Perhaps it is my legal training, but I have long been focused on semantics. For a lawyer, words have meaning, usually a quite specific meaning— and we are attuned to the problems that arise when two people have differing thoughts in mind when they use the same word. You can’t, for example, have an agreement to share profits in a business without having a pretty specific idea of what “profit” means. So, a well-drafted legal agreement will always include a fair number of express definitions
One aspect of this attention to meaning has come up repeatedly for me in my study of history and related fields. It is fundamental and, unsurprisingly, a bit obscure; but it sheds considerable light on how language works and, more importantly, how humans craft Histories.
Many terms carry an implication of consciousness, awareness or intent. Sometimes, they refer to a human, sometimes to a society, sometimes to some aspect of nature. Here are a few examples:
I was recently reading a study of evolution which discussed at great length the “struggle for existence.” To me, the term “struggle” connotes something more than just “making an effort in difficult circumstances.” Yes, work is involved; sometimes hard work, sometimes work that is unsuccessful; sometimes work that—when unsuccessful—ends in death. That work, however, is not inherently a “struggle for existence,” because when you’re referring to a plant, and animal, or even a group of humans, that effort is not made for the purpose of existing. For plants, most animals, and many groups of humans, there is no consciousness being exercised, so there can be no “purpose.” The goal is instinctual, or at least unconscious—to seek water or avoid pain. They have —literally— no idea what “existence” is, nor are they conscious of competition with others for whatever they’re seeking. In a similar vein, genes or species are often described as choosing to evolve in one manner or another. But, again, there’s no choice going on here. A mutation that gives a frog stronger legs will (likely) enable them to out jump some predator and so, survive and procreate more such strong-legged frogs. That’s it.
A recent well-regarded study of economic history provides another common example; “capitalism” we are told, “was dogmatic only about profits.” Leaving aside concerns about overgeneralization; this characterization imputes intent to an amorphic and disembodied “capitalism.” But capitalism (however defined (see Das Kapital 102122)) is no “thing.” Individual “capitalists” might have had particular goals (and profit would likely have led the list), but there was no group manifesto and, indeed, individuals in different eras and cultures had different mixes of motivations. Being “dogmatic,” in any event, requires some reasonably coherent focus. Similarly, events have no intent. The French Revolution didn’t “foreshadow” anything; subsequent historical echoes and rhymes are framed by Historians as being interpretable in the same light as the original event, but this is a far cry from the shorthand language being used. These are traps into which many who look backwards—professional or ordinary—fall.
If you read and listen carefully, you will likely find plenty of other examples; but a little self-reflection quickly shows that even in our own actions, clear and conscious intent is not as frequent as we might like to think. Much less when we get to organizations and other groups and certainly not when referring to amorphous constructs. Hell, despite vast scholarly attention we can’t say clear what the “intent” of the Founding Fathers was when they drafted the Constitution, the current fad for “originalism” notwithstanding.
There are several reasons for this practice. Using this kind of language is a variety of anthropomorphizing; that is, imputing human traits to other species or inanimate objects (the most common is “Mother Nature”). We do this to make the world more familiar. to cast it in terms WE understand. Second, it is also a variety of the psychological concept of “projecting”, i.e. making others seem more like ourselves. If we don’t have to account for our differences with others, we can live in a simpler and more familiar world. So, let’s just use language that makes others seem like us. This (thirdly) not only normalizes our own behavior and motivations, but also creates a world in which a higher percentage of phenomena and activities appear to be intentionally motivated. In other words, the world makes more sense because we can attribute these actions to someone/something’s plan to make them happen.
This is especially important in History, where we are inherently hungry for coherent narrative; but it applies to our everyday lives today as well. One of the most common modes of imputing intent is to ascribe intent to “God.” The rationalization of the contingencies and variations of the world under the rubric of “god’s will” has been a ubiquitous theme of human societies for thousands of years.
We similarly impute intent to the actions —whether unknown or merely inexplicable—of human actors. It’s more comforting to think, as the basis of many “conspiracy theories” for example, that there is a “deep state” planning to accomplish some nefarious deed, or a country’s decision to go to war is ascribed to some strategic vision. In fact, such decisions can as often be attributed to much more mundane occurrences or emotions. Immense effort went into blaming Germany for starting WWI, for example, rather than dealing with the fact that the assassination of the Austrian Archduke was a fluke of timing and circumstance.
It could be argued that all this practice is merely metaphor; but metaphor used so frequently and without comment quickly loses its referential anchor for both writer and reader and passes into unconsciousness. In other words, the metaphor is forgotten and the meaning referred to—the intentionality of the action—stands on its own. In this case we construct a view of the world and its history that places human intent at the center of things. It may be more comfortable to think there’s a plan (human or divine), but most of the time—just like the stars that appear to make up Orion’s Belt, but are really many light years apart—it’s merely a comforting story.
One aspect of this attention to meaning has come up repeatedly for me in my study of history and related fields. It is fundamental and, unsurprisingly, a bit obscure; but it sheds considerable light on how language works and, more importantly, how humans craft Histories.
Many terms carry an implication of consciousness, awareness or intent. Sometimes, they refer to a human, sometimes to a society, sometimes to some aspect of nature. Here are a few examples:
I was recently reading a study of evolution which discussed at great length the “struggle for existence.” To me, the term “struggle” connotes something more than just “making an effort in difficult circumstances.” Yes, work is involved; sometimes hard work, sometimes work that is unsuccessful; sometimes work that—when unsuccessful—ends in death. That work, however, is not inherently a “struggle for existence,” because when you’re referring to a plant, and animal, or even a group of humans, that effort is not made for the purpose of existing. For plants, most animals, and many groups of humans, there is no consciousness being exercised, so there can be no “purpose.” The goal is instinctual, or at least unconscious—to seek water or avoid pain. They have —literally— no idea what “existence” is, nor are they conscious of competition with others for whatever they’re seeking. In a similar vein, genes or species are often described as choosing to evolve in one manner or another. But, again, there’s no choice going on here. A mutation that gives a frog stronger legs will (likely) enable them to out jump some predator and so, survive and procreate more such strong-legged frogs. That’s it.
A recent well-regarded study of economic history provides another common example; “capitalism” we are told, “was dogmatic only about profits.” Leaving aside concerns about overgeneralization; this characterization imputes intent to an amorphic and disembodied “capitalism.” But capitalism (however defined (see Das Kapital 102122)) is no “thing.” Individual “capitalists” might have had particular goals (and profit would likely have led the list), but there was no group manifesto and, indeed, individuals in different eras and cultures had different mixes of motivations. Being “dogmatic,” in any event, requires some reasonably coherent focus. Similarly, events have no intent. The French Revolution didn’t “foreshadow” anything; subsequent historical echoes and rhymes are framed by Historians as being interpretable in the same light as the original event, but this is a far cry from the shorthand language being used. These are traps into which many who look backwards—professional or ordinary—fall.
If you read and listen carefully, you will likely find plenty of other examples; but a little self-reflection quickly shows that even in our own actions, clear and conscious intent is not as frequent as we might like to think. Much less when we get to organizations and other groups and certainly not when referring to amorphous constructs. Hell, despite vast scholarly attention we can’t say clear what the “intent” of the Founding Fathers was when they drafted the Constitution, the current fad for “originalism” notwithstanding.
There are several reasons for this practice. Using this kind of language is a variety of anthropomorphizing; that is, imputing human traits to other species or inanimate objects (the most common is “Mother Nature”). We do this to make the world more familiar. to cast it in terms WE understand. Second, it is also a variety of the psychological concept of “projecting”, i.e. making others seem more like ourselves. If we don’t have to account for our differences with others, we can live in a simpler and more familiar world. So, let’s just use language that makes others seem like us. This (thirdly) not only normalizes our own behavior and motivations, but also creates a world in which a higher percentage of phenomena and activities appear to be intentionally motivated. In other words, the world makes more sense because we can attribute these actions to someone/something’s plan to make them happen.
This is especially important in History, where we are inherently hungry for coherent narrative; but it applies to our everyday lives today as well. One of the most common modes of imputing intent is to ascribe intent to “God.” The rationalization of the contingencies and variations of the world under the rubric of “god’s will” has been a ubiquitous theme of human societies for thousands of years.
We similarly impute intent to the actions —whether unknown or merely inexplicable—of human actors. It’s more comforting to think, as the basis of many “conspiracy theories” for example, that there is a “deep state” planning to accomplish some nefarious deed, or a country’s decision to go to war is ascribed to some strategic vision. In fact, such decisions can as often be attributed to much more mundane occurrences or emotions. Immense effort went into blaming Germany for starting WWI, for example, rather than dealing with the fact that the assassination of the Austrian Archduke was a fluke of timing and circumstance.
It could be argued that all this practice is merely metaphor; but metaphor used so frequently and without comment quickly loses its referential anchor for both writer and reader and passes into unconsciousness. In other words, the metaphor is forgotten and the meaning referred to—the intentionality of the action—stands on its own. In this case we construct a view of the world and its history that places human intent at the center of things. It may be more comfortable to think there’s a plan (human or divine), but most of the time—just like the stars that appear to make up Orion’s Belt, but are really many light years apart—it’s merely a comforting story.
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