Gregarious grammar, garrulous grammar

The following post deals with learning, knowledge and memory. It details the way humans learn language and assimilate grammatical technicalities to form phrases that depict their ideas. It also deals with the aspects of age and mental maturity, and how they affect learning processes.

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Linguists studying the aspects of recognition and cognition regarding languages will tell you that younger children tend to absorb the structure of their native language (or any other) at a rate faster than their elders. You will have noticed that a child of 2-3 years will absorb the nuances of its native tongue in a matter of months – while once adolescence is passed, structured classes and guidance become necessary to do the same. Although this theory is only empirical to me, it is quite established in scientific circles with adequate proof to back it up. I would like to extend this same argument to one more facet of learning: that of expanding one’s grammar to accommodate newer words.

Here, before I continue, I’d like to introduce something called the grammatical circle of words. This circle represents all the words recognised by an individual as being usable on an everyday basis for him or her. To rephrase, these words will constitute a lexicon. The area of this circle will increase rapidly at the younger phases of one’s life, as detailed in the first paragraph of this post. The newborn child will go from knowing no language to knowing one in the span of a year, and the circle will expand from zero volume to a finitely large one. Bracketing this transformation will be a learning period in which the child will learn about all types of words, sentence structures and idea constructions. The act of pointing to an apple and crying will now become replaceable by “I want that apple because I’m hungry.” In this period, there will be a momentum that will characterize how fast the child learns such things. I could define it like this.

A1 = Initial number of words; A2 = Final number of words.

M = [ { ( A2 – A1 ) x 100 } / ( 365 x A1 ) ]

(i.e. Momentum = Percentage increase in number of words averaged over 1 year)

If the momentum is high (over a suitably long period of time), the child will have learnt 500 words as compared to another child with lesser momentum that learnt 300 words (example). My idea is that greater the momentum during this period, slower will be the acquisition of newer words later in life. By this, I mean that if the grammatical circle of words expanded very quickly in the earlier stages of one’s life, it will be more rigid towards the final cognitive stages. Now, let me give my explanation for it.

Say I learnt 1,000 words before I was 5. As a child of between 5 and 10 years of age, my circle of 1,000 words will be sufficient to detail to myself and to others what I see, hear and feel. If I find that there is a new experience that seems incapable of being described through the words I already know, I will learn a new word – “ostentatiously gregarious” the 1,001st – to be able to use the language more effectively. At this point, suppose I have a friend whom I’ve known for a long time, and that he’s displayed a larger momentum of learning. At the age of 5, if he knows 2,000 words, then it should suffice for him to not acquire any new words till, say, he’s 15. Growing up together, I’ll find that I’m learning new words at the rate of 10 per year while he is grammatically dormant. Now, at the age of 20, if I find that I need to learn 5 new words for a job I’m applying to, I’ll find it easier than him. Why? Because the momentum which I said bracketed the learning period is still greater than zero for me, so the learning period involved is longer for me than for my friend. His circle will have been completed will mine will still be expanding. I can accommodate, he can’t.

All of this is based on an (empirical) assumption on my part that the learning process I keep referring to happens only once in one’s life. Once it dies out (at an age corresponding to the completion of one’s postgraduate education), newer experiences no longer seem like solutions to remember but problems to tackle. At these stages, what has already been learnt yearns to be put into use, i.e. the application-oriented years of life. If the learning process is spread out through these first 20-25 years, the amount of knowledge is greater than when the process spans about 10-15 years. This could be because what we learn is encoded away in our memories as a collection of sights and sounds. If I were to read in a book the word “gregarious” at the age of 12 and know its meaning through the context of its usage, I will remember it for the next few years only when I can remember the context itself. If I were to encounter the same word when a friend of mine describes someone else so when I am 18, I will remember it for a longer time. The difference in these two cases is that, although the learning period is in effect, the latter is remembered in more forms than the former. When I am 50, there is a better chance of me recollecting something that has a sight, sound and texture associated with it than that which is triggered by the name of the book or a character in it.

When reading a piece of text that seems too hard to remember, one tends to ascribe the whole picture it brings to mind to a memory that is readily accessible by “mugging” it. When this happens, nerves in the head keep firing signals in a particular channel. With repetitive firing, the cognitive system tends to identify that particular channel as one that will be regular use and therefore keep it active. You will be able to better understand this phenomenon when you associate it with some languages in your life whose words you are slowly forgetting because you don’t use them often. Similarly, when a person grows older, his responsibilities also multiply given that fact that he will now have the physical strength to execute them. To supplant this strength, he will begin to use his past experiences as lessons so he learns to optimize his own performance. At these stages, what he has taught himself will now come forth in the form of actions and decisions. The nerves will now begin to fire in those channels that seem most necessary for that supplementation (some lessons will seem more useful than others).

If I had stopped learning new words at the age of 12, then the application-oriented stages of life will set in prematurely, and the nerves will begin to decode rather than continuing to encode. Due to the said prematurity, the necessity to learn a new word because of a strange experience will now tend to be tackled by using older words. So, since I’m 12, I’ll use the phrase “moves freely with people” instead of the word “gregarious”; at the same time, my 18 year old friend will learn it. Analogously, when I am 18, I may not be able to  properly define the word gregarious. The Venn diagram should help you.

The probability of recollection

If an event ‘A’ is associated with both sight and sound, {x,y} depicting the occurrence of the sight-event and sound-event being fired (resp., through Boolean logic), then one of the following will happen when the memory will need to be recollected:

1. {0,0}
2. {0,1}
3. {1,0}
4. {1,1}

Therefore, there is a 75% chance that ‘A’ will be remembered by the person. If, however, an event ‘B’ is associated with only sight (like a word being encountered in a novel), then there is only a 50% chance of its recollection:

1. {1}
2. {0}

Phew! I learnt a lot there!

Ideate.

The power of symbols is often misunderstood, and more often than not, misrepresented in an essentially simplistic manner that speaks nothing of its immense capabilities. A symbol is more than a metaphor: a metaphor can only function as the subject wants to, the metaphor itself giving in to be a mere mirror the image borne in which is redundant but for the need to understand. A symbol is an image of the thought itself, a symbol is an idea. Ideas are the birth of revolutions, and ideas supplanted with ideal communication can give rise to a sociopolitical system wherein the society recognises, unmistakably, what it needs, and the politicial system, the means to provide for those needs. An idea is the recognition of the need for construction, the need to grow, the need to understand, the need to tolerate, the need to believe, and ultimately as well as inevitably the need to trust. When the idea is expressed, it conjures a mask as if delivering identity to the expressor, which it does, and the mask is a symbol of the expression’s beliefs. Ideas, however, are very large in number, and the effective communication of them so as to invoke a majority, a recognisable shout amidst the vox populi, is difficult. Ideas vary. What they vary about is anybody’s guess; they are born from morals, values, beliefs, faiths, nativity, social behaviour, the environment and the way in which the person concerned takes to the world in general. Ideas are miniscule, and are therefore quickly ignored. The one good idea flickering for a moment as hope peeking out of Pandora’s box has to be identified and seized as if it were a chance, for you know not when such an idea will be born again. It is your discretion that will serve as the utmost authority in nursing ideas that suit your needs – that, in other words, comply with the activities which concur with the fortification of your skills on whose employment you have what you need, but not necessarily that you have what you want.  

The ability to ideate indicates the ability to evolve. The normality with which we conform in order to establish a routine in our lives, so as to determine the nature of our existence itself, has to be subjected to change so we, the constituent living units that collectively define the normality, can identify that change and thereby, recognise and utilise the idea of progress. The momentum generated by this progression could be made widespread, as a revolution trigger-employed to bring in fresher ideas as well as to sustain the chain, the end goal of which is indicated clearly by the element whence the idea was inspired and the need of the individual. In order to do so, we use the symbolisation of ideas. Although an idea dwells in the mind of one person, at most a group of people who think alike, a symbol is universal. A symbol retains in its perception its very own history, its design and its purpose. A symbol is transcendental in that it reaches beyond the barriers that society has to offer – it bears an innate meaning that is understood as the same by even the different. For example, even though the concept of love assumes different forms in different peoples, the Taj Mahal is understood as being a symbol of love by all. It is in this transcending skill that an idea in one man’s head exposes itself as a tool of change. Blowing up the Taj Mahal, say, will, for a few, will be the loss of a wonderful piece of architecture, but for everyone else, the act itself will speak of an idea that is going against love. Just as we are identified by our ideas, the idea itself is given form and tangibility in actions when it speaks through symbols. 

This is the fundamental footing of semiotics. Through the novel he writes, the author symbolises his ideas in the form of characters, plots and the associated imagery, and the reader understands them by interpreting them for himself. Without having to write that the woman sitting in the corner of the room was sad, the author can place her in darkness, and develop a colouring and mood that contrasts with the rest of the room. Although it is hard to explain why the portrayal has so-so effects on us and not in any other way, it can be understood that the conveyance of ideas becomes easiest when they each are depicted as symbols. 

The Writers' Crib

By the writers’ crib, I don’t mean their cribbing; I mean their tool-room, the place where they derive their ideas from, their sources of inspiration. A writer begins to write when he wishes to express his ideas, when he believes that there might be others who will want to learn of what he has learnt, understood or perceived. The language he chooses to use will be the language he finds most convenient to write in, one in which his grammar and the way he structures his sentences will reflect perfectly in the messages that the reader comes to understand. There must be no conflict, and there must be an inherent brevity that says the writer need not use an unnecessary number of words to express himself completely. The style of writing, the flavouring of the text, which he employs will deliver the mood of the text, and thereby let the reader know which side of the argument he is on, if indeed there is one. If not for an argument- well, I think there are always arguments: this conforms to my principles of a binary world! The language and the grammar decided, next is the perspective if the writer. Now, the perspective is, I think, independent of the subject at hand. Why do I think this? Because, herein the good earth I think there are a set of symbols, a set of signs, that tell us that there exist an interconnectivity between all things, objects as well as beings. Whether the writer writes of a pencil, or of the Vietnam war, he will always write in a such a manner as to reflect his perception of the world and those who inhabit it. This perception cannot be stolen from the mind’s eye, and cannot be changed easily. Perception as I would define it, is an understanding that is born from our innate personality. Moreover, this personality doesn’t come to account for our perception just by the name, but also by what it exhibits in turn: our up bringing, our religion, our nativity, our patriotism, our identity, our imbued humanity. The degree to which we adhere to these elements of our living defines our perception, and narrows it or broadens it depending on how we exercise them. And now, looking beyond the perception, there is nothing but objectification. Objectification is identification, not association. Perception is. When we perceive an object, we identify it, true, but then, we also move on to understand our relationship with it. When we believe that we have a possibly meaningful relationship in the offing, we give the object a name. By giving a name, we have established association.

When, at our most basic levels, we are confined to the mind and how it perceives the objects around us, our perception of the more complex ones follows a simple mathematical principle: we tend to break down those complex events into smaller and smaller ones, until we have in our hands a multitude of the simple events.

Now, the symbols in this earth. What are they? How do they look like? I don’t know. Are they there? Yes they are. How do you know? Let me tell you. Look at this picture.

Red 'X' in white?

What do you see in this picture? Do you see a red ‘X’ on a white page? Of course you do. Everyone does. But what everyone fails to notice is that, why do we always see only the red ‘X’? Why not the white background? Why don’t we see the white background as having a red-coloured ‘X’ shaped cavity? Or why don’t we see a white pattern on a red background?Why do we tend to prioritise the symbol over its background, and why do we not consider the background itself as a symbol to be existent? Well, in this particular case, it may have been because of the familiarity of the symbol as an alphabet, but what about a very many number of other symbols? Simply, why do we associate more with those symbols that are easier to perceive? The difficulty to perceive another symbol doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist!

Imagine this. There is a stainless, white wall. Perfectly white. There is a perfectly white table in front of it. On this table is a semi-hemispherical orange bowl. If you were to stand at a distance of around 3 metres, how would you know that that orange coloured object is a bowl? First and foremost, you will know that by its shape. The curvature, and a flat section towards the bottom will tell you that it is a bowl. What gives this bowl an image of being curved? This is obtained from its relation to its background. If man had been living in a world composed only of circles, and if the line hadn’t been discovered yet, he would not know of linearity. He will be able to perceive only curvature, and therefore, he will not identify the circle for what it is. Similarly, since man knows the line, he can recognise the circle for what it is. Deriving another analogy, the shape of the bowl is understood by how it cuts out the background. In this case, you know the object is a bowl only by how a section of the wall is hidden from your sight: the section that is hidden is instead covered by an orange, semi-circular patch.

Therefore, if you were to think of it, there is a red ‘X’ on white paper, or there is a red ‘X’ shaped cavity in the white symbol that is the paper. The difference between the two is prioritisation. Through this selective prioritisation, we allot a certain density to some parameters we find easier to work with, and therefore, write about. This is the reason more than one single perception exists in the world. Look at the number of symbols you have splattered have around you in your daily life. Have you ever wondered whether the symbol you perceive is the only symbol in sight? Those for whom there seems to be no harm in this selective prioritisation can move on. But for those who are seeking a solution to something, this is some food for thought.