The Shape, Size, and Place of Metaphor

          The last portion of Metaphors helped many of Lakoff and Johnson’s ideas come full-circle, but not without a struggle.  I noticed the authors seem to have a tendency to finish explaining earlier concepts during the introduction of their next set.  I get a grip on one thing they’re saying and then they throw in another.  Metaphors was a fast-paced book, nevertheless a thought-provoking read.

            Lakoff and Johnson’s comparison between metaphorical and nonmetaphorical projection was delicate and took me a few reads to fully grasp.  The text reads, “[t]he only difference is that metaphorical projection involves understanding one kind of thing in terms of another kind of thing.  That is, metaphorical projection involves two different kinds of things, while nonmetaphorical projection involves only one kind” (171).  Understanding is had in any number of ways, but it is really up to our slew of experiences to have something to compare that which we are trying to understand to.  Considering we are nearing the end of the semester (and college for some of us), I started to think about dead week in terms of these projections—partly because it is really finals week for the majority of English majors.  If I’m correct, dead week would have to be an example of metaphorical projection because the busy lifelessness of perhaps the most stressful week of the semester is being compared to a zombie-like state of still moving forward, not quite dead.  One thing is known in terms of another, whereas finals got harder only compares previous tests or papers to the current ones.  I like this disparity, but it gets me thinking about different categories, where the lines are drawn, and who is holding the marker.  These projections are all pretty vague, and though I’m not sure I completely understand them, it makes sense in consideration of the levels of metaphor.

            The conversation regarding objectivity and subjectivity brought back painful memories of secondary school where the assignment was to write about the same topic through each mindset.  The assignments went on forever and their differences are engrained into my mind (which was probably the point).  Never, however, did we delve so far into their meaning as Lakoff and Johnson do in the last portion of their book.  The text reads, “[t]hey coexist, but in separate domains.  Each of us has a realm in his life where it is appropriate to be objective and a realm where it is appropriate to be subjective” (189).  It’s true both objectivity and subjectivity would be better employed in many of each their own certain circumstances, but it’s implausible to think they can be so easily separated—a reason why I dreaded those early assignments.  Take the previous quote for example.  The authors’ use of the masculine his to describe people in general may be used for a number of reasons.  It could be because they are both male authors, because they are chauvinistic, because this is a traditional form of usage and writing, because it just flows better, and others.  I doubt they believe men are superior to women, but one’s subjective thought process may lead some to believe that.  Objectively, it’s just one way to write.  The point being, reading that sentence, one’s interpretation can be both objective and subjective without even thinking about it.  The authors are right to imply they coexist, and those who think they can be separated need to get a clue.  The text reads, “[t]ruth is always relative to understanding, which is based on a nonuniversal conceptual system. […] The objectivist emphasis on achieving a universally valid point of view misses what is important, insightful, and coherent for the individual” (226-7).  It’s a matter of checks and balances and both subjectivity and objectivity are required to form an accurate thought, idea, or opinion.

          In this lengthy discussion of metaphor and what it means for our daily lives, Lakoff and Johnson conclude, “[…] metaphor is not merely a matter of language.  It is a matter of conceptual structure.  And conceptual structure is not merely a matter of the intellect—it involves all the natural dimensions of our experience, including aspects of our sense experiences:  color, shape, texture, sound, etc.  These dimensions structure not only mundane experience but aesthetic experience as well” (235).  I was glad Lakoff and Johnson kept the idea throughout the book that language was but only a carrier of metaphor, a way to communicate between one another, but not the primary means behind metaphor.  Experiences truly shape us and what better than a metaphor to account for that shaping?

            

Experience is Understanding

          The more I read of Metaphors, the deeper and more confusing my understanding becomes.  It’s not as though Lakoff and Johnson are incoherent with their theories—because they are explained quite well and in full detail—there is just so much information to process.  To continue with the metaphor that language is mathematical, the authors have given us diagrams and sectionalized lists to (attempt to) explain how language works and how metaphors are the basis of verbal and written communication.

            I thought it was interesting how Lakoff and Johnson broke down everyday conversation into six concrete dimensions.  Because a common back-and-forth with a friend, colleague, etc. comes so naturally, I never really thought of this kind of communication in these categorical terms.  I was glad the authors included the example of an argument to show how the six dimensions can be altered in different circumstances (78-80).  I couldn’t quite get on board with the idea conversation is an absolute six-step process.  People talk to one another differently depending upon their relationship and whether or not they share previous experiences.  I feel like the authors’ outline of the typical conversation is only used in times of small talk with people you don’t really know, but recognize because they have inserted themselves into your routine.  Working in the service industry for the past decade plus, you get to know your regulars as it were and employ this sort of conversation.  As you get to know them, the conversation evolves and changes its structure.  I liked the six-steps as a jumping off point, but not much more than that.  We will not be confined! (Melodramatic).

            Lakoff and Johnson talk about the difference between coherence and consistency in chapter sixteen, noting that they are indeed their own entities, but work with one another at once.  The text reads, “[t]he reason we need two metaphors is because there is no one metaphor that will do the job—there is no one metaphor that will allow us to get a handle simultaneously on both the direction of the argument and the content of the argument” (95).  When I read this, I thought about those bubble diagrams that separate some topics, but unite others in the middle where the bubbles overlap.  What would one bubble be without the other?  The same goes for metaphors.  “Bit the hand that fed him” would make no sense if the reasoning behind the biting were excluded from the understanding of the sentence.  It would just be an overly carnivorous man chomping at the bit for more food.  Lakoff and Johnson speak on intersecting metaphors throughout their book, but this is where I really started to understand at least the basic concept.

            Lakoff and Johnson say, “[w]e are concerned primarily with how people understand their experiences.  We view language as providing data that can lead to general principles of understanding.  The general principles involve whole systems of concepts rather than individual words or individual concepts” (116).  If I’m not mistaken, the authors write this based on an idea that our dictionary makers think differently than we do.  I cannot agree with this.  Sure, in preparation of a dictionary, the writers have to consider words for what they alone stand for, but dictionary makers are people living in our contextually-rich culture and are only doing (the somewhat difficult) job of giving the rest of us the building blocks we need to communicate through our experiences—metaphors being reflections of these, built upon words and their primary definitions.  When you really think about it, the dictionary makers’ definitions were probably not formed without context—at no fault of their own.  We cannot escape context, our language’s most fundamental parts equally affected.

          Culture seems to be one of Lakoff and Johnson’s most recurring themes, as it should be.  Even their authorship of this book is through a certain cultural lens.  The text reads, “[w]hat is real for an individual as a member of a culture is a product both of his social reality and of the way in which that shapes his experience of the physical world” (146).  Understanding is truly based on our experience—not only our communicative abilities with one another or reaction to the physical world, but both combined.  My understanding, my perception of reality is completely different than anyone else’s in even just this class.  Put an ocean between myself and someone else, it may be difficult to find any commonalities in which to relate (other than the living and breathing aspect).  Culturally speaking, we live by certain metaphors depending on our physical location, station in life, age, gender, etc., but our divergence is overcome by the idea we all compare and relate in an effort to understand one another, to understand ourselves.

The Experience of Metaphor

          I was glad to find out we were reading Metaphors in this class.  I had referenced it in one of my papers last semester in Rhetorical Theory, but never got a chance to read the whole thing.  I’ve enjoyed the read thus far, but have been stumbling a bit on what seems to be some sort of broken English scattered throughout the pages.  Not that the material is incomprehensible or anything, but it does make me stop and re-read the sentences.  Other than that, much of what Lakoff and Johnson have contributed and discussed has been interesting to analyze.  The authors have bolstered the idea I’ve always had that language—especially metaphor—is really quite mathematical.  Different combinations yield various results and the word equations are endless.  Why are people who consider themselves writer-types good with words and not with numbers?  Of course there are a few anomalies, but people usually seem to fall into one of two categories.  It’s odd to me.

            The authors start off the book with a basic, understandable definition of metaphor before throwing their more intricate concepts at us.  The text reads, “[t]he essence of metaphor is understanding and experiencing one kind of thing in terms of another” (05).  This is pretty much how I always looked at metaphor before I read this particular wording, but their use of the word experience is troubling, but intriguing.  I say troubling because the authors later discuss how metaphors exist that we cannot experience—like foot of the mountain—and suggest these are not alive.  This definition confuses me a little in terms of how the authors discuss metaphor throughout the book, but I still feel as though I can be on board with the initial concept of metaphor laid out here.  Metaphor is anchored in experience, inclusive of metaphors’ prior use and gradual adoption.

            Another curious suggestion came with the authors’ division of meaning from context.  The text reads, “[t]he part of the metaphor that says linguistic expressions are containers for meaning entails that words (and sentences) have meanings, again independent of contexts and speakers” (11).  It’s hard for me to separate meaning from context.  Words are just letters thrown together in order to give meaning a place to reside?  The only way I can see this being true is that when language was created, words were invented to stand in for different meanings.  That makes sense, but I don’t think meaning could ever be extracted from words so engrained in our culture.  Perhaps words were originally containers for meaning, but now they seem to be reflections of what is known and can never be emptied of that.  I can only half-agree with Lakoff and Johnson in this regard.

            Speaking of culture, I enjoyed reading chapter five again (the one I used last semester).  The text reads, “[i]ndividuals, like groups, vary in their priorities and in the ways they define what is good or virtuous to them.  In this sense, they are subgroups of one.  Relative to what is important for them, their individual value systems are coherent with the major orientational metaphors of the mainstream culture” (24).  I like the idea that culture plays a big role in how metaphor is used and/or valued in individual daily life.  I also like the idea that metaphor can also be used to connect distant subcultures that are themselves members of the same mainstream, but claim their own identity.  Mainstream can be the death of individuality, but it can also be its conductor.  It’s a bit of a dichotomy.

            The authors touch on what confused me in the opening chapter regarding living metaphors at the end of today’s reading.  The text reads, “[i]t is important to distinguish these isolated and unsystematic cases from the systematic metaphorical expressions, […or], reflections of systematic metaphorical concepts that structure our actions and thoughts” (55).  Metaphors we live by—like taking two different paths—control what we do physically or think mentally.  According to the authors, these kinds of metaphors systematically interact with other metaphoric concepts, thus making them living metaphors.  What still confuses me is removing experience from metaphor altogether.  Would that not remove the very essence of metaphor and what it is used for?  How can one use metaphor if they are not alluding to a previous experience?  Are these so-called non-living metaphors only words, or empty containers as the authors might suggest?  I’m curious to clear up my confusion in further reading of this book.

The Truth About Quality Education

          Parts III and IV of Zen continued to keep me guessing, leaving me no idea of what subject would come up next during the westward journey.  I can say the book has forced me to think about things I would never in any other context—which is good—but I’m not yet sure of its value for my post-graduation endeavors.  I guess a lot of what has been brought up in class and in my own responses to the text has forced me to think about what my education has given me over the last seven years, what I have retained, and what I will utilize throughout my eventual career and the rest of my life.  After being a student so long, it is sort of surprising to think it will all come to an end in a mere two months.  That being said, I came across a number of interesting ideas in the last half of Prisig’s psychologically manipulating text.

            The narrator’s explanation of an imitative education was intriguing, though I don’t think I necessarily agree it is representative of the entire institution of academia.  The text reads, “[i]f you don’t imitate what the teacher wants you get a bad grade.  Here, in college, it was more sophisticated, of course; you were supposed to imitate the teacher in such a way as to convince the teacher you were not imitating, but taking the essence of the instruction and going ahead with it on your own” (192-3).  Throughout my college career—and I’m sure this is the same for several of us—I have come in contact with a number of different professors characterized by a wide range teaching styles, student expectations, and even personality types.  We have had to edit our own writing styles to be accepted by these various people, or to prove to at least them that we are good enough writers to make these corrections.  Then, the next semester, we are given a whole new set of instruction—the emphasis seemingly different every time.  Now, is this because there are so many writing styles, a good writer must be able to compile this knowledge, or do some of these variances arise in writing education because there is no one good form of writing?  It is interesting that we have imitated throughout college, but what good has this done us?

            I was curious about the narrator’s take on squareness as an obstruction to quality.  The text reads, “[s]quareness may be succinctly and yet thoroughly defined as an inability to see quality before it’s been intellectually defined, that is, before it gets all chopped up into words. […] Its existence can be seen empirically in the classroom, and can be demonstrated logically by showing that a world without it cannot exist as we know it” (218-9).  So intellect is found solely in the mind and speech or the written word are but communicators of this knowledge?  And squareness prevents us from realizing this?  I’m not certain that is what is being said, but it is a unique argument.  In consideration of the words, I am much better getting my thoughts down on paper than I am articulating my thoughts and expressing them vocally.  So me sitting quietly during a large discussion, but thinking to myself is a sort of intellect integral to existence?  Seems like a bit of a stretch, but I’ll take what I can get.

            I really got on board with the narrator’s discussion of Poincaré’s subliminal self and its relation to Phaedrus’ preintellectual awareness.  The text reads, “[t]he subliminal self […] looks at a large number of solutions to a problem, but only the interesting ones break into the domain of consciousness” (267-8).  He used mathematics as an example because of how the numbers seem to just work with such ease when they are paired correctly.  I suppose our responses to the experiences we have are based on this sort of subconscious inclination.  Sure, things happen out of our control and in disregard to our preferences, but how we react to them and how it may be perceived will be left up to this subliminal thought process.  Preference does not seem explainable, a sort of random, natural occurrence that drives our lives.  This sort of discussion from Zen came up frequently, but I’m still trying to decide what it means of and for my education.

            One of my favorite bits of parts III and IV and perhaps the book itself was the narrator’s conversation about mu.  Never have I heard the term, but I like what it represents.  The text reads, “[m]u means ‘no thing.’ […] It states that the context of the question is such that a yes or no answer is in error and should not be given.  ‘Unask the question’ is what it says.  Mu becomes appropriate when the context of the question becomes too small for the truth of the answer” (320).  I feel like mu is literally all around us.  There is no simple yes or no answer to anything if you really think about it.  Everything is contextual.  Sure, one can answer yes or no to a sentence that asks a basic question, but the reasoning behind the response can never be as easily spoken as the words yes or no.  Does the false response cancel out the question entirely?  This starts to become tricky and confusing.  It seems to me like the answer often cannot be supported by its context and its context not supportive of the answer.  It’s all very circular.  Can I just start writing mu down on test questions I don’t know the answer to?

            I liked how Zen ended in the vein of technology.  I think that was an appropriate—and intentional way—for the narrator to segue his thoughts to modern times.  The text reads, “[…] the real evil isn’t the objects of technology but the tendency of technology to isolate people into lonely attitudes of objectivity” (357).  I’m not sure I agree that the building of freeways is causing the destruction of human relationships, but I would agree that technology has had a sever affect on them.  However, I think technology is doing more good than it is harm.  Technology is a double-edged sword, because it allows more people to connect with one another, but it is often at a much more surface level.  Friends through social networking services are not the same as those who going on morning strolls with one another, though there are a few exceptions (like lifelong friends who are also friends on Facebook).  Zen was all about unity, and I think technology unites people, but also separates them—at least on an emotional level.  If I were to not have my DVR, MacBook, Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime subscriptions, I’d probably get out more and talk to some folks.  I’m not saying I’m giving any of those up, but a lot can be said for how these technological advances have changed the shape of my life.

            Below is a link to an interesting article about quoting out of context—something I always wonder about—whether it be while I am reading an interview or listening to a rehashing of events.  What is truth?!

http://mcs.sagepub.com.proxybz.lib.montana.edu/content/27/4/511.full.pdf+html

Quality of Education

          While I figured Zen would continue to develop as per the motorcycle maintenance metaphor discussed from part one, I feel like I may not be able to handle Pirsig’s next infusion of information.  Part two kept the wheels turning and the audience following what I counted at least three subject-centric story lines.  We’ve got the our narrator, John, and Sylvia traveling cross country, stories about Phaedrus, and a number of general histories of things like institutional education and the differences between Taoism and Buddhism.  It’s interesting to see just how much can be packed into a few short pages.

            The first thing that jumped out at me was the discussion of inductive and deductive logic.  The text reads, “[i]nductive inferences start with observations of the machine [subject] and arrive at general conclusions.  […] Deductive inferences do the reverse.  They start with general knowledge and predict a specific observation” (107).  While the narrator did a nice job with the motorcycle examples, I instantly applied this to education—a trend I cannot seem to shake.  I feel like we as students use far more inductive logic than deductive, but we came into our freshman courses relying on the latter.  We started with this general knowledge of how to learn, how to accept being taught, how to critically analyze the new information we were being fed.  As the semesters passed, we shed our former inclinations in adoption of fresher ones that better fit our new educational surroundings.  As we have gotten older and put more under our belts, we’ve steadily started to rely more on experience than general knowledge.  Sure, both play a role in furthering our education so it’s kind of a mixed bag in that sense.  I feel like we are students with enough experience to elevate us from general knowledge to a mastery of knowledge.

            As an extension of this logic, the text referred to Phaedrus’ lateral knowledge as a means of further explanation.  The text reads, “[l]ateral knowledge is knowledge that’s from a wholly unexpected direction, from a direction that’s not even understood as a direction until the knowledge forces itself upon one” (121-2).  This seems to refer to the need to broaden one’s focus to understand something specific as to understand it in context rather than by its simple definition.  Maybe this was not exactly what the narrator was going for, but I think back to vocabulary tests from middle and high school (and even some college courses).  Sure you can memorize a term and its definition, but it will be rendered useless outside of that classroom if it is not applied appropriately.  These terms and other subjects need to be contextually defined and cannot be limited to understanding through a single lens.  People need understand in their own way using the lateral knowledge described in Zen—though it may not be so easily activated and comes often without prior planning or notice.

            The narrator made an interesting point about dedication in regard to something one has confidence in.  “When people are fanatically dedicated,” the text reads, “to political or religious faiths or any other kinds of dogmas or goals, it’s always because these dogmas or goals are in doubt” (152).  Once again I considered our educations when reading this.  None of us seem to have to emphatically state graduation is our ultimate goal—something that will make all these man-hours of education worthwhile.  I suppose it could be argued there is still a benefit to taking courses even if no degree awaits its completion, but that seems like a fanciful argument.  I’m all but certain I’ll be at commencement and really don’t have to think twice about it, otherwise I would not be here.  So does this mean I am not dedicated to my sure-to-graduate education?  That’s a hard sell.

            The last chapter of the section talked a lot about the idea of quality.  This one actually centered itself on writing as an example, so my cross-comparisons became a little easier.  Phaedrus was not alone with his troubles in the school setting.  It would seem like the highest quality of writing would be the kind that finds the appropriate balance of spelling, grammar, syntax, and content, among others, but this is so infrequently stressed.  Each course I’ve encountered has had a central focus—usually content based—and requires quality writing but never really says just what that means.  Say my sentence structure is totally out of whack and there are contractions all over the page, but this specific piece of writing is based on a relevant and interesting topic and is written well, just not correctly based on a standard.  Can it not be a quality piece?  Can a beautifully composed piece of total fluff be considered quality?  The narrator has yet to answer questions similar to these.  I’m anxious to see what he has to say in the coming chapters.

            Here’s a link to a presentation on writing quality that actually uses Zen as an example.

http://prezi.com/bes4scop9ime/quality-in-writing/