I was talking with a friend on Saturday, and our discussion caused my thoughts to spin off on a totally unrelated tangent (although I eventually brought it back to a point we were discussing). I asked, “Do you know why I love words so much?”
And suddenly that started me off on a dissertation I had no intention of delivering. But, as egotistical as I am, I thought it sounded good (and my friend either had the courtesy, or as I prefer to think of it, the perspicacity, to not disabuse me of the idea that I might be on to something), so I’m going to present my thesis for your consideration.
Words fascinate me because they are so weak, so ineffective in truly communicating with one another.1 People perceive them to be so powerful (“the pen is mightier than the sword”) only because we are reluctant, or afraid, to use our older, more basic, more effective forms of communication.
In prehistory, humans2 learned to communicate effectively long before we learned to speak, and much earlier than we learned to write. Early man used gestures, pantomime, demonstration, and perhaps art (drawing) to transmit ideas. Looking at where evolution has taken us, it’s evident our early efforts at communicating were effective.
In fact, in some quarters, we’ve “reverted” to using gestures: Consider a SWAT team or a military sapper team. The leader points to a couple team members, indicates a direction for them to go. He repeats that with successive pairs, then gives a nonverbal signal to act. Similarly, our ancestors hunted game (think mammoths) in a similar manner.
Language allows us to communicate more efficiently, not more effectively.
Language has enabled us to communicate more efficiently, not more effectively. I’m not saying words are unnecessary; anymore, they are hugely necessary. But we have evolved to using them as a crutch.
Most of us have been to a funeral, or a wedding. What do people do at funerals (or weddings, for that matter)? How do they comfort the bereaved, or congratulate the newlyweds, and their parents? Many people offer verbal platitudes and words of comfort, but I think we all recognize they are words of convention.
The real communication is nonverbal: People touch, in one way or another. They shake hands; they kiss; they hug. They communicate with a smile, a laugh, a look; some cry.
In those looks, those touches, those hugs, they are saying, "I care. I, too, am bereft. I feel your hurt." Or at a wedding, “I am glad for you. I am happy that you are happy. I am happy for your children, your friends, or whoever else’s joy we are celebrating.”
In it’s simplest, most basic form, they are saying, "I care about you. I care for you."
But outside such emotionally charged circumstances (there are others; I’m sure you can think of some), we generally use words, spoken or written, to communicate.
Of course, there’s a valid argument to be made that words—language—developed to fill a void in how we communicate with our other senses, but I submit that void has widened considerably since we learned to speak and write.
Language facilitated our ability to lie
For one thing, language facilitated our ability to lie to each other. There is a drama currently on television, called “Lie To Me.” The premise, founded on real science, is that by studying a person’s voice and physical clues when they are talking, a trained observer can determine, unequivocally, whether someone is telling the truth or hiding the truth.
As language evolved, we humans, being a relatively lazy bunch, devolved to the point where others do not as readily perceive the subtle changes in our demeanor when we lie. Thus, it has become increasingly simple for us to deceive each other.
Animals, on the other hand, don’t have language: Watch a couple strange dogs approach each other. They communicate totally through nonverbal behaviors. Yet there is no question, after a short time, which one has established dominance, whether they are friendly, or whether one feels threatened by the other.
To some extent, we do the same, but we don’t all apply the same conventions or interpretations. For example, when I meet someone new, I shake hands with that person. My grip is firm, but not bone-crushing; I am usually looking for the same in return. Someone with a weak grip is either unused to shaking hands or lacks self-confidence, in my judgment. Someone with a bone-crushing grip is trying to show off his strength (I’m unimpressed, generally—and my arthritis certainly doesn’t appreciate it) or is trying to be the alpha-dog. I don’t automatically buy into that, either: My ego is too big to be easily subordinated by a handshake, no matter how strong. In fact, I usually wonder what the other person is trying to compensate for with that sort of grip.
So just in this common behavior, we can see a wide range of interpretations. I’m not claiming my interpretations are correct; in fact, it’s no doubt a fallacy for me to project my interpretations of a handshake on others, when in fact, there may be no intent whatsoever.
But, don’t we do the same thing with language? Don’t you arrive at some conclusions about me, based on the words I use? For instance, I used the word “premise” a couple paragraphs earlier, when I could just as easily used “basic idea” or, more simply, “idea.” You probably didn’t think much about that, but what about when I used “subordinated” a couple paragraphs up? Did the word give you pause? If so, why? Even as early as the second paragraph, I used “perspicacity” and “disabuse.”
I started this article with a question: “Why do I love words?” It’s time for me to answer more directly than I have so far. By way of analogy, let’s look at the value of pi: Most of us know it as 3.14, and for the vast majority of us, that works (or did, when we were doing geometry in school). And for the vast majority of us, a well-rounded vocabulary serves us very well. But occasionally, we need to be more precise in our language, just as an astronomer or astrophysicist needs to be much more exact with the value of pi. So, I love words because they allow us to be more precise, more accurate, in how we communicate.
This is where we come full circle: While I argue words are less effective in communication than physical behaviors (I know, I know: what’s the gesture for “perspicacity”?), by choosing words precisely, we can be more efficient in what we’re trying to communicate. Hopefully, if you’re unfamiliar with “perspicacity,” the context in which I used it helped you to understand that my friend acutely discerned I might be on to something.
Am I, though? I’m very interested in your opinions on this idea that language has lessened the effectiveness of our ability to communicate nonverbally. Let’s discuss in the comments.
An interesting discussion! Jean M. Auel makes a very similar (and longer winded) argument of the same in her Children of the Earth series. (I think I got the name right).
The most important thing that we get from words which improves upon the gestures is writing. History, kept through time. Messages passed over great distances. Instructions that need not be memorized. Stories that should not be forgotten.
And, of course, communication of friends who have never met. =]
.-= Tami´s latest blog post is Weekly Wordcount =-.
I never read Auel’s series, although my wife did. You’re quite correct, and I gave writing shorter shrift than intended. The invention of a written language is what truly separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom: We can record all of our experiences, if we wish, and facilitate memory that way.
And absolutely, writing enables communicating between friends over long distances, including those we’ve never met in person!
On Twitter: @_steve_hall
I’m going to think on this some more, but here’s some initial ramblings about what I read & perceived from your post.
“Animals, on the other hand, don’t have language.” Mmm, I disagree with this. Then again, I think of ‘language’ as a broader term than what you are discussing; ‘language’ to me is simply a system of means used to convey any number of varied concepts across two minds, whether that’s human, dog, bacterium, or blood elf. You on the other hand seem to use ‘language’ specifically for languages that use words as their means of communication. So, yeah, in my perception of your definition (please, please correct me if I’m wrong!
), animals don’t have language. But…I don’t think they call it ‘body language’ or ‘computer language’ just to mess with you. Music, for one, doesn’t need to use a typographic system to get a feeling across (though it *can*). Animals have language, it’s just more bodily and primal than ours tend to be.
Are words weak? I think yes and no. Just like physical gestures can be weak. Like you said, saying ‘perspicacity’ via only body movement is going to be difficult (though, I know nothing of sign languages, etc.), but saying, “You two, go here,” can often be done with a simple hand gesture. I think the phrase “the pen is mightier than the sword” is referring less to words over action in efficacy of communication, and more to peace over war in solving problem between cultures (or possibly to words & stories write history, not who actually fights & wins); so I don’t think that’s an accurate phrase to use as an example for your argument.
The other thought that came to mind reading this was your mention of the “Lie To Me” show. I love that show, too, but I don’t think verbal language is the only thing that facilitated lying. Yes, it’s the most common means of lying, but not the only. People who don’t wash their hands in bathrooms may turn on the water so it sounds like they are, but they’re really not. It’s essentially lying. I think I learned how to hide unwanted veggies under my napkin before I learned to say, “Oh yeah, I ate my beans,” without breaking a sweat.
I don’t think (verbal) language has lessened the effectiveness of our ability to communicate nonverbally, as you put it. Maybe made us less aware of how nonverbal communication can be used, yes, but not less effective. Well, I don’t think it’s inherently less effective, anyway; it probably is less effective simply because most people aren’t aware when or how they are utilizing nonverbal communication, just as a hearing person might be baffled at learning to read lips when a deaf person may find it quite a simple thing.
Anyway, sorry for a wall of text, but I like this topic.
Those are some great observations! And nothing at all wrong with a wall of text.
You’re absolutely correct: I used a very narrow definition of “language.” Just to clarify, I was defining it as spoken (or written) communication. What I meant, but didn’t say, was that “language” per se is a higher form of communication than grunts, growls, barks, and howls.
Likewise, your examples of nonverbal lying are very perceptive. And I should have made the point more clearly that Dr. Lightman, on “Lie to Me,” doesn’t exclusively determine truth or untruth through observation as someone speaks. Another television example I considered was “The Mentalist,” where Patrick Jane observes nonverbal clues to gather information of many different kinds, including whether or not someone is lying.
In other words, what we don’t say, but what we do, can communicate volumes. However, because we have become attuned to what people say, and desensitized to nonverbal cues, we miss a lot of things. That’s why, I believe, the more we communicate through social media, we try to add back some of those nonverbals through our use of emoticons.
Of course, that gets back to my overarching thesis that a better vocabulary, so that we may more effectively communicate emotion and nuances of meaning, could supplant (should supplant?) smilies.
On Twitter: @_steve_hall