college academic curriculum freshman classroom professor.
``Earth and other Ethics:'' moral considerateness bison whale governance utilitarianism ethic entity preference utilitarian.
`` When Your Parents Grow Old:'' diabetes elderly appendix geriatric directory hospice arthritis parent dental rehabilitation
``Madhur Jaffrey's Cookbook:'' peel teaspoon tablespoon fry finely salt pepper cumin freshly ginger
In understanding such lists, we are making a kind of semantic stew in which the meanings of all the words are stirred up together in a mental cauldron. We get a clear impression of what the book is about, but there is a certain lack of structure.
For example, the last word list gives us a pretty good clue that we are dealing with a cookbook, and maybe even what kind of cuisine is at issue, but it doesn't tell us how to make any particular dish.
Just adding more words doesn't help: the next ten in order from the (Indian) cookbook are:
This gives us some more information about ingredients and kitchen techniques, but it doesn't tell us how to make a vindaloo. To understand a recipe, we need more exact information about how the words (and ingredients!) combine.
We don't normally communicate by trading lists of keywords. Children
at a certain age (perhaps a year and a half or so) often create discourses
by stringing together one-word sentences:
However, when adults (and older children) communicate with words, they just about always put the words together in a hierarchical or recursive way, making bigger units repeatedly out of smaller ones. The meanings combine in a way that is not like the way that ingredients combine in a stew, but more like the combination of ingredients in an elaborate multilayered pastry, where things must go together in a very precise and specific way, or we get not a sachertorte but a funny sort of pudding.
This is the principle of compositionality: language is intricately structured,
and linguistic messages are interpreted, layer by layer, in a way that
depends on their structure.
This strict sort of compositionality permits what is called "syntax-directed
translation" in the terminology that computer scientists use to talk about
compilers for computer languages. It means, for instance, that
(115 + 2) / (3 + 36)
117 / 39
These ideas were first worked out by philosopher-logicians like Frege and Russell, long before computers were invented, in order to provide a formal way to define the meaning of mathematical expressions and mathematical reasoning.
This line of thinking gives us a first answer to the question "why bother with syntax?" The layered (recursive) structures of syntax allow us to communicate an infinity of complex and specific meanings, using a few general methods for building phrases with more complex meanings out of phrases with simpler ones.
This system is based on a marvelous foundation -- the tens of thousands
of basic morphemes, words and idiomatic phrases of each human language.
These are the "atoms" of meaning that syntactic combination
starts with. Using syntax, we can specify not only the ingredients of
a recipe, but also the exact order and method of their combination.
However, in everyday talk, syntax-directed translated is not as easy to apply as it is (at least after Frege and Russell) in arithmetic. The relations between words and phrases do not seem to have meanings as simple and regular as "addition" and "multiplication," and the very structure of word sequences is often ambiguous.
Unlike in the arithemetic examples just given, ordinary language doesn't normally have explicit parentheses (although sometimes we modulate pitch and timing to try to indicate the grouping of words). This lack of vocalized parentheses sometimes leads to uncertainty about exactly what the structures are: thus a ``stone traffic barrier'' is probably a kind of traffic barrier, and not a way of dealing with stone traffic, while ``steel bar prices'' are what you pay for steel bars. We know this because we know what interpretations make sense: just the fact that we have three English nouns in a row does not specify either the structure (1 (2 3)) or the structure ((1 2) 3).
The number of logically possible alternative structures, assuming each piece is made up of two elements, grows rapidly with phrase length. For instance, ``Pennsylvania state highway department public relations director'', which contains seven words, has 132 logically possible consituent structures, each of which has many possible meaning relationships between its elements. We understand it fairly easily, all the same, because we are already familiar with phrases like "public relations", "state highway", and so on.
In contrast, consider the phrase ``process control block base register
value,'' taken from the technical manual for a once-popular
minicomputer. To those familiar with the jargon, this clearly means
"the value of the base register for the block of memory dealing with process
control," i.e. a structure like
To most people, however, the structure of this compound is completely baffling. Manuals of style sensibly suggest that writers of English should avoid long noun compounds, because they are a lot of work for readers, and may be misunderstood if the reader is not as familiar as the writer is with the bits of jargon involved.
Ambiguity of constituent structure is not the only problem here. English noun compounds also suffer from semantic vagueness in the relations between the words, even when we know the constituent structure. Thus ``peanut oil'' is oil made from peanuts, but ``hair oil'' is not oil made from hair; a ``snow shoe'' is a shoe to walk on snow with, but a ``horse shoe'' is not a shoe to walk on horses with.
In order to limit these various kinds of uncertainty, languages provide all sorts of (often optional) help to their users. For example, there are special words or endings for making structural or semantic relationships among other words explicit. We just used words like ``for'' and ``of'' and ``dealing with'' to help make clarify the form and meaning of the phrase from the computer manual.
Languages also establish conventions about the interpretation of word order. For instance, although English compound nouns are about as loose a syntactic system as you ever see, English does regularly put the head (or dominant element) of noun compounds on the right, so that ``dung beetle'' is a kind of beetle, while ``beetle dung'' would be a kind of dung.
This is not logically necessary -- other languages, such as Welsh and Breton, make exactly the opposite choice. Thus Breton kaoc'h kezeg is literally the word for ``manure'' followed by the word for ``horse,'' i.e. ``manure horse'' in a word-by-word translation. However, Breton kaoc'h kezeg means ``horse manure,'' that is, manure produced by a horse, and not (say) a horse made of manure, or a horse dedicated to producing manure, or whatever "manure horse" in English might mean.
This situation is common: individual human languages often have quite regular patterns of word order in particular cases, even though these patterns may vary from language to language. Thus English expects determiners (words like ``the'' and ``a'') to come at the beginning of noun phrases, and adjectives to precede nouns they modify, so that we say ``the big cow'' and not (for instance) ``cow big the.''
As it happens, Mawu expects determiners to come at the end of noun phrases, and adjectives to follow the nouns that they modify, and so the equivalent phrase is Mawu is ``nisi wo o,'' which is literally ``cow big the.''
Word order is more rigid in some languages than in others. Putting it another way, in some languages word order is more rigidly dependent on grammatical relations (roughly, the structures that specify who did what to whom), while in other languages, word endings do more work in expressing grammatical relations, and word order can be used for other purposes, like indicating subtle gradations of discourse prominence.
Are these ambiguity-reduction techniques really necessary?
Let's suppose that we knew what words mean, and a lot about how to put meanings together, but we had no particular constraints on syntactic structure. In this imaginary condition, we don't care about the order of adjectives and nouns, nor where verbs should go relative to their subjects and objects. There are some general principles that might help us, such as that semantically-related words will tend to be closer together than semantically-unrelated words are, but otherwise, we are back with the ``word stew'' we imagined earlier.
Under these circumstances, we could still probably understand a lot of everyday language, because some ways of putting words together make more sense than others do.
We are in something like this condition when we try to read a word-for-word
gloss of a passage in a language we don't know. Often such glosses can
be understood: thus consider the following ancient Chinese proverb (tones
have been omitted, but distinguish zhi "it" from zhi "know"):
This means something like ``although luck is lighter than a feather, we don't know how to carry it with us; although misfortune is heavier than the earth, we don't know how to avoid carrying it''
Most people can figure this out, at least approximately, despite the elliptical style that does not explicitly indicate the nature of the connections between clauses, and despite the un-English word order. Few of us will have any trouble grasping that it is luck that is (not) being carried, and misfortune that is (not) being avoided, because that is the only connection that makes sense in this case.
A scholar will explain to us, if asked, that this proverb exemplifies a particular fact about ancient (pre-Qin) Chinese, namely that object pronouns (``it' in this case) precede the verb when it is negated. This syntactic fact would have helped us figure out that ``it'' is the object of ``avoid'' rather than the subject of ``know''--but we guessed that anyway, because things made more sense that way.
Sometimes the nature of the ideas expressed doesn't make clear who did what to whom, and we (or modern Chinese speakers), expecting objects to follow verbs, might get confused. Thus the phrase
means ``but (they) did not ever criticize me,'' not ``but I did not ever
The task of trying to interpret glossed passages in a language we don't know may give us some appreciation for the situation of people whose ability to process syntactic structure is neurologically impaired, even though other aspects of their mental functioning, including their understanding of complex propositions, may be intact.
When there is a lesion in the frontal lobe of the left cerebral hemisphere, the result is often a syndrome called Broca's aphasia. The most important symptom is an output problem: people with Broca's aphasia cannot speak fluently, tend to omit grammatical morphemes such as articles and verbal auxiliaries, and sometimes can hardly speak at all. Their comprehension, by comparison, seems relatively intact.
However, under careful study their ability to understand sentences turns
out to be deficient in systematic ways. They always do well when the nouns
and verbs in the sentence go together in a way that is much more plausible
than any alternative: ``It was the mice that the cat chased,'' ``The postman
was bitten by the dog,'' and so forth. If more than one semantic arrangement
is equally plausible, e.g. ``It was the baker that the butcher insulted,''
or if a syntactically wrong arrangement is more plausible than the syntactically
correct one, e.g. ``The dog was bitten by the policemen,'' then they do
not do so well.
Over the centuries, there have been many efforts to provide a rigorous, formal account of what the syntax of natural language is, and how it relates to the meaning of words, sentences and larger discourses.
There have been various motivations, the most important being:
One of the most famous works in this tradition is Montague's article English as a formal language, in which he provides a recursive truth definition for a fragment of English exactly as if it were a formal language.
The overall enterprise is truth conditional. A language (whether logical or natural) is defined in a way that associates with each expression in the language another expression defining the conditions under which it "holds" or "is the case." This definition is accomplished recursively, just as in our earlier example of the recursive definition of the value of arithmetic expressions. The general approach can be extended to encompass a formal model of the unfolding of information in discourse, so that many aspects of pragmatics as well as semantics can be treated.
The strength of this tradition has been its careful attention to giving an account of meaning, especially in such troublesome areas as quantifiers ("some", "every", "few"), pronouns, and their interactions. It is not easy to provide a recursive truth definition for sentences like "Every farmer who owns a donkey beats it," or "someone even cleaned the BATHROOM," but in fact the semantic properties of such sentences can be predicted by contemporary theories in this area.
Getting such meanings right, in a formal approach, is difficult and complex, and many aspects of natural language semantics have not been investigated, much less solved. Exploring new areas of meaning has therefore been the main focus of research in this tradition.
The details of natural language syntax have generally not been as interesting to the "logical grammarians," though of course they have insisted on providing precise and flexible formalisms for characterizing syntactic structures. A 1958 paper by Joachim Lambek, entitled "The mathematics of sentence structure," provides a lucid example of one approach.
In recent years, some linguists have begun to use such techniques to explore subtle and interesting properties of natural-language syntax. However, investigators who are interested in natural language syntax in its own right have generally followed another course.
For thousands of years, linguists have had things to say about syntax. There were interesting grammarians among the ancient Hindus, the Greeks and Romans, during the flowering of Islamic civilization, and in Europe throughout the middle ages, the renaissance and the enlightenment, and through to the present day.
For the most part, this work took place in the tradition of the humanities, rather than that of mathematics or the natural sciences. In the paper cited above, Lambek quotes Otto Jespersen:
In earlier centuries, this would have been a sort of scholarly joke, like complaining about the lack of axiomatic foundations for the game of golf. In the philosophical context of the 20th century, it has been felt as a serious criticism. The logical positivists made Hume's "principle of verification" an article of faith:
[Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding]
Although radical positivism made few converts, and was thoroughly discredited
as a philosophy of science, it expresses a skeptical and empiricist perspective
that pervades 20th-century intellectual life. As the poet William Carlos
Williams put it, "no ideas but in things."
Among the corollaries of this perspective is the principle of operationalism, which requires that any concept involved in "experimental reasoning concerning matters of fact and existence" must be defined in terms of clearly defined operations, to be performed in any given situation in order to decide whether an instance of that concept has been observed.
In the core sciences such as physics and chemistry, practitioners do not worry about such issues.
However, the disciplines on the margins of science (such as psychology, sociology and linguistics) have spent the century in a state of anxiety over whether their core concepts and theories might turn out to be "nothing but sophistry and illusion."
In this context, Zellig Harris (a key figure in American structuralist linguistics, Noam Chomsky's teacher, and the founder of the linguistics department at Penn) undertook to provide operational definitions of core linguistic concepts such as "phoneme," "morpheme," "noun," "verb" and so forth. He took the basic data to be observations of utterances, and used concepts from the then-new discipline of information theory to suggest procedures that could be used to define a hierarchy of segmentation and classification inductively. Some of his procedures first segmented phonetic features and classified them as phonemes, then segmented phonemes and classified them into morphemes, and so forth.
In those days before adequate computers were accessible (the late 1940's
and early 1950's), Harris' techniques were conceptual ones, based on the
conviction that the essence of language could be found in the distributional
properties of its elements on all levels. Since then, people have tried
implementing some of his inductive methods, and have found that they work,
to a degree.
The task of providing operational definitions for the concepts of syntax -- noun, verb, sentence and the like -- was taken up by one of Harris' students, Noam Chomsky. He found the problem to be very difficult. As he worked on it, two things happened.
First, he realized that he was working on the problem of language learning. A procedure for inducing grammatical concepts from a set of utterances can be seen as a way to study the distributional properties of morphemes, or as a way to make linguistics respectable by positivist standards -- but it can also be seen as an idealized or abstracted version of what a child accomplishes in learning his or her native language.
A typical child also completes this task more rapidly than Chomsky, as an adult, completed his investigation -- and Chomsky didn't actually provide a working solution. This led Chomsky to conclude that the child has an unfair advantage: being born with key aspects of the answer already given, in the form of what Chomsky called a "Language Acquisition Device". But this is another topic.
Chomsky's second innovation was to dig deeper into the basic mathematics of syntax, along with collaborators like the French mathematician Marcel-Paul Schuetzenberger. Their approach was to treat a "language" as a (typically infinite) set of strings of symbols. For instance, a "language" in this sense might be defined as the set of all strings that start with the symbol 'a', continue with zero or more copies of the symbol 'b', and then end with another 'a'. This "language" contains the strings 'aa', 'aba', 'abba', 'abbba', etc., while it excludes strings such as 'a', 'ab', 'baa', 'abc' and so on. We can summarize this language using the regular expression ab*a, where the asterisk means zero or more copies of the preceding symbol.
This is a long way from what the word language means in everyday life, just as the mathematical concept of line is quite far away from an actual line drawn in the sand or on a chalkboard. In the discussion below, we'll put the word "language" in scare quotes when we mean it in this abstract mathematical sense.
Contrary to the practice of the logical grammarians, this perspective ignores the question of meaning, and focuses exclusively on form. A "language," in this mathematical sense, has no meaning at all -- unless we provide one by some additional means.
Chomsky investigated the properties of formal systems for defining or "generating" such sets, and of abstract automata capable of determining whether a given string is a member of a particular set or not. Chomsky's generating procedures were defined in terms of rules for rewriting strings, which he called "generative grammars."
For instance, our example ab*a could be defined by a "grammar" consisting of the three rewriting rules
S -> aE
Each rewriting rule says "replace the symbol(s) on the left-hand side by the symbol(s) on the right-hand side." We start by convention with a string consisting only of the symbol 'S' (for start or for sentence), and we continue applying rules until there are no more rules that apply.
There is only one rule for rewriting 'S', so we apply it to get the string 'aE'.
There is no rule for rewriting 'a' -- 'a' is a terminal symbol -- but there are two rules for rewriting 'E'. If we pick the second one, which says to rewrite 'E' as 'a', then 'aE' will become 'aa'. At this point we are done, because there are no rules for rewriting any of the symbols in the string. All of the symbols in the string are terminal symbols, and so there is nothing more that we can do.
If we go back to the string 'aE', and pick the other rewrite rule for 'E' instead, which says to rewrite 'E' as 'bE', then our string 'aE' will become 'abE'. There are still no rules for rewriting 'a', and 'b' is also a terminal symbol, but we can continue expanding 'E' to 'bE' if we want, giving us 'abbE', 'abbbE', 'abbbbE' and so on. At any point along the way, we can pick the 'E -> a' rule, which will closed off the string with a final 'a', and we will again have a string of all terminal symbols, and be done.
Consider the simple "language" of arithmetic expressions. In this "language",
strings like these are "in":
while strings like these are "out":
(27+-19) [two operators in a row]
We can express a "grammar" for a simple form of this "language" as a set of rewriting rules:
1a. S -> N
To save space, we've used the rewrite rule labeled 4x to abbreviate the ten rules D -> 0, D-> 2, D-> 3, etc.
In this "grammar", the terminal symbols are '(', ')', '+', '-', 'x', '/', '0', '1', '2', '3', '4', '5', '6', '7', '8', '9'.
Here is a sample derivation, based on this "grammar", that is,
a sequence of string-rewriting steps leading from the start symbol 'S'
to a string containing only terminal symbols. Each derivational step is
annotated with the rule used.
As an exercise, play with this simple grammar long enough to see what it does and does not produce. For instance, you can see that it produces numbers like 003, starting with strings of leading zeros. Usually we don't write leading zeros in our numbers, though they do no real harm -- how might you revise the "grammar" given above so that leading zeros are not produced?
As another exercise, you might think about writing a grammar in this style for a fragment of a natural language such as English.
Chomsky's investigation brought together, in an enormously fruitful way, several strands of earlier work by logicians and mathematicians such as Turing, Church, Post, Bar-Hillel, Schutzenberger and others. During its flowering, roughly the decade of the 1950's, it led to a set of elegant and powerful results of enormous practical importance.
One of the most important results has become known as the "Chomsky hierarchy." Chomsky showed that "languages" (in the sense of sets of strings of symbols), along with their associated generative grammars and abstract automata, fall into a hierarchy of natural classes. These classes can be graded in terms of the type of rewriting rules involved in the grammar, the type of abstract automaton that is capable of determining whether a given string is "in" a given language or not, and the inherent complexity of this calculation.
Today, if you search on the web for "formal language theory" or "Chomsky
hierarchy", you will turn up thousands of pages, mostly associated with
computer science courses. These courses will usually present the "Chomsky
hierarchy" in a tabular form, something like this:
We are not going to try to explain the details of this hierarchy to you. You can learn about it in several other courses at Penn, including Ling105 and Ling106. What matters here is that there was an elaborate mathematical development of the idea of "formal language", based on the concepts of a set of strings generated by rewrite rules, and that out of this development emerged a hierarchical taxonomy of basic types of formal languages, generative grammars and abstract automata.
Chomsky's results had devastating consequences for the research program of linguistics at the time, which was dominated by a school known as structuralism. It became possible to prove mathematically that certain general types of "grammars" are inherently incapable of generating certain general types of "languages". Chomsky and his followers mounted exactly this sort of attack on structuralist linguistics, arguing that key structuralist ideas were an informal expression of "grammars" of the context-free type, and that natural language syntax is of the context-sensitive type.
Chomsky's results also suggested that hidden truths are to be uncovered by investigating the formal properties of human languages in a mathematically-precise way. The mathematical results added enormous prestige to the enterprise that gave rise to them.
Finally, Chomsky and his followers used his results to force a revolution in thinking about the epistemology of language, that is, the question of where knowledge of language comes from. It was soon shown that (under certain mathematical assumptions) the problem of learning a formal grammar from a list of examples is in principle impossible to solve. Roughly, this is because a list of possible sentences does not provide crucial "negative evidence", that is, evidence about what sentences are not possible (as opposed to just not having come up yet). This is often called the argument from poverty of the stimulus -- the input to the learning process is seen as too limited or impoverished to permit learning by a general-purpose algorithm.
Chomsky argued that this shows that children must be born with innate, genetically-programmed knowledge of what language will be like. It also follows that all languages should exhibit certain similarities, underlying their apparent vast range of differences. This gave rise to a new interest in linguistic universals.
These events produced an enormous upheaval in the intellectual landscape of several disciplines in the second half of the 20th century -- linguistics, psychology and philosophy for a start. The resulting changes are important ones, even though many of the details of the original upheaval are now a bit suspect:
As a result of the events since that time
There have been several attempts to define grammatical formalisms that can deal with the kind of problems that Chomsky raised, without introducing the considerable difficulties attendant on the solutions he originally proposed.
An alphabet soup of contemporary examples:
If you go on to take courses such as Ling 106 and Ling 150, you will get the background needed to understand these efforts in detail, as well as to follow the interesting twists and turns of the Chomskian linguistic enterprise over the past 40 years. For now, you may find it interesting to get a sense of what some contemporary approaches to syntax are like, by browsing their web sites.