The Third Digression
We have seen that it was difficult for him to follow conversation or understand the meaning of a story or report. And his problems were compounded when he tried to analyze the ideas in a written or oral text. Since he had no ready grasp of language, the meaning of one word escaped him as soon as he proceeded to the next.
However, this was only one of many problems that made comprehension such an agonizing process for him. We have already observed that one of his main difficulties in following any detailed exposition was his inability to grasp the meaning of words; for this reason he had no sense of the unity or arrangement of a speaker’s ideas and could not single out the main point. Yet this is precisely what one does in order to grasp the content of a story or talk.
Comprehension does not come quickly to a beginner, as those of us who were college students know only too well from the problems we experienced trying to master complex material. After a person has learned to read, comprehension gradually requires less effort and time; one develops skills to increase his pace and finally reaches a point where he grasps the ideas in a report or text immediately, with no apparent effort.
Nonetheless, some material is more difficult to understand than other. A speech of any length or detail may not appear to present any problems yet require an intricate process of reasoning to understand. For example, it is easy enough to follow a story that reads smoothly, consists of simple sentences, and unfolds gradually, point by point. (It was a warm day. He went down to the lake, got in his boat, and began to row. How pleasant it was to sail over to the other shore.) But in listening to a fairly intricate account, consisting of compound sentences in which the main idea is qualified by numerous subordinate clauses, one has to keep both the main idea in mind and the qualifying remarks that have been made.
Linguists are well aware of the problems language poses and have mapped out ways by which to deal with complex syntactical patterns. They distinguish between “extended” sentence structures (in which the main idea is interrupted by digressions) and “direct” ones (which read smoothly and have no digressions). Take the following sentence, for example: “The hill on which the old house with the red, tile roof was situated was steep and covered with gray moss.” Who or what was covered with moss? The hill? roof? What relation has “gray moss” to “red tile”? In this “extended” syntactical arrangement, where twelve words of the subordinate clause separate the subject “hill” from the predicate “was steep,” the meaning is less easy to grasp.
More difficult, still, are the peculiar figures of speech known as “inversions.” Are sentences like the following, with two negatives, all that simple to understand? “There is no reason not to believe this information.” Does this mean one can or cannot accept the information? And consider the following: “Had I not been late for the train, I wouldn’t have met you.” Has the person speaking been late for the train or not? Did he or did he not meet someone? Or take another example: “I am not in the habit of challenging the rules!” 1 What sort of person is speaking—a refractory rebel or a compliant student? If you isolate the expressions “not in the habit of” and “challenge the rules” they sound shrill and provocative. Yet after a moment’s thought you realize that precisely the reverse is intended. This is an indication of how one can be fooled by grammatical inversions.
Consider, too, instances in which the word order does not coincide with the order of events described. In the following sentence the meaning is obvious: “I read the newspaper; then I had breakfast.” But this may also be expressed differently: “I had breakfast after reading the newspaper.” Doesn’t the lack of coincidence between word order and action complicate one’s understanding somewhat? The phrase “after reading the newspaper” reverses the order of the action. Grammatical inversions, a means of varying syntactical structure, must have struck this patient like a sick joke.
Consider the use of case endings to create strong, strictly defined relationships between the parts of a sentence, subordinating one to the other and thereby forming the framework of a logical system of thought. We have long since become accustomed to using case endings and readily grasp their meaning. But are grammatical inflections really that simple? Take the following sentence, for example: “There is a bird’s nest on the branch of the tree.” The items are not merely enumerated but arranged in a strict order so that the words create a single image with each of the parts clearly interrelated.2
But there are also other, more complex case endings that express abstract relationships: “a piece of bread,” or “the father’s brother,” etc. In the latter sentence, the reference is to neither of the terms mentioned, but a third—“uncle.” And constructions like “my brother’s father” can throw us all momentarily. You have to stop and think a moment before you realize that your “brother’s father” is also your father. To understand such a complex syntactical relationship, in which the word in the genitive case refers not to an object but a quality or attribute, a fairly complicated thought process is required; one has to make the mental leap from the graphic sense of the word “brother” to the meaning implied by the phrase. Only if one understands this can he make sense of that enigmatic “attributive genitive.” 3
Those of us who are familiar with the logical patterns implicit in grammar find a construction like the one I have cited very simple to grasp. The difficulties seem not to exist. Even in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the expression “the children of the boyars” was replaced by a far simpler phrase “the boyars’ children.” But when it came to an expression like “Prokopiya’s land,” people were obliged to use a more wordy and awkward form: “of this Prokopiya—his land,” inserting words that imparted certain formal references and thus circumvented the need for a complex grammatical construction. Instead of writing “those who feared the might of the horde of the Akheitsy,” however, they simply wrote: “Those who feared the Akheisian might and horde.”
Intricate turns of speech that are so routine to us that we fail to notice their complexity are, in fact, codes that have taken centuries to develop. We readily employ them, because we have mastered linguistic patterns—our most basic means of communication.
We also express relationships through certain parts of speech (prepositions, conjunctions, adverbs, etc.). We are so accustomed to using these, we do so automatically. Phrases such as the following thus are perfectly obvious to us: “the basket under the table,” “the cross above the circle,” “the book to the right of the inkwell.” Yet two hundred years ago the relationships between these objects were designated by far more concrete terms. If someone wished to say something was “under” the stove, he used a more graphic word like “bottom.” And the expressions “on the right,” “on the left,” “in front of,” “behind,” “instead of,” etc., were spelled out in greater detail, so that their basic meanings—“right” “left,” “front,” “back,” and “place”—were perfectly transparent.4
We also have no difficulty understanding the comparative forms of adjectives and the cases they require—“Is a fly bigger than an elephant?” 5 or “Is an elephant bigger than a fly?” Similarly with the questions: “Does spring precede summer?” or “Does summer precede spring?” But consider the following sentences: “The sun is illuminated by the earth”; “The earth is illuminated by the sun.” In Russian the logical and grammatical subject of a sentence generally coincide. But in these sentences the rule is reversed; the passive construction requires an inverted word order.
The language we use with such ease is in fact a highly intricate system of signals that requires training to master. Such proficiency is necessary to understand complex forms of expression, for case endings and parts of speech function as precise, reliable tools of thought.
What does it take for a person to master them? One faculty in particular: an ability to remember these grammatical elements and perceive, quickly and simultaneously, the relationship of individual words and the images they evoke. The man who wrote this journal no longer had the capacity for such an instantaneous grasp of intricate patterns (whether of spatial or linguistic relationships). The damage to his cerebral cortex had affected precisely those parts of the brain that enable one to evaluate what he has seen (as neurologists would say, to “simultaneously synthesize separate parts into a complete whole”).
This explains why the disruption of the cortical functions we described earlier affected not only his ability to orient himself spatially, but created insuperable problems when he tried to operate with language. Complex syntactical patterns are unfathomable to a patient who cannot immediately grasp the interrelationships of words and mentally size up what they imply.
Confronted with the two phrases mentioned above (“the father’s brother,” “the brother’s father”), this patient at first assumed they were perfectly clear; in both cases he could interpret the words “brother” and “father.” But what did he make of these phrases? Did he understand the relationship of the two nouns or what each of the grammatical constructions designated? It was impossible for him; they seemed identical, yet different. He could not go beyond the surface impression of the words to the meaning implicit in their arrangment. And he experienced much the same sense of peculiarity with the following phrases: “the circle under the square,” “the square under the circle.” Since identical words occur in both, they seemed to add up to the same thing even though he had a distinct sense that there was some difference between them.
Sentences expressing comparisons were simply beyond him—even one as simple as: “Is a fly bigger than an elephant?” or “Is an elephant bigger than a fly?” Over the years we conducted thousands of experiments with this patient, using a variety of grammatical constructions to try to judge precisely which language signals his damaged brain could grasp. Linguistic analysis thus became an important tool of psychological research. Our patient, however, turned out to be an equally important instrument by which to evaluate the problems inherent in specific grammatical structures.
Again and again we were forced to a conclusion that, in the end, had become self-evident: of the two types of syntax we have described, this man was able to understand only that in which the word order coincided with the sequence of actions. Such sentences do not employ complex signals by which to organize the ideas. Thus, the following sequence of sentences was clear to him: “Winter came. It grew cold. Snow fell. The pond froze. The children went ice-skating” He could also grasp a somewhat more complex sentence like the following: “Mother and father went to the theater, while the old nurse and the children remained at home.” Here the word order corresponds to that of the ideas and adds up to a simple, logical progression of images.
But another sentence, consisting of the same number of words, was difficult for him to understand: “At Dunya’s school one of the women workers from the factory gave a report.” 6 What did this mean to him? Who gave the report—Dunya or the factory worker? And where was Dunya studying? Who came from the factory? Where did she speak? If one understands the grammatical constructions used in this sentence the answers to these questions are obvious. But this man’s injured brain was unable to combine and synthesize the separate elements of the sentence, to perceive the relationship between them and see it as one coherent idea. Though he tried desperately to understand the sentence, it was beyond him.
He had similar problems with a sentence we referred to earlier: “There is a bird’s nest on the branch of the tree.” This sentence from a child’s primer struck him as quite simple at first, yet he ran into precisely the problem we have noted before: the words branch, tree, bird, and nest seemed to have no interrelationship. How, then, was he to combine them into a coherent framework?
After our experiments began, new entries appeared in his journal, dating from the months right after I met him when he entered the rehabilitation center and began to work with therapists. He recorded his experiences with language throughout the twenty-five years he kept this journal. His problems with language became a focal point for all the helpless attempts his injured brain was forced to make:
The doctor showed me a picture and asked me what it was. I saw two figures there, but it took me a little time to answer. Then I said: “This is a woman . . . and this is a little girl.” He explained that these were a mother and daughter. Now it’s strange, but I don’t really understand words like that any more. I must have looked bewildered, because the doctor asked me if I knew what mother’s daughter meant, whether it referred to one person or two.
I didn’t understand that picture. I knew what the words mother and daughter meant but not the expression mother’s daughter. The doctor asked me to give him any answer I could, so I held up two fingers to show I thought the words meant two people—a mother and a daughter. But then he asked me what daughter’s mother meant. I thought for a long while but couldn’t figure it out, just pointed to the two figures in the picture. The expressions mother’s daughter and daughter’s mother sounded just the same to me, so I often told him they were.
That’s as far as I got the next day with another picture he showed me. He pointed to the figures in the picture and asked me if I knew what the words owner’s dog meant. Again I had to think for a while, but I finally said it was like the expression mother’s daughter—that it meant two things, an owner and a dog. And I held up two fingers again. Then he asked me to show him the dog of the owner. I thought and thought and finally said that owner’s dog and dog of the owner were the same thing.7 I didn’t understand these expressions very well; I just sensed that the two words in them were closely related, but didn’t know how.
I also had trouble with expressions like: “Is an elephant bigger than a fly?” and “Is a fly bigger than an elephant?” All I could figure out was that a fly is small and an elephant is big, but I didn’t understand the words bigger and smaller. The main problem was I couldn’t understand which word they referred to.
Naturally I know what an elephant and a fly are, which is large and which is small. But I just didn’t understand the words smaller or bigger in those expressions. My eyes and mind would shift back and forth over those words trying to figure out the right answer. I’m still not certain, and sometimes I’m helpless when I try to make sense out of those words bigger and smaller.
Somehow I always think the expression, “A fly is smaller than an elephant,” means they’re talking about a very small elephant and a big fly. But when I used to ask the other patients about it, they told me it meant just the reverse. I tried to remember this, but the doctor would express the idea many different ways: “Is a fly smaller than an elephant or bigger?” “Is a fly bigger than an elephant or smaller?” “Is an elephant smaller than a fly or bigger?” “Is an elephant bigger than a fly or smaller?” “Which is bigger—an elephant or a fly?”
I’d think and think about these but get all confused. My mind seemed to be galloping back and forth so fast my head ached even more. So one way or another I’d make mistakes, and I still don’t understand these things.
Often A.R. or O.P. would say: “Draw a circle over a cross. Which figure will be on top and which one at the bottom?” I’d get all mixed up and couldn’t answer right away. I’d have to think and consider it a while, but couldn’t understand how to draw it. Either I just couldn’t answer or I’d say whatever came into my head. Ever since my injury I haven’t been able to figure out things like this—where the circle should be (above or below). What’s more, you can shift the words around to say: “a cross over a circle.” Both these expressions sound the same to me, but O.P. says that “a circle over a cross” and “a cross over a circle” mean different things. She keeps explaining to me that the word over means above and under means below. But I just can’t figure out what over refers to in that expression “circle over a cross.” No matter how long I think about it, nothing comes. Somehow I can’t understand such things.
I already knew and remembered what the words above and below meant (the lamp is above the bed; the bed is below the lamp). Still, I was all muddled and confused when I tried to answer O. P.’s question. 1 recognized the meaning of the words over and under but couldn’t connect them with the two things—circle and cross. I still can’t do that. There are many ideas like this that I can’t understand or remember right away; I just can’t grasp them when I try to talk or remember.
At first I couldn’t make any sense out of the word, lend or borrow. It was easier for me to understand a sentence like: “Sonya gave Varya 100 rubles,” or “Varya gave Sonya 100 rubles.” But I couldn’t figure out what “Ivan borrowed 30 rubles from Sergei” meant. Who received the money?
The doctor showed me an album with pictures of different colored cats and asked me whether the black cat was smaller than the white cat but bigger than the red one. It was very hard for me to figure out these words. Besides, there were so many of them. Since I was wounded I’ve only been able to compare one word with another—one idea. And here there were so many different ideas that I got awfully confused. I could see a big black cat in the picture, then a white cat that was a little smaller, and then a red cat—the tiniest one. I could figure out by looking at them how tall each one was. But I just couldn’t compare them and get the ideas smaller and larger. I didn’t know which cat these words referred to.
After I was injured I finally remembered the letters of the alphabet again, though it took a lot of work. But I just can’t remember connecting words like smaller or larger. It takes me a long time to think up an answer even to questions I ask myself. When the words in these questions are shifted around, the meaning changes completely. That’s why I can never be sure of the answer to such simple questions, even though I know what an elephant and a fly are. You can arrange those few words in a thousand different ways, and my memory just isn’t up to this. And if I have trouble figuring out something as easy as this, I’m really up against it when I try to understand a question like: “Is the circle above or below the triangle?” And there are thousands of ideas far more complicated than this. Ever since I was wounded I haven’t been able to figure out what sentences like this mean – particularly when I try to do it quickly, immediately. It takes me a long time to understand just one sentence like this. I’ll go back and forth from one part of the sentence to the other, trying to figure out the right answer.
Sometimes I’ll try to make sense out of those simple questions about the elephant and the fly, decide which is right or wrong. I know that when you rearrange the words, the meaning changes. At first I didn’t think it did, it didn’t seem to make any difference whether or not you rearranged the words. But after I thought about it a while I noticed that the sense of the four words (elephant, fly, smaller, larger) did change when the words were in a different order. But my brain, my memory, can’t figure out right away what the word smaller (or larger) refers to. So I always have to think about them for a while. Naturally I figured out long ago that the expression, “A fly is smaller than an elephant,” is right. But it still takes me a long time to think about different arrangements of these words. This has nothing to do with the letters in the words. I learned the alphabet again and can now recognize all the letters (though not immediately). It’s just that the words in these sentences have an entirely different meaning when you shift them around. So sometimes ridiculous expressions like “a fly is bigger than an elephant” seem right to me, and I have to think about it a while longer. And there are endless numbers of expressions like this people use. So I’m in a muddle all the time and have even more trouble understanding when I get those fits. The attacks make it even harder.
It was soon apparent that this man’s inability to understand the logic implicit in grammatical constructions was his chief disability, one of the surest indications of which brain functions had been impaired. He himself recognized this, and after picking up the term “intellectual aphasia” from the doctors, used it to describe his illness. With the precision of an experienced researcher, he gave us a detailed, coherent analysis of his problems:
When a person has had a serious head wound, or is suffering from a brain disease, he no longer understands or recognizes the meaning of words right away and cannot think of many words when he tries to speak or think. And vice versa: he cannot form an image of a thing or an object when he hears it mentioned, even though he already knows the word.
Because of his illness he also cannot orient himself in space, or figure out immediately where a sound is coming from. He’s always hesitating, shifts back and forth before he can aim straight (for example, he’ll swing and miss many times before he can drive a nail into a fence or a barn). Because of his injury and illness his memory is shot, he can’t recall anything. These are the consequences of a serious head injury.
All this is what I call “intellectual aphasia.” I use that expression to mean everything that keeps me from remembering and being able to pronounce words, visualize objects when I hear them mentioned, and understand endless numbers of words in Russian that connect and make sense out of ideas. When I think back on my past—the different hospitals the doctors sent me to—that is how I understand my misfortune.
He was aware how catastrophic his symptoms were but was determined, at all cost, to recover what he had lost. This was the beginning of a struggle to restore his ability to think, to understand what was incomprehensible. He was guided by a number of experienced psychologists and therapists; together with him they worked out dozens of methods—supportive techniques, an algorithm of behavior.
They tried to help him analyze and reason through difficult verbal constructions, explaining that with a phrase like “my father’s brother,” he had to ask himself: “Whose brother?” “Brother of whom?” Similarly with the expression: “a circle over a cross.” By turning the illustration upside down, they showed him what relationships “under” and “over” designated. With comparatives, they tried to explain each element as concretely as possible: “An elephant is bigger than a fly” means that an elephant is big. Bigger than what? The fly—this little, tiny fly.
It would appear they had replaced brief, succinct operations with supportive techniques, crutches to understanding, that involved lengthy, detailed considerations. Yet only through these did he begin to understand the meaning of complex grammatical constructions. His fight, however, was never completely successful. Despite the hope he brought to it, there were moments of agonizing despair, for whatever success he made came slowly. After years had passed he still had no immediate grasp of grammatical constructions.
After twenty-five years of exhausting effort, phrases like those discussed above were still complete enigmas to him. And unless he went through a lengthy analysis of each term in a comparative expression, a change in the word order would not immediately register with him; as earlier, the expressions always seemed ambiguous—identical, yet somehow different. Even after analyzing these expressions, he was still not sure of their meaning.
1 In the Russian sentence a double negative is used. (Translator’s note.)
2 The sentence in Russian consists of only ñve words, four of which are nouns. Hence much of the meaning is implied in the case endings. (Translator’s note.)
3 In Russian “my father’s brother” can be expressed either by using the noun in the possessive, as in English, or by a possessive adjective derived from the genitive plural of the noun “father.” (Translator’s note.)
4 In modern Russian the expressions he mentions are single words—prepositions or adverbs—that include the prepositions in these phrases as prefixes. (Translator’s note.)
5 Here and in the pages following Luria is referring to one of two ways to express a comparison in Russian: by placing the object compared in the genitive case and dispensing with the word “than.” Since Russian does not have either definite or indefinite articles, the sentences he refers to consist of only three words, the two nouns and the comparative adjective. (Translator’s note.)
6 In Russian the two sentences consist of twelve words each, but the latter is a compound sentence which literally reads: “In the school where Dunya studied a worker from the factory came to give a report.” (Translator’s note.)
7 In Russian both phrases consist of only the two nouns with different inflections. (Translator’s note.)